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Fragmentation in Ancient Greek Drama
 3110621029, 9783110621020

Table of contents :
List of Figures
List of Tables
οὐ σῴζεται or σῴζονται: Preliminary Remarks on the Study of Dramatic Fragments Today
Part I: Quotation, Transmission, and Reconstruction of Fragments
On the Hermeneutics of the Fragment
Old Comic Citation of Tragedy As Such
On Literary Fragmentation and Quotation in Aristophanes: Some Theoretical Considerations
On Types of Fragments
How Long Did the Lost Plays of Greek Tragedy Survive?
What we Do (Not) Know about Lost Comedies: Fragments and Testimonia
The Fragments of Aristophanes’ Gerytades: Methodological Considerations
Fragments of Aeschylus and the Number of Actors
Part II: Fragmented Tragedy
Revisiting the Danaid Trilogy
Tragicorum Graecorum Fragmenta Volume II: Old Texts, New Opportunities
παῖς μάργος
Aeschylus’ Actaeon: A Playboy on the Greek Tragic Stage?
Euripides or Critias, or Neither? Reflections on an Unresolved Question
Fragmented Intergeneric Discourses: Epinician Echoes in Euripides’ Alexandros
Wink or Twitch? Euripides’ Autolycus (fr. 282) and the Ideologies of Fragmentation
Barbarism and Fragmentation in Fifth- Century Tragedy: Barbarians in the Fragments and “Fragmented” Barbarians
Part III: Fragmented Comedy
Epicharmus, Odysseus Automolos: Some Marginal Remarks on frr. 97 and 98 K–A
δηλαδὴ τρίπους: On Epicharmus fr. 147 K–A
Crates and the Polis: Reframing the Case
On Some Short (and Dubious) Fragments of Aristophanes
Heracles’ Adventures at the Inn, or How Fragments and Plays Converse
Ethnic Stereotypes and Ethnic Mockery in Ancient Greek Comedy
Part IV: The Reception of Tragic Fragments
Aeschylean Fragments in the Herculaneum Papyri: More Questions than Answers. Prometheus Unbound in Philodemus’ On Piety
Paratragic Fragmentation and Patchwork- Citation as Comic Aesthetics: The Potpourri Use of Euripides’ Helen and Andromeda in Aristophanes’ Thesmophoriazusae and Their Symbolic Meaning
Fragmentary Comedy and the Evidence of Vase-Painting: Euripidean Parody in Aristophanes’ Anagyros
Α Cause for Fragmentation: Tragic Fragments in Plato’s Republic
Dio Chrysostom and the Citation of Tragedy
From the Great Banquets of Aeschylus: Gorgias, Aristophanes and Xenakis’ Oresteia
Part V: The Reception of Comic Fragments
How Cratinus fr. 372 Made Theatre History
Increasing Comic Fragmentation: Some Aspects of Text Re-uses in Athenaeus
πλῆθος ὅσον ἰχθύων ... ἐπὶ πινάκων ἀργυρῶν (Ath. 6.224b): A Different Kettle of Fish
Fragments of Menander in Stobaeus
The Long Shadow of Fame: Quotations from Epicharmus in Works of the Imperial Period
List of Contributors
Index of Sources
General Index

Citation preview

Fragmentation in Ancient Greek Drama

Trends in Classics – Supplementary Volumes

Edited by Franco Montanari and Antonios Rengakos Associate Editors Stavros Frangoulidis · Fausto Montana · Lara Pagani Serena Perrone · Evina Sistakou · Christos Tsagalis Scientific Committee Alberto Bernabé · Margarethe Billerbeck Claude Calame · Jonas Grethlein · Philip R. Hardie Stephen J. Harrison · Stephen Hinds · Richard Hunter Christina Kraus · Giuseppe Mastromarco Gregory Nagy · Theodore D. Papanghelis Giusto Picone · Tim Whitmarsh Bernhard Zimmermann

Volume 84

Fragmentation in Ancient Greek Drama Edited by Anna Lamari, Franco Montanari and Anna Novokhatko

ISBN 978-3-11-062102-0 e-ISBN (PDF) 978-3-11-062169-3 e-ISBN (EPUB) 978-3-11-062219-5 ISSN 1868-4785 Library of Congress Control Number: 2020939976 Bibliographic information published by the Deutsche Nationalbibliothek The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliografie; detailed bibliographic data are available on the Internet at © 2020 Walter de Gruyter GmbH, Berlin/Boston Editorial Office: Alessia Ferreccio and Katerina Zianna Logo: Christopher Schneider, Laufen Printing and binding: CPI books GmbH, Leck

Foreword This volume has its origin in the 12th Trends in Classics International Conference that was held in Thessaloniki in May 2018. It is a pleasure to record here our thanks for the help received from so many quarters; the staff of the Department of Philology at the Aristotle University of Thessaloniki (especially Stavros Frangoulidis and Martin Vöhler), the Aristotle University Research Committee (for generous financial support), the Università degli Studi di Genova, the “A und A Kulturstiftung” and the Stiftung “Humanismus Heute”, the Heidelberger Akademie der Wissenschaften, as well as the Albert-Ludwigs-Universität Freiburg. Special thanks should go to Bernhard Zimmermann, whose herculean project on comic fragments has opened new paths in a vastly unexplored field. The KomFrag project (Kommentierung der Fragmente der griechischen Komödie, AlbertLudwigs-Universität Freiburg), under his supervision, is an international research program on an unprecedented scale, providing new insights into the study of fragmentary Greek comedy. It is from engagement with this project that the idea of a conference on the concept of fragmentation originally sprung up. This was further enhanced by the incorporation of the study of tragic fragments, as well as various other subfields. None of the Trends in Classics conferences, this one included, would have ever taken place without Antonios Rengakos, the driving force behind this notable 14-year-series of uninterrupted, annual academic gatherings. It is thanks to his ingenuity, efficiency and problem-solving talent that this and every Trends in Classics conference has been made possible. Anna Lamari, Franco Montanari, Anna Novokhatko Thessaloniki – Genova – Freiburg, May 2020

Contents Foreword  V List of Figures  XI List of Tables  XIII Anna A. Lamari, Franco Montanari and Anna Novokhatko οὐ σῴζεται or σῴζονται: Preliminary Remarks on the Study of Dramatic Fragments Today  3

Part I: Quotation, Transmission, and Reconstruction of Fragments Bernhard Zimmermann On the Hermeneutics of the Fragment  21 Jeffrey Henderson Old Comic Citation of Tragedy as Such  39 Ralph Μ. Rosen On Literary Fragmentation and Quotation in Aristophanes: Some Theoretical Considerations  49 Anna A. Lamari On Types of Fragments  61 Matthew Wright How Long Did the Lost Plays of Greek Tragedy Survive?  83 Francesco Paolo Bianchi What we Do (Not) Know About Lost Comedies: Fragments and Testimonia  105 S. Douglas Olson The Fragments of Aristophanes’ Gerytades: Methodological Considerations  129 Oliver Taplin Fragments of Aeschylus and the Number of Actors  145

VIII  Contents

Part II: Fragmented Tragedy Alan H. Sommerstein Revisiting the Danaid Trilogy  155 Patrick J. Finglass Tragicorum Graecorum Fragmenta Volume II: Old Texts, New Opportunities  165 Kyriakos Tsantsanoglou παῖς μάργος  183 Nikos Manousakis Aeschylus’ Actaeon: A Playboy on the Greek Tragic Stage?  201 Martin J. Cropp Euripides or Critias, or Neither? Reflections on an Unresolved Question  235 Ioanna Karamanou Fragmented Intergeneric Discourses: Epinician Echoes in Euripides’ Alexandros  257 Massimo Giuseppetti Wink or Twitch? Euripides’ Autolycus (fr. 282) and the Ideologies of Fragmentation  275 Efstathia Papadodima Barbarism and Fragmentation in Fifth-Century Tragedy: Barbarians in the Fragments and “Fragmented” Barbarians  299

Part III: Fragmented Comedy Michele Napolitano Epicharmus, Odysseus Automolos: Some Marginal Remarks on frr. 97 and 98 and K–A  321 Anna Novokhatko δηλαδὴ τρίπους: On Epicharmus fr. 147 K–A  337 Serena Perrone Crates and the Polis: Reframing the Case  353

Contents  IX

Andreas Bagordo On Some Short (and Dubious) Fragments of Aristophanes  369 Ioannis M. Konstantakos Heracles’ Adventures at the Inn, or How Fragments and Plays Converse  379 Massimiliano Ornaghi Ethnic Stereotypes and Ethnic Mockery in Ancient Greek Comedy  407

Part IV: The Reception of Tragic Fragments Piero Totaro Aeschylean Fragments in the Herculaneum Papyri: More Questions than Answers. Prometheus Unbound in Philodemus’ On Piety  437 Anton Bierl Paratragic Fragmentation and Patchwork-Citation as Comic Aesthetics: The Potpourri Use of Euripides’ Helen and Andromeda in Aristophanes’ Thesmophoriazusae and Their Symbolic Meaning  453 Christian Orth Fragmentary Comedy and the Evidence of Vase-Painting: Euripidean Parody in Aristophanes’ Anagyros  481 Poulheria Kyriakou A Cause for Fragmentation: Tragic Fragments in Plato’s Republic  501 Richard Hunter Dio Chrysostom and the Citation of Tragedy  527 Patrick O’ Sullivan From the Great Banquets of Aeschylus: Gorgias, Aristophanes and Xenakis’ Oresteia  545

Part V: The Reception of Comic Fragments Eric Csapo How Cratinus fr. 372 Made Theatre History  573

X  Contents Kostas Apostolakis Increasing Comic Fragmentation: Some Aspects of Text Re-uses in Athenaeus  603 Athina Papachrysostomou πλῆθος ὅσον ἰχθύων ... ἐπὶ πινάκων ἀργυρῶν (Ath. 6.224b): A Different Kettle of Fish  617 Benjamin W. Millis Fragments of Menander in Stobaeus  647 Lucía Rodríguez-Noriega Guillén The Long Shadow of Fame: Quotations from Epicharmus in Works of the Imperial Period  663 List of Contributors  691 Index of Sources  697 General Index  717

List of Figures Fig. 1: Framed fragments in Ar. Ran. 1119–1245  70 Fig. 2: P.Oxy. 2256 fr.9a and 9b = Aesch. fr. 281a + 281 b, lines 31–41  188 Fig. 3: Red-figure bell krater attributed to the Lykaon Painter, portraying Zeus, Lyssa, Actaeon (Euaion), and Artemis/00.346 © Museum of Fine Arts, Boston MA  214 Fig. 4: J.-P. Braun, P. Amandry 1973: The base of the victory tripod of the dithyramb poet Cedeides (5th cent. BC) / 7296 © École française d’Athènes  347 Fig. 5: The base of the victory tripod of the dithyramb poet Cedeides (5th cent. BC) / ΕΜ 10330, N. 3028/2002 © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Epigraphic Museum  348 Fig. 6: The base of the victory tripod of the dithyramb poet Cedeides (5th cent. BC) / ΕΜ 10330, N. 3028/2002 © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Epigraphic Museum  349 Fig. 7: “Green Krater”, Lucanian bell krater (410–390 BC), attributed to the Creusa Painter/ NM2013.2 © Nicholson Museum, The University of Sydney, gift of James Ede in honour of Professor J.R. Green  498 Fig. 8: Stemmatic representation of the transmission of the contaminated gloss “From Poplar(s)”  591

List of Tables Tab. 1: Tab. 2: Tab. 3: Tab. 4: Tab. 5:

Definitely attested performances of lost tragedies during antiquity  98 Remains of ancient papyrus books containing parts of lost tragedies  99 Ethnic titles of comedies (in plural)  419 The legend of Anagyros  484 Authors (or works) that mention Epicharmus between the 1st and 5th century AD (arranged alphabetically within each period)  685


Anna Lamari, Franco Montanari and Anna Novokhatko

οὐ σῴζεται or σῴζονται: Preliminary Remarks on the Study of Dramatic Fragments Today

In Plato’s Phaedrus, Socrates argues that a text should follow the principles reflected in the composition of a human body: δεῖν πάντα λόγον ὥσπερ ζῷον συνεστάναι σῶμά τι ἔχοντα αὐτὸν αὑτοῦ, ὥστε μήτε ἀκέφαλον εἶναι μήτε ἄπουν, ἀλλὰ μέσα τε ἔχειν καὶ ἄκρα, πρέποντα ἀλλήλοις καὶ τῷ ὅλῳ γεγραμμένα. every discourse should be set together like a living creature, by having a kind of body of its own, so that it is neither headless nor footless, but having middle parts and edges, written in such a way as to fit together with each other and with the whole. (Plat. Phdr. 264c)

The Oxford English Dictionary defines literary form in terms similar to Plato, as “including the arrangement and order of the different parts of the whole”. 1 On these grounds, a discourse includes the arrangement of the fragments, which, as segments of the whole, have by definition a complex relationship with formality. 2 Thus, Plato’s corporeal metaphor of the text as a body with its natural connections and proportions not only introduces a principle of text composition and interpretation, but also questions the interrelation of the whole and its (dissociated) parts within a text. 3 Should a fragment be considered by and in itself? What happens when the body of the text is lost? Plato’s metaphor serves as an appropriate starting point for discussing fragments and fragmentation. Texts may have been incomplete for a variety of reasons and in different ways; the historical work of Thucydides, for example, breaks off in the middle of the sentence. His eighth book survives in what would seem to be a rough version, the author having died before he could complete his work. The fragmentary could be the vestige, all that is left behind from a fractured whole. But it might also have been left incomplete from the outset, only positing an incipient or potential

 1 OED entry no. 1,9. 2 See Varley-Winter 2018, 6–21. See also Elias 2004, 7–8. 3 Lamm 2005, 98. On the metaphorical relationship of a text with a body, see also Arist. Poet. 1450b31–1451a6 and 1459a16–23.

  Anna Lamari, Franco Montanari and Anna Novokhatko wholeness. 4 Imagination serves as a vehicle for connecting philosophical and philological treatments of fragmentation. The literary theorist Hans Ulrich Gumbrecht addresses one of the most crucial methodological issues in approaching fragments: the question of reconstruction. In the case of a landscape, imagining the wholeness of what is present merely as a fragment must rely on geological and physical probability, supported perhaps by a certain kind of aesthetic judgment that may come from remembering other mountains and other valleys. For the case of any artefact that we consider to be a fragment, in contrast, imagining its state of wholeness will come from imagining the intention of its producer. Once we have imagined, on the basis of a fragment, a Gestalt that we think corresponds (however roughly) to the primary intention of a producer, we can begin to establish a typology of different kinds of fragments by distinguishing different principles that may have interfered with the (product of the) producer’s original intention. 5 Being by its very nature incomplete, the fragment stimulates our imagination as we attempt to complete it or reconstruct the lost whole. Here lies the core of the scholarly philological work, and of textual criticism in particular. The extent to which imagination and creativity should play their role in reconstructing the context or lacunae remains a matter for philological debate. In order to progress beyond the first associations and in order to reconstruct and restore an original entity, we need to combine imagination and creativity with precise textual and contextual knowledge, and also with detailed observations on the fragment. 6 Fragmentation as a concept and model is crucial for modern and even more for postmodern literature. Jacques Derrida referred to “la forme de l’écrit”, where various elements, plot, character, themes, imagery and factual references are fragmented and dispersed throughout the work. 7 The fragment was developed into a literary genre in early German romanticism, primarily in the journal Athenäum, founded by the brothers August Wilhelm and Friedrich Schlegel. 8 According to Friedrich Schlegel, a good novel should remain a fragment. A purposely enigmatic reading should therefore emphasize the contradictory semantic segments of the text to the point where its unity breaks up. Those forces which cannot be reconciled in a harmonious way, as though the reconciliation was

 4 Ostermann 2004, 2. 5 Gumbrecht 1997, 319. 6 See the discussion in Gumbrecht 1997 in general and p. 321 in particular. 7 Derrida 1967, 107–108. On the close relationship of modernism and fragmentation, see also Varley-Winter 2018, 11–41. 8 Frank 1984; Ostermann 1991. See also Zimmermann in this volume.

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planned, are forced together through form, by being placed alongside one another, and through this, a new range of meanings are released. Perhaps contrasted to traditional narratives of wholeness, fragments have been called “metaphor[s] of modernity”, and fragmentation has been understood as a concept constituting the essence of modernity itself. 9 Susan Sontag has suggested that fragments are really the art form of our time, and that “everybody who has reflected about art and thought has had to deal with this problem”. 10 As the fragmentary posits the whole, deconstruction must operate within the whole by mobilizing the separate and disjointing the various properties of a text. The consequent de-empowerment of the reader and interpreter is, however, not viewed as a failure, but is considered the objective of deconstruction. Fragments and fragmentation have come to refer less to the text itself and more to chasms in the process of understanding. The focus has shifted from the fragmented text to the reader’s fragmented mind. At the same time, the experience of radical illegibility is the only authentic experience of a text which is itself dismembered. It is precisely the taste of the fragmentary and the abrupt, the incomplete completeness described above, that has rendered the fragmentation in ancient texts a focus of scholarly attention. Ancient fragmentary literature is found in all possible forms. The text can be interspersed with lacunae and elements of everyday language, and intermixed with poetry and biblical references, all of these contributing to syntactical interruptions and grammatical deformities. Works of Greek and Latin literature are preserved often only in the form of quotations, or of summaries in later, better-preserved authors. At times, it is only the titles or topics of lost texts that are known. Such a fragmentary transmission can occur due to external influences like damage caused by mould, worming, water and fire. But it may also result from the circumstances of the time: politics, cultural upheavals, migration and wars. The complex problems associated with the interpretation of fragmentary texts and the concept of fragment itself are dealt with extensively by Glenn Most. 11 This volume builds on Most’s considerations, and in particular on the idea that the transmission and collection of (textual) fragments can contribute to the formation of (literary) canon. 12 An author whose fragments have been collected in later times is an author whose fortunes straddle the division between the cano-

 9 See Nochlin 1994. 10 Sontag 2013, 54–55. 11 Most 1997; 1998; 2009; 2010; 2011. 12 See e.g. Most’s preface in Most 1997, v–viii, especially p. vi.

  Anna Lamari, Franco Montanari and Anna Novokhatko nical and the uncanonical. “Fragments and canon formation are linked by a particularly close relation: the processes by which fragments are first formed and then collected and studied depend upon shifts over time in the boundaries that separate canonical writers from noncanonical ones”. 13 Most also discusses the tendency to regard fragments as partes pro toto. Our approach to texts which we have through direct transmission in toto might perhaps be contrasted with our understanding of those same texts had they been transmitted only indirectly as fragments. Various hermeneutic circles render this issue even more complicated. Important considerations include the quotation context and the reasons for an author/text-bearer quoting a text. The reasons for quotation are influenced by the completeness, the exactitude, and, more generally, the manner in which the author makes the quote, and his or her relation to the quoted passage. For Most, genre is critical. Poetic, philosophical and historical fragments cannot be regarded in the same light. Poetic fragments are usually cited for their particular wording, at least by grammarians, metricians, and scholiasts, and, as a result, they have for the most part been transmitted with a high degree of sincerity. The exact wording of philosophical fragments was perhaps less important than the doctrine or argument they convey; often they were cited by opponents who may not have been inclined to quote them with exactitude. Historical fragments were usually cited for the chronological or geographic information they contained and are the least likely to have preserved the wording of the original. This present volume on fragmentation in drama draws on Most’s discussion of genre. Dramatic fragments belong to his first group – poetic fragments quoted with a high degree of sincerity. The performative context and history of Ancient Greek theatre, however, and also modes of thought connected to the life of theatre more generally, are particularly significant for the interpretation of such fragments. In the past, fragments of texts were examined in isolation, serving the purposes of grammatical and linguistic commentary, metrical analysis, factual references, or textual criticism. Increasingly, however, it is argued that the tragic or comic fragment cannot be properly appreciated when examined in isolation. To disclose its full hermeneutical and literary-historical potential, the fragment needs to be viewed as a part of the entire panorama of ancient theatre as an art form. Every fragmentary text must be constantly examined together with other fragments, in correlation with those of the same dramatic genre, bearing in mind

 13 Most 2009, 10.

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the broader synchronic panorama and the plays which have been integrally preserved. Thus, the fragments of tragedy and comedy find their place in the complex network of mutual influences, borrowings, and intertextual relations, which were woven by the playwrights. The extant dramas, with their fully developed themes, integral characters, and amply observable techniques, often help us guess at the subject-matter of the dramatic fragment, allowing us to place its text within the overall scheme of the play, or to connect it to particular characters, patterns of action, and scenic artifices. Conversely, the fragmentary excerpts, by indicating a broader tradition of dramaturgical trends and thematic concerns in tragic or comic writing, provide the background against which the variation and innovation exhibited by any given poet may be interpreted and assessed. At the same time, it is important to analyze the fragments diachronically, their long durée journey through various genres and periods. The present volume represents the first attempt to concentrate on Ancient Greek dramatic fragments whilst discussing their reception and broader literary and cultural context. The volume thus explores the inherently dramaturgic dynamics of both the fragmentation procedure and the fragmentary material, with regard to the literary notions of dissociation and cohesion, while also evincing the overwhelming impact of fragmentation upon our perception/interpretation of the surviving literary material. During the last decades, scholars started paying more explicit attention to the methodological issues involved in the collection and study of fragments. A volume of collected papers on dramatic fragmentation was published recently in Lecce; 14 the majority of its papers deal with particular plays and fragments, five essays discussing comedy, and five tragedy. Other studies have dealt exclusively with either tragedy or comedy. Two editorial projects should be mentioned here in detail. The Tragicorum Graecorum Fragmenta (TrGF) is an extensive collection of scattered fragments of Greek tragedy writers. It was published from 1971 to 2004 in five volumes at the Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, Göttingen, edited by Bruno Snell, Stefan Radt and Richard Kannicht. Further fragmented plays by Sophocles and Euripides were translated and published in Loeb by Hugh Lloyd-Jones, Christopher Collard and Martin Cropp, while selections of fragmentary plays are published in the series of Aris and Phillips with introductions, translations and commentaries by Alan Sommerstein, Thomas Talboy, David Fitzpatrick, Christopher

 14 Melero, Labiano, and Pellegrino 2012.

  Anna Lamari, Franco Montanari and Anna Novokhatko Collard, Martin Cropp, and John Gibert. 15 Patrick O’Sullivan and Christopher Collard edited and translated major fragments of satyr-play. 16 In parallel, a massive new collection of fragments of ancient Greek comedy, Poetae Comici Graeci (PCG) was edited by Rudolf Kassel and Colin Austin. From 1983 to 2001, eight volumes have been published by Walter de Gruyter. Volumes 3.1 and 6.1 (fragments of Aristophanes preserved on manuscripts and fragments of Menander preserved on papyri) are still pending, whilst Rudolf Kassel and Stephan Schröder are currently working on volume 6.1. A further three volumes of the fragments of Old comedy were translated for the Loeb series by Ian Storey, whilst Jeffrey Henderson translated the fragments by Aristophanes. 17 Various projects of commentaries on fragmentary drama are running simultaneously. Martin Cropp has just published the first volume on the 5th century BC tragic fragments with translation and commentary, whilst a major international project of commenting on all Attic comedy preserved in fragments is currently taking place in Freiburg (KomFrag, 28 volumes are planned). This project, established and led by Bernhard Zimmermann, involves many of the authors participating in the present volume. 18 In 1991, Heinz Hofmann published a prolific volume on tragic fragments, which he posed as the first attempt to test the new TrGF edition. 19 In 2005, a volume of collected papers on fragmentary tragedy was published in Exeter and featured discussions on issues such as the fragments and their collectors, the tragic fragments in the 19th and 20th centuries, the philosophical fragments (and those of other genres), as well as further analysis of specific fragmentary plays. 20 Analogous discussions were recently brought up by Ioanna Karamanou in a volume with essays on the interaction of tragic fragments inter-dramatically as well as in iconography and pottery. 21  15 Sophocles, Fragments, ed. and transl. by H. Lloyd-Jones, Cambridge, Mass., 1996; Euripides, Fragments, 2 vols, ed. and transl. by C. Collard and M. Cropp, Cambridge, Mass., 2008; Sophocles, Selected Fragmentary Plays, 2 vols, ed. with introductions, translations, and commentaries by A. H. Sommerstein, D. Fitzpatrick and T. Talboy, Exeter 2012; Euripides, Selected Fragmentary Plays, 2 vols, ed. with introductions, translations, and commentaries by C. Collard, M.J. Cropp and J. Gibert, Chippenham 2004. 16 Euripides, Cyclops and major fragments of Greek Satyric Drama, ed. with a translation, introduction and commentary by P. O’Sullivan and C. Collard, Aris & Phillips, 2013. 17 Fragments of Old comedy, ed. and transl. by I.C. Storey, 3 vols, Cambridge, Mass., 2011; Aristophanes, Fragments, ed. and transl. by J. Henderson, Cambridge, Mass., 2007. 18 Cropp 2019. On the project KomFrag see 19 Hofmann 1991. 20 McHardy, Robson and Harvey 2005. 21 Karamanou 2019.

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With respect to comedy, the revolutionary Rivals of Aristophanes of David Harvey and John Wilkins was the first to put forth serious discussion of fragmentary preserved comedies. 22 A collection of the most challenging fragments of Greek comedy with an extensive introduction discussing the history of comedy was edited and commented by Douglas Olson. 23 In 2010, another important piece on the text transmission and attribution problems of Old, Middle and New comic texts was written by Heinz-Günther Nesselrath. 24 Furthermore, Stylianos Chronopoulos and Christian Orth recently published a Fragmentary History of Greek Comedy based on a workshop held in Freiburg in 2012 about the methodology of commenting comic fragments. 25 How is then the present volume different from previous publications on fragmentary drama? Mainly, in that it explores the relationships of dramatic fragments not only within the sphere of drama (tragedy, comedy and satyr-play), but also with reference to other genres, both in the synchronic and the diachronic level. Through questions raised by authors who have studied mainly tragedy or comedy respectively, the problematic around fragments and fragmentation is considered from (new) methodological viewpoints that bring forth the dialogue of fragments, but also, the dialogue of genres. The first section discusses general theoretical methodological issues such as fragmentation, quotation, transmission and reconstruction of fragments (Zimmermann, Henderson, Rosen, Lamari, Wright, Bianchi, Olson, Taplin), while the next two sections deal with the fragments of tragedy (Sommerstein, Finglass, Tsantsanoglou, Manousakis, Cropp, Karamanou, Giuseppetti, Papadodima) and comedy (Napolitano, Novokhatko, Perrone, Bagordo, Konstantakos, Ornaghi) respectively, focusing on specific text analysis. The last two sections gather papers exploring the afterlife of fragmentary tragic (Totaro, Bierl, Orth, Kyriakou, Hunter, O’Sullivan) and comic (Csapo, Apostolakis, Papachrysostomou, Millis, Rodriguez-Noriega Guillen) plays. The volume begins with Bernhard Zimmermann’s analysis of fragments as a hermeneutical problem of classical Philology both on the level of content and above all, on the level of methodology. The possibilities and the limits of working

 22 Harvey and Wilkins 2000. See also Belardinelli, Imperio, Mastromarco, Pellegrino, and Totaro 1998. 23 Olson 2007. 24 Nesselrath 2010. 25 Chronopoulos & Orth 2015. See also Rusten 2011. On methodology in commenting fragments see particularly Stephens 2002.

  Anna Lamari, Franco Montanari and Anna Novokhatko with fragments are discussed, and a hermeneutic theory for dealing with fragments is also provided. Examples from the Palamedes-tragedies of Aeschylus, Sophocles and Euripides are examined, as also a comic example, the Dionysalexandros of Cratinus. Jeffrey Henderson examines instances in which a fifth-century comic speaker is motivated as to identify a tragic borrowing as such. Henderson maintains that until late in the fifth century, comic poets expected their spectators to know tragedy only through performance, regardless of the audience’s familiarity with written texts of other genres. Ralph Rosen then asks the ontological question “what even is a literary fragment?” and discusses how Athenians understood the very concept of a fragment. By close examining Aristophanes’ practice of literary quotation in the Frogs, Rosen argues that “fragmentation” can work as an actual mechanism for literary criticism and evaluation and maintains that in the time of Aristophanes, all quotations seem to have been conceptualized as fragmentary. Anna Lamari embarks on a theoretical study of the different types of fragments and the mechanisms of their creation, as part of a procedure of constant de- and re- construction. According to the means of their formulation, as well as their narrative function, Lamari distinguishes between five types of fragments: “surviving fragments”, “framed fragments”, “fragments within fragments”, “pseudo-fragments”, and “fragments of ancient scholarship”. Matthew Wright brings up the question of transmission of the Greek tragedies, focusing mostly on what is lost, tracing down, as far as possible, the last recorded sightings of lost works, as well as the circumstances in which they became lost. Wright maintains that tragedies did not survive in their wholeness due to a combination of deliberate choice and accident. Francesco Paolo Bianchi discusses four comedies of Cratinus, Dionysalexandros, Nemesis, Odyssēs and Pytinē, for each of them there are on the one hand some testimonia and on the other hand the fragments of indirect tradition. Bianchi analyzes the interactions between fragments and testimonia and how the one or the other allows the reader to understand some aspects of the comedies, raising particular problems of interpretation. Concentrating mostly on Aristophanes’ Gerytades, Douglas Olson discusses some of the most common pitfalls of fragmentary material, insisting on how modern readings of fragmented drama can potentially be misleading. Olson’s ultimate goal is to address a series of questions about what we can really infer about fragmentary dramas as well as some basic methodological rules that ought to be followed when working with fragmentary plays.

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Oliver Taplin subsequently argues that the fragments of Aeschylus are evidence for early tragedy, to be set beside the canonical account in Aristotle’s Poetics (1449a). After a close examination of a series of fragments, Taplin pins down scenes that called for two actors (besides the chorus-leader), calling in question Aristotle’s assertion that Aeschylus increased the number of actors from one to two. Further research also throws doubt on Aristotle’s teleological account of gradual development from solely choral origins by showing that tragedy was serious and dramatic from the very beginning. The second part of the volume explores several aspects of some fragmentary tragedies. It begins with Alan Sommerstein, who reviews the evidence bearing on the sequence of plays within Aeschylus’ Danaid trilogy and offers fresh and strengthened arguments in support of his theory that the Egyptians preceded the Suppliants and that Danaus had received an oracle telling him he would be killed by his daughter’s bedfellow. Patrick Finglass brings out the plethora of anonymous, and admittingly unknown and understudied fragments that are scattered in Tragicorum Graecorum fragmenta volume V part 2. Finglass examines three different anonymous tragic fragments (one a quotation, one written on a potsherd, one from a papyrus), and highlights certain points that makes them worth studying. Kyriakos Tsantsanoglou tackles the enigmatic phrase παῖς μάργος, mentioned in Aeschylus’ so-called “Dike-play” as a violent son of Zeus and Hera (frr. 281a and 281b), making a further attempt at identifying it. Tsantsanoglou’s investigation includes a re-examination of the papyrus text (P.Oxy. 2256, frr. 9a and b), a new edition, and a commentary of the relevant lines (27–41). The identification proposed is Eros, in a story fully concocted by Aeschylus. Nikos Manousakis discusses the plot of Aeschylus’ Toxotides, drawing on the surviving fragments, but also on various other accounts, such as literature, myth, and art. Manousakis argues that the death of Actaeon in Aeschylus is directly tied to his overconfident “commitment” to sensual pleasures, which leads him to offend Semele, a bedfellow of Zeus himself. Martin Cropp addresses the debate regarding the authorship of the tetralogy of Pirithous, Rhadamanthys and Tennes, with Sisyphus being the satyr-play. Much of the discussion has been so far concerned with the language and subject-matter of the fragments, but the relevant testimonia also raise questions about the nature and transmission of our information about them. Cropp focuses on such questions and suggests that there are viable, perhaps better alternatives to ascribing all four plays together either to Euripides or to Critias. Ioanna Karamanou seeks to explore Euripides’ interplay with epinician poetry in his fragmentarily preserved Alexandros, which features an athletic contest

  Anna Lamari, Franco Montanari and Anna Novokhatko as a pivotal element of its dramatic plot. It is pointed out that Euripides appropriates epinician vocabulary, imagery and ideology to describe this competition, as also engaging in a dialogue with the aristocratic values of the victory ode, juxtaposing them to late fifth-century ideology. Karamanou thus argues that Euripides’ reception and refiguration of epinician poetry could bring to the fore the dialectic, as well as the tension between the traditional criteria of excellence and the quiet moral virtues of his own era. Massimo Giuseppetti focuses on Euripides’ fr. 282, a fragment from the satyr play Autolycus. The fragment’s difficult understanding lies in the fact that very little is known about the dramatic context of the fragment. Commentators have for the most part based their readings of fr. 282 on larger scholarly narratives, namely Euripides’ own biography or the broader conflict between physical and intellectual occupations. Giuseppetti maintains that the interpretation of fr. 282 cannot be separated from a cautious and careful investigation of its possible dramatic function within a play where the ideas of bodily strength, sophia, justice and honour are some of the basic elements of the narrative. In the last chapter of this section, Efstathia Papadodima explores the representation of tragic barbarians and of the theme of barbarism in conjunction with the concept of “fragmentation”. In her chapter, “fragmentation” and the concept of barbarism is either understood literally – with respect to the representation of barbarians in tragic fragments and their connection to the extant tragedy, or in a more abstract way – with respect to the “fragmentary” status of barbarians both in terms of perception (in Greek literary imagination) and in terms of the actual roles barbarians play in tragic theatre. The third section of the volume explores a series of comic fragments. It begins with the chapter of Michele Napolitano who examines Epicharmus, frr. 97–98 K–A (Odysseus Automolos) and focuses on three main questions: a) In which epic hypotext should the model reused by Epicharmus for his comedy be identified? b) Who does Odysseus converse with in the verses corresponding, today, to fr. 97 K–A? c) How should the title transmitted by the ancient sources for the comedy be understood, and, in particular, what sense should we attribute to the adjective automolos? Having addressed these issues, Napolitano also heads to some more general remarks regarding the meaning and function of paraepic in Epicharmus. Anna Novokhatko discusses Epicharmus fr. 147 K–A and in particular the meaning and function of the object tripod (on stage). She argues that the traditional interpretation of this fragment can be disputed and with the support of archaeological evidence proposes a new contextualisation of the scene such as a ritual sacral space of Delphi, Heraion and Mithraion.

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Serena Perrone seeks to challenge the traditional view of Crates as an apolitical and non-topical comic poet, maintaining that such an approach originates from a disputable reading of ancient testimonia (Ar. Eq. 537–540 = test. 6; Arist. Poet. 1449b = test. 5) and builds on out-dated interpretive categories. By an analysis of some titles and fragments, Perrone reframes the case, suggesting that the radicalization of this prejudice has often prevented the investigation of possible historical hints in Crates’ fragments. Andreas Bagordo looks at four cases of very short Aristophanic fragments: 938, 941, 900, as well as 969 K–A. With respect to Ar. fr. 938 [dub.] K–A, he argues that the word κνιστά (like στέμφυλα) is autonomous from λάχανα (also in the lexicographical tradition). Regarding Ar. fr. 941 [dub.] K–A, he maintains that the fragment (ἀμφήκη γνάθον) is a further instance of sophistic and/or Euripidean parody and shall not be considered a misreading or variant of Ar. Nub. 1160 (ἀμφήκει γλώττῃ). Bagordo argues further that Ar. fr. 900 K–A (τετραχίζειν) should be attributed to Aristophanes of Byzantium (or at least be edited among the Aristophanic Dubia) and proves that in Ar. fr. 969 [dub.] K–A (βροτολοιγός) one could read a more pointed (and therefore Aristophanic) βροτολοιχός. Ioannis Konstantakos examines the theme of “Heracles at the inn”, traceable in a number of fragments and testimonia from different periods in the history of Attic comedy. By bringing out the possibility that this routine arose as a popular variation of the traditional theme of “Heracles at the symposion”, Konstantakos offers a reading of Aristophanes’ Frogs 549–578 against this background: he maintains that Aristophanes offers a meta-version of the routine of “Heracles at the inn”, inserted as a miniature comic play within Dionysus’ dramatic adventures. Massimiliano Ornaghi offers a survey of all the comic fragments (about 600) in which we can recognize ethnic references used as comic tools, deliberately excluding surviving plays. Paying attention to the limits posed by their fragmentary nature, this huge amount of items seemly allows to outline some topics, or stereotypes, on the depiction of certain ethnic groups. Ornaghi maintains that these stereotypes can go back to the common and traditional opinions attested about some ancient population: often opinions shared by the Athenian audience (of the classical period) towards other Greeks, or non-Greek people. The volume’s fourth section includes chapters which bring out tragic quotation by focusing on the literary “reuse” of tragedy in other genres. The section begins with Piero Totaro, who provides an overview of the references to Aeschylus as found in the Herculaneum papyri, a vast source of dramatic quotations that

  Anna Lamari, Franco Montanari and Anna Novokhatko has today been relatively neglected. In lack of an updated edition, Totaro examines all types of Aeschylean and (pseudo-) Aeschylean references, such as Prometheus Unbound in Philodemus’ On Piety. Anton Bierl examines Aristophanes’ parodic use of Euripides’ Helen and Andromeda as central to the meaning of the Thesmophoriazusae. According to Bierl, the fragmenting paratragodia is not just a paradigmatic comic intertextual and metatheatrical play in endless repetitions, but it supports the syntagmatic course of action on a deeply symbolic level, finally re-establishing the ideas about marriage and sexual intercourse. In a discussion of Aristophanes’ Anagyros, Christian Orth argues that the play was at least in part modelled on Euripides’ Hippolytus and thus contained a parody of the scene with Phaedra and the nurse. He further maintains that this very scene from Anagyros is represented on a vase painting from ca. 400 BC, which J.R. Green has already identified as representing a comic parody (possibly by Aristophanes) of the scene with Phaedra and the nurse from Hippolytus. Poulheria Kyriakou then examines some instances of tragic fragments quoted in Plato’s Republic. Kyriakou maintains that albeit preserving the fragments, Plato has also formulated and produced them, by turning quotes into isolated utterances taken out of context, long before the plays they belonged to were really and practically lost. Quotations are also the main focus in the chapter by Richard Hunter, who considers two cases of citations of surviving Euripidean plays in Dio Chrysostom. Hunter maintains that Dio’s narrative and use of citations could be seen as a type of “window allusion”, in which one text which reflects an earlier text is combined with it in order to form a new “combinatory” writing. Patrick O’Sullivan examines aspects of the reception of Aeschylus both in antiquity and in the twentieth century, such as Gorgias of Leontini, Aristophanes, but also the Rumanian-born/Greek-national musician Iannis Xenakis, who composed an operatic version of Aeschylus’ Oresteia in separate stages over a 26-year period. A key theme to emerge is that, for the ancients, Aeschylus is celebrated and parodied as a poet whose works are stylistically grand, “heavy” and “stun” the audience out of their senses. Regarding Xenakis, O’Sullivan notices how he focuses on what he considered to be the Oresteia’s most visceral moments in order to produce a new synthetic whole. The last section of the volume deals with comedy, exploring quotations of comedy in other genres. Eric Csapo addresses the reception history of Cratinus fr. 372 K–A, since it tells a cautionary tale for all who hope to build on fragments. Csapo lays out the stages by which a perfectly respectable commentary by Era-

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tosthenes, once absorbed by the lexicographical tradition generated through abbreviation and misunderstanding then led to a theory that formed the foundation of much modern scholarship on theatre’s early history, including “evidence” for more theatre buildings than the fragment has words. Kostas Apostolakis considers some indicative techniques of quoting comic fragments in Athenaeus’ Deipnosophists. By using Middle Comedy playwright Timocles as his case study, Apostolakis exhibits how Athenaeus’ comic quotations have been artificially strung together through a narrative on deipnological and sympotic issues and focuses on connective narrative passages, through which Athenaeus attempts to revive an old material in a new composition. Athina Papachrysostomou offers an examination of an outstanding section of the Deipnosophists (6.224b–228c), where Athenaeus compiles a number of comic fragments (from the periods of Middle and New Comedy), all of which constitute invectives against Athens’ professional group of fishmongers (on account of their scheming and profiteering ways). By focusing on this case, Papachrysostomou studies the quintessence of fragmentation (as both a mechanical process and a conscious literary choice/phenomenon), its concomitant implications, as well as its powerful impact upon our perception of surviving literary material (in this case, the evaluation of comic satire against fishmongers). Benjamin Millis explores quotations from Menander that once were known only from Stobaeus (and thus were book fragments) but that now are also known from papyrus finds (and thus belong to the “extant” plays and are no longer considered fragments). This dual tradition allows a check on earlier work done when the quotations were known only as fragments. According to Millis, the fact that the quotations now have a context allows some tentative conclusions about Stobaeus’ quotation of Menander which can then be applied to fragments that still lack a fuller context. Finally, Lucía Rodríguez-Noriega Guillen offers a study of the explicit mentions of Epicharmus in Greek writers between the 1st and 5th century AD. Rodriguez-Noriega Guillen is analysing why and how each author cites Epicharmus, and how this material (whether they be fragments or testimonies) is inserted in the work in question, as she also tracking down the routes through which knowledge of Epicharmus was circulated in that period. We hope that this diachronic approach to dramatic fragments and the concept of fragmentation demonstrates the vitality of the old question of why reading fragments of Ancient Greek drama.

  Anna Lamari, Franco Montanari and Anna Novokhatko

Bibliography Belardinelli, A.M./O. Imperio/G. Mastromarco/M. Pellegrino/P. Totaro (eds) (1998), Tessere. Frammenti della commedia greca: studi e commenti, Bari. Chronopoulos, S./Orth, C. (eds) (2015), Fragmente einer Geschichte der griechischen Komödie/Fragmentary History of Greek Comedy, Heidelberg. Cropp, M.J. (2019), Minor Greek Tragedians: Fragments from the tragedies with selected testimonia, ed. with introductions, translations and notes, vol. 1: The 5th century, Liverpool. Elias, C. (2004), The Fragment: Towards a History and Poetics of a Performative Genre, Bern. Derrida, J. (1967), L’Écriture et la différence, Paris. Frank, M. (1984), “Das ‘fragmentarische Universum’ der Romantik”, in: L. Dällenbach/C.L. Hart Nibbrig (eds), Fragment und Totalität, Frankfurt a.M., 212–225. Gumbrecht, H.U. (1997), Eat your fragment! About imagination and the restitution of text, in: G. Most (ed.), Collecting Fragments – Fragmente sammeln, Göttingen, 315–327. Hofmann, H. (ed.) (1991), Fragmenta dramatica: Beiträge zur Interpretation der griechischen Tragikerfragmente und ihrer Wirkungsgeschichte, unter Mitarbeit von A. Harder, Göttingen. Karamanou, I. (2019), Refiguring tragedy: studies in plays preserved in fragments and their reception, Berlin/Boston. Lamm, J.A. (2005), “The art of interpreting Plato”, in: J. Mariña (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Friedrich Schleiermacher, Cambridge, 91–108. McHardy, F./Robson, J./Harvey, D. (eds) (2012), Lost dramas of Classical Athens: Greek tragic fragments, Exeter. Melero, A./M. Labiano/M. Pellegrino (eds) (2012), Textos fragmentarios del teatro griego antiguo: problemas, estudios y nuevas perspectivas, Lecce. Most, G. (ed.) (1997), Collecting Fragments – Fragmente sammeln, Göttingen. Most, G. (1998), “À la recherche du texte perdu: On collecting philosophical fragments”, in: W. Burkert/M.L. Gemelli Marciano/E. Matelli/L. Orelli (eds), Fragmentsammlungen philosophischer Texte der Antike/Le raccolte dei frammenti di filosofi antichi, Göttingen, 1–15. Most, G. (2009), “On fragments”, in: W. Tronzo (ed.), The Fragment: An Incomplete History, Getty Publications, 9–20. Most, G. (2010), “Fragments”, in: A.T. Grafton/S. Settis (eds), The Classical Tradition, Cambridge, Mass., 371–377. Most, G. (2011), “Sehnsucht nach dem Unversehrten. Überlegungen zu Fragmenten und deren Sammlern”, in: P. Kelemen/E. Kulcsár Szabó/Á. Tamás (eds), Kulturtechnik Philologie: zur Theorie des Umgangs mit Texten, Heidelberg, 27–43. Nesselrath, H.-G. (2010), “Comic fragments: transmission and textual criticism”, in: G.W. Dobrov (ed.), Brill’s Companion to the Study of Greek Comedy, Leiden/Boston, 423–453. Nochlin, L. (1994), The Body in Pieces. The Fragment as a Metaphor of Modernity, New York. OED = The Oxford English Dictionary, 20 vols 2nd ed., ed. by J. Simpson and E. Weiner. Oxford 1989. Olson, S.D. (2007), Broken Laughter. Select Fragments of Greek Comedy, Oxford. Ostermann, E. (1991), Das Fragment: Geschichte einer ästhetischen Idee, München. Ostermann, E. (2004), “Der Begriff des Fragments als Leitmetapher der ästhetischen Moderne (05.02.2004) ”, in: Goethezeitportal. URL:

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, 12.12.2019 Rusten, J. (ed.) (2011), The birth of comedy: texts, documents, and art from Athenian comic competitions, 486–280, Baltimore. Sontag, S. (2013), The Complete Rolling Stone Interview, by J. Cott, New Haven/London. Stephens, S. (2002), “Commenting on fragments”, in: R.K. Gibson/C. Shuttleworth Kraus (eds), The Classical commentary: histories, practices, theory, Leiden/Boston/Köln, 67–88. Varley-Winter, R. (2018), Reading Fragments and Fragmentation in Modernist Literature, Brighton.

Part I: Quotation, Transmission, and Reconstruction of Fragments

Bernhard Zimmermann

On the Hermeneutics of the Fragment  It is a truism to be constantly remembered that we must consider ourselves not only Classical Philologists but equally philosophers, historians, and literary scholars: our knowledge of Greek and Latin literature is extremely fragmentary, based on a pile of rubble. 1 Misfortunes in transmission mean that large sections of pre-Christian literature have not been preserved, with the specific reasons for these losses numerous and highly varied depending on the texts’ genre, author and epoch. 2 It often seems paradoxical, upon consideration, what has been lost and what survived. Normally it was ancient syllabi that passed judgement on the fate of authors, texts or even entire genres: 3 what we have preserved is often material that Late Antiquity assigned in schools, examined with commentaries, and “published”, meaning copied in numerous papyri. The authors who were not part of the canon, meanwhile, gradually vanished from the process of transmission. But, with a few exceptions, most of the works by even those authors who were read in schools have not been passed down to us directly through manuscripts. The transmission process primarily favored those few works that belonged to the ancient canon. A particularly clear case is the tragedian Sophocles, who composed 113 plays, only seven of which are entirely extant. 4 Any potential discrepancies between lost and extant works should serve as an ever-present warning to keep in mind whenever engaging with ancient texts. In what follows, two leading categories of literary history from the fifth and fourth centuries BC, tragedy and comedy, are taken as test cases for this admonition. The methodological challenges of these texts are considered, as they involve a constant interplay between what is extant and what is lost. Additionally, the relationship between complete works and fragments will be considered, as well as the scholarly arguments that deal with the two genres of tragedy and comedy. For, as a look into any popular literary history demonstrates, people are all too

 1 Translated by Rachel Bruzzone. A modified version of this article was published in German: B. Zimmermann “Hermeneutik des Fragments”, IYH 18 (2019), 1–20. 2 On the history of transmission, see Landfester 2007. 3 On the history of education in antiquity, see Marrou 1977. 4 For a summary of the transmission history of Greek tragedians cf. Zimmermann 2018, 10–14. In more detail, see Erbse 1975.

  Bernhard Zimmermann quick to emphasize features of a genre or particulars of any given author in comparison to others, for example to discuss “typical” Sophocles or Aeschylus, or “typical” comedy or tragedy, without noting that our judgements are based on about seven percent of Sophocles 5 and a quarter of Aeschylus, Euripides and the comic poet Aristophanes. Given the enormous discrepancy in the quantity of what remains and what was lost, the fragments that we do possess of Greek comedy and tragedy are enormously significant. 6 The starting point for studying the two genres, tragedy and comedy, however, is fundamentally different. We have numerous fragments of the 256 comic poets who are attested by name, which are masterfully edited in the eight-volume Poetae Comici Graeci (PCG). 7 There are 200 minor tragic poets for whom we often have only names (i.e. all of the tragedians except Aeschylus, Sophocles and Euripides), with no or few fragments attached to them, and, in contrast to the extensive PCG, the 325 pages of the first volume of Tragicorum Graecorum Fragmenta (TrGF) suffice for this content. 8 To be sure, the fragments of Aeschylus 9 and Sophocles 10 fill an extensive volume. After the 386 BC permission

 5 To make matters worse with regard to Sophocles, only two of his seven extant tragedies are datable, Philoctetes from 409 BC and the posthumously produced Oedipus at Colonus of 406 BC. For the other five, we rely on textual indications, which are, as might be expected, controversial. 6 In this context, the history of fragmentary research is too extensive to be discussed. Reference is made to Most 1997; 2010; 2011. On the history of the word “fragment”, see Zinn 1994, 29–41. On fragments as an aesthetic concept, see Fetscher 2001. It should be noted in passing — although this still requires a thorough investigation – that there was no conscious fragmentation in classical antiquity, that is, no writings which, in the view of the author, were only provisional, sketching, that wore the apparel of a fragment, as Johann Gottfried Herder puts it in Über die neuere deutsche Literatur (1797), to which he gave the subtitle Erste Sammlung von Fragmenten. Accessible in: Gaier 1985, 161–259. 7 R. Kassel/C. Austin (eds), Poeti Comici Graeci, 8 Vols, Berlin/New York 1983–2001. 8 B. Snell/R. Kannicht (eds), Tragicorum Graecorum Fragmenta, Vol. 1: Didascaliae tragicae, catalogi tragicorum et tragoediarum, testimonia et fragmenta tragicorum minorum, Göttingen 19862. 9 S. Radt (ed.), Tragicorum Graecorum Fragmenta, Vol. 3: Aeschylus, Göttingen 1985. 10 S. Radt (ed.), Tragicorum Graecorum Fragmenta, Vol. 4: Sophocles, Göttingen 19992.

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for reenactments of “Old Tragedy”, 11 Euripides 12 appeared not only in theaters but also on the syllabi of so-called grammarians — people we would today call highschool literature teachers. Only for Euripides’ work do we have so many fragments and hypotheses written by early philologists and preserved on papyri, which contain sufficient material that we can justifiably claim to know this tragedian reasonably well. The major sources for dramatic fragments are not so much papyri or palimpsests but rather primarily citations which appear in later authors. We have many more examples of this type of “indirect transmission” 13 of individual words, verses, partial verses or longer quotations for comedy than its sister genre tragedy, primarily because of one of the most important authors to cite comedy, Athenaeus of Naucratus (Second or Third Centuries BC). In his enormous work, Deipnosophists or The Learned Banqueters, everything that constitutes or concerns a spectacularly luxurious dinner takes place in the course of a learned conversation among educated men who are, fortunately, equally lavish with their citations of Greek literature. This conversation thoroughly discusses every type of dish and drink, and also the mechanisms of a feast including the necessary personnel, music and dance, dishes on which the food is served, and drinking vessels. As a look into extant comedies of Aristophanes (ca. 450–385 BC) and Menander (ca. 342– 290 BC) makes clear, food and drink are some of the favorite topics of Attic comedy, and therefore Athenaeus exploits these particular texts for his narrative. A further reason that Greek authors are richly cited from the Hellenistic period into the Byzantine is found in a particularity of the ancient education system. In the Roman Empire, in which the political significance of Greece was lost, schoolmasters oriented themselves toward authors of the heyday of Greek litera-

 11 Previously, the dramas performed at Athens on the occasion of two festivals to Dionysus, the Great Dionysia and the Lenaia, were only allowed to be performed once in the festival context. Performances in other locations and on other occasions were possible. Since the dramas were understood as spiritual offerings of the city of Athens to the god Dionysus, a performance in the sense of a spiritual sacrifice was only possible once; otherwise it might have offended the honor of the god and incurred punishment. Euripides’ Bacchae shows the lengths to which a wrathful god with injured pride can go. However, the re-enactments after 386 BC had devastating consequences for the condition of the texts, as directors and actors intervened, enlarging and abbreviating them according to their needs and the expectations of the audience; see Page 1934 and Mauer 2017. On the practice of reperformance, see Lamari 2017; Stewart 2017. 12 R. Kannicht (ed.), Tragicorum Graecorum Fragmenta, Vols 5/1 and 5/2: Euripides, Göttingen 2004. 13 See Tosi 1988.

  Bernhard Zimmermann ture, namely the culture of the Fifth and Fourth Centuries and so-called Atticism. 14 Aristophanes, whose works are closely bound to their chronological context and whose often stinging jokes draw from the political circumstances of the time of their performance, has this type of education to thank for the survival of eleven complete comedies and numerous fragments. 15 In this period, it was thought that the spoken Greek of the Fifth Century could be learned from the works of Aristophanes. Because both the comedic language of Aristophanes — which in any case was never the daily language of Athens 16 — and all of the allusions to historical events and persons that appear in his comedies require comprehensive explanations, Aristophanes and the other comic authors of the Fifth Century BC were supplemented with explanatory guides to both their language (Glossaries) and their content (Scholia). These commentaries were frequently supplemented with citations of other comic poets whose work has subsequently been lost. The vocabulary of comedy, and especially its many neologisms, was not necessarily immediately comprehensible to a reader in Late Antiquity or Byzantine times, and it was therefore collected and deciphered in Atticist, Late Antique and Byzantine Lexica. As a result we have, for example, the Suda lexicon from the 10th Century with more than 5,000 entries on comedy. Such works are complemented by other material from the Lexicon of Pollux, a contemporary of Athenaeus who also comes from the Egyptian city of Naukratis, and the Lexicon of the patriarch Photius (9th century), as welcome additions. 17 The plays of Menander, on the other hand, have to do with lucky and unlucky love and are immediately comprehensible without extensive explanatory commentaries. They disappeared from the tradition in the Byzantine era because the poet did not write in “pure” Attic, at least according to the Atticist criteria. As a result, the “Sentiments of Menander” (Μενάνδρου γνῶμαι), a collection of universally-applicable aphorisms from Menander’s comedies, is the most important sources of information — at least from a didactic point of view. Only since the end of the 19th century has this author gained an increasing profile through numerous papyrus finds and palimpsests, a resource that continues to increase today. 18 But it is even the case for two authors who still have some complete comedies that there is an enormous gap between what is extant and what is lost. We have

 14 On this topic see Schmitz 1997, 67–96; Hose 1999, 162–184. 15 On the characteristics of Aristophanic comedy, see Zimmermann 2006a, 14–60. 16 See Willi 2003. 17 On the transmission of Attic comedy, see Zimmermann 2006a, 9–13. 18 Cf. Zimmermann 2006a, 178–179.

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about a quarter of what Aristophanes wrote: eleven of the 46 comedies with attested titles, or 15,284 verses out of the roughly 56,000 that should have made up these 46 plays. In addition, there are 924 fragments of varying sizes. For Menander, the mismatch is much more striking: due to papyrus discoveries made since the 19th century, one complete play has reemerged from the sands of Egypt, a character comedy with the title The Misanthrope (Dyskolos). Five more plays from the 105 to 109 comedies with attested titles are basically legible, so we possess only about 5,000 verses of the more than 110,000 that Menander must have written. 19

 Dealing with fragmentary drama in the realm of tragedy is often considerably methodologically simpler. In contrast to comedy, which must always offer its viewers something new, the tragedian is bound to specific materials. The comic playwright Antiphanes in the Fourth Century BC characterizes the distinction between the genres in the competition for the favor of the public: 20 Tragedy is a fortunate genre (ποίημα) in every respect, because first of all the stories are known to the viewers before a word is even spoken. It is therefore sufficient if the playwright gives only the smallest of hints. If I simply say “Oedipus”, the audience knows everything else: the father is Laius, the mother Jocasta, they know who the daughters and sons are, what he will endure, what he has done […] even if the tragedian then says nothing more. If tragedians have nothing more to say and their pieces have already lost their momentum, they must only lift the machine 21 like a finger and that is enough for the spectators. It is not like this for us, but rather we must invent everything new: new names, new stories and the actions that preceded them, what is now the issue, the events as they occur, and the opening moment of the story. And if a Chremes or Pheidon 22 leaves any of those out, he is booed offstage, while a Peleus or a Teucer 23 is free to do anything he likes.

With this plaintive monologue in Antiphanes’ comedy titled Poiesis (Poetry) the personified comedy or poetry herself describes in the form of a ritual makarismos

 19 On Menander see Zimmermann 2006a, 177–206. 20 Fragment 189 of Antiphanes appears with minor comments in: PCG, vol. 2, 1991, 418–419. A succinct study of Antiphanes appears in Orth 2014, 1012–1022. — All translations are my own. 21 This refers to géranos, the crane, on which a deus ex machina could appear at the conclusion of a tragedy. On the mechanics of staging in the classical Greek theater, see Taplin 1974, 434– 451; Newiger 1996, 96–106. 22 Typical comic names in the fourth century BC. 23 Typical tragic characters.

  Bernhard Zimmermann the difference between tragedy and comedy. The speaker underlines the pressure on comic poets to innovate: in contrast to the work of tragedians, everything must be new, everything invented, while the tragedian can adhere to the structure of the myths as they have been passed down, and, as a last resort, finding the play at a dead end, has at his disposal the deus ex machina, the god from the machine, who can with a word bring about a positive conclusion, or at least one consistent with the pre-existing myth. The advantages that comic poets have over tragic ones also apply — at least at first glance — to philologists who work with tragic fragments, because on the whole they have a well-known myth informing the plot of the pieces. A look at the attested titles of tragedies shows that, precisely as Aristotle writes in Poetics, 24 the tragedians largely limit themselves to a few mythological complexes. Precisely because of this restriction to a few limited myth cycles, they were able to foster a competitive dialogue with their rivals in the tragic agon for the favor of the public. They sought to show that their poetic talents could bring out new aspects and surprising twists even in a thoroughly treated subject. Aeschylus (d. 456 BC) counted among these rival tragedians of the second half of the fifth century because his pieces, unusually, were allowed to be performed after his death due to the admiration he enjoyed in Athens. 25 Aeschylus was — and this should not be forgotten in interpretation of classical tragedy — a contemporary for Sophocles and Euripides and likewise all others of their generation, because they competed against his plays in their contest. 26 We can see this directly agonal conversation in the treatment of the Electra-Orestes tragedies of Aeschylus (Choephori), Sophocles (Electra) and Euripides (Electra and Orestes). 27 At any rate the tragedians, in contrast with their colleagues in comedy, were compelled to search out alternative interpretive possibilities to win the approval of the public through “new ideas” (καιναὶ ἰδέαι,) as they endeavored to bring “something new” (καινὰ λέγειν) on the stage about the myth which they reinterpret. The framework of these stories, their mythical core, may not be touched — so says Aristotle in the 14th chapter of Poetics. Clytemnestra must die at Orestes’ hand, for example. Eriphyle must be killed by her son Alcmaeon. The poet, however, is entirely free in conceiving of his specific “new” play around this mythological kernel. The comparison of the Orestes-Electra dramas of Aeschylus, Sophocles and Euripides is an impressive example of how the same myth, and even

 24 Aristotle, Poetics, 14.1453b22–26. 25 On the normal requirement that each performance be unique, see above at n. 11. 26 On this see Zimmermann 2006b. 27 Cf. Zimmermann 2000, 119–124.

On the Hermeneutics of the Fragment  

the same episode of one myth — Orestes’ return home and Clytemnestra’s death at the hand of her son — can produce three entirely different plays. But still, the myth, as we know it from various sources, possesses a fixed framework and a fixed set of plot elements, and these can offer a great deal of help in the reconstruction of fragmentary plays. The first step in the tragedians’ process of conceptualizing a play must have consisted of considering the tragic nucleus of the myth in question. This nucleus would often consist in one of the Dionysian spheres of dual tensions, in which tragedies were embedded: in the relationship between individual and community, man and woman, humanity and god, young and old, exterior and interior, war and peace, or right and wrong, just to name a few. From these tensions arise threats and the transgression of boundaries, which can cause an existential crisis or a confrontation with death. 28 Around the mythological nucleus, which is responsible for the tragic tension — for whatever is “tragic” 29 in the piece —, the tragedians develop their own plots, which are in turn created through literary renovation of the myths 30 but with the known structures, motifs and the Bauformen 31 that are available for the genre. 32 The interplay of narrative structures largely found in Homeric epic, including the Iliad, Odyssey and the

 28 Burkert 1990, 26, shows how this basic situation derives from the ritual origins of tragedy: “Der Mensch im Angesicht des Todes”. — The threat of death is played out especially in constellations inside the household of the royal family: Transgression against the incest taboo (material from the Oedipus myth), the murder of children and mothers (from myths involving Iphigenia, Medea and Orestes), defence of the family against external intrusions (Sophocles’ Antigone). This crisis of the oikos often takes place in the context of a failed or only partially successful transition from youth to adulthood (Euripides’ Hippolytus and Iphigenia at Aulis; Sophocles’ Antigone). Cf., however, Hyllus in Sophocles’ Trachinian Women and Neoptolemus in Sophocles’ Philoctetes, characters who have successfully transitioned to adulthood. Both types of transition are modelled in the character of Telemachus in Homer’s Odyssey: initially, his initiation into adult life threatens to fail, but, under the guidance of Athena, he takes the initiative, breaks away from his worried mother, and becomes a son worthy of Odysseus. 29 On the meaning of this see Zimmermann 2011a. 30 It is only rarely possible to understand the development of a myth in different genres due to gaps in transmission. In particular, the lyric poet Stesichorus (sixth century BC) played an inestimable role as a bridge between epic and tragic traditions; see Garvie 1986, XVIII–XXII. 31 Jens 1971, referring to the recurring structural elements like the Parodos, the choral songs (stasima), transition songs (amoibaia), messenger speeches etc. 32 Arist. Poet. 17–18, 1455a22–1456a32, outlines the work of a tragedian: 1. basic plot sketch, 2. division into scenes, 3. elaboration to full drama length, 4. distribution of the people and separation into individual episodes.

  Bernhard Zimmermann epic cycle, 33 offers certain plots such as the nostos, 34 anagnorisis, 35 hikesie, 36 or vengeance as the core of the drama, 37 where the dominant structure can also be enriched with one or more sub-plots. 38 Let us proceed from this background back to the question of reconstructing the plot of a tragedy that is preserved only in fragments. The Palamedes myth can serve as an example. 39 Palamedes is one of the great heroes of the Trojan War, a man who competes with Odysseus in his intelligence. Because he exposed Odysseus’ trick when he attempted to avoid involvement in the Trojan War through feigned madness, he earned Odysseus’ relentless hatred. Odysseus takes revenge at Troy, falsely accusing him of treason. Palamedes is sentenced to death and executed. Like Prometheus, Palamedes was given credit for a series of inventions that ease human life. Thus Palamedes insists in the Aeschylean drama that he invented the various officer positions and “the possibility of distinguishing between meals, specifically to have breakfast, lunch and thirdly dinner”. 40 Or he emphasizes: And then I organized life in Greece and Its allies, which was previously chaotic and animal-like. First I discovered numbers and mathematics, the foremost of all sciences. Aesch. fr. ** 181a TrGF III  33 The epic cycle contains all of the other epics that surround the Iliad and Odyssey and from which we have only some fragments and tables of contents from late antiquity. The material contained in them had a great influence on tragedians of the fifth century BC, however cf. Reichel 2011, 69–71. 34 The nostos-structure originates in Homer’s Odyssey and appears in Aeschylus’ Persians, Agamemnon, Choephoroi; Sophocles’ Electra, Trachinian Women; and Euripides’ Electra and Bacchae. The first part of Euripides’ Heracles is – in connection with a katabasis theme, representing the journey into the underworld and originating in the Odyssey – also formed on a pattern established in the Odyssey. On this see Stanchi 2007. 35 Again on an Odyssean pattern (the recognition of Odysseus by his nurse Eurycleia due to his scars). This is found in the Orestes-Electra myths in connection with a nostos-structure: Aeschylus’ Agamemnon, Choephori; Sophocles’ Electra; Euripides’ Electra, Iphigenia at Taurus, Ion, and Helen. 36 Aeschylus’ Suppliants; Sophocles’ Oedipus at Colonus; Euripides’ Heracleidae, Suppliants, and as a secondary theme in his Medea. 37 Aeschylus’ Agamemnon, Choephori; Sophocles’ Ajax, Electra; Euripides’ Medea, Hippolytus, Hecuba, Electra, Orestes. The idea of revenge, modeled on the insult in the Iliad, frequently appears in connection with a burial prohibition (cf. the body of Hector in the Iliad, which is only through the supplication of Priam “set free” to be buried), for example in Sophocles’ Ajax and Antigone. 38 Arist. Poet. 18.1452b32–1456a32, lists four types in his “Addendum” to tragedy: complex, pathetic, ethical and a fourth form, which is unclear due to textual problems. 39 On this material cf. Usener 1995. 40 Aesch. fr. *182 TrGF III.

On the Hermeneutics of the Fragment  

The fragments from the Sophoclean and Euripidean versions have a similar tenor: the tragic hero accusingly holds up the good deeds he has performed for humanity. 41 Now the question arises of how these fragments fit into the myths and which position they might have held in their respective dramas. The tragic nucleus of the Palamedes myth is clearly to be found in the tension between individual and society. This foundational constellation of individual and society is thereby charged with a tragic potential: the individual undeservedly suffers the most terrible injustice from his own society, for which he had performed outstanding service. The tragic conflict between individual and society runs through other tragedies as well, from various starting points. In the three Philoctetes tragedies of Aeschylus, Sophocles and Euripides, of which only the Sophoclean version exists, the society needs the help of the specific individual to whom it had long since done an injustice. 42 The individual must decide if he wants to persist in his wounded pride and hatred for the society or to be re-incorporated into it. Yet another variation on the story is that of the benefactor of humanity who suffers injustice, a version that appears in the Prometheus and Heracles myths, 43 but in these cases it is the gods who severely punish the benefactor. This basic pattern of the individual and the community that harms him in the Palamedes myth is enriched by sub-themes, especially the intelligence (σοφία) that allows the individual to discover clever and useful inventions (σοφίσματα, εὑρήματα, ὠφελήματα) and thus become a benefactor for the community. Palamedes is accused of treason, with Odysseus as his accuser and Agamemnon as judge, able to perform his duties either willingly or reluctantly (as in the Euripidean Hecuba). The debate (ἀγὼν λόγων) taking place between Odysseus and Palamedes thus serves as a statement on his merits as a benefactor. As often occurs in such verbal showdowns — and especially because the master of speaking, Odysseus, takes part in the argument — the speeches furthermore reflect on the power of speech and the relativity of words like σοφία.

 41 The sophist Gorgias, probably under the influence of the tragic treatments of Palamedes, writes a fictitious defence of Palamedes; text and translation can be found at Buchheim 1989, 17–37. 42 Philoctetes, in possession of the bow of Heracles, is bitten by a snake on the island of Lemnos on the journey to Troy. The festering wound creates such a stench that the Greeks leave Philoctetes behind on the island. Ten years later, they learn from the seer Helenus that they can only take Troy with Philoctetes’ bow and his voluntary assistance and participation in the war. 43 Aeschylus, Prometheus Bound; Euripides, Hercules Furens.

  Bernhard Zimmermann We can see from the fragments of the Palamedes pieces taking in consideration also the Prometheus Bound ascribed to Aeschylus 44 how the agonal dialogue took place among the tragic figures. Apparently one tragedian, usually Aeschylus, established a theme which his rivals subsequently tackled. In the catalogue of inventions that are attributed to the protagonist, found among the Palamedes fragments, subsequent tragedians — so far as we can see — seem to have adhered to the repertoire developed by Aeschylus, although they have employed variety in the language and supplemented or completed the list. The comparison becomes very clear for the discovery of mathematics, writing and astronomy. Context is not clear in the Aeschylean and Sophoclean plays, but one can assume that the idea of order and an organized human life through skill (τέχνη) played a role and therefore gave this catalogue of inventions a polis-related dimension. It can also be assumed that the problems of right and wrong, gratitude and ingratitude, and power and rhetoric — which are also otherwise associated with Odysseus in choral lyric 45 and tragedy — played a role. The Euripidean Palamedes fragments presumably reflect on the meaning of intelligence (σοφόν) for the community and in relation to right and wrong. 46

 The problems of working with comic fragments can be explored through the example of a comedy of one of the older contemporaries and rivals of Aristophanes, Cratinus, entitled Dionysalexandros and performed at the beginning of the Peloponnesian War (431/430 BC). 47 Through the indirect transmission of citations in late antique and Byzantine authors, we have a number of fragments, presented here in translation and initially without comments: Crat. fr. 39 “And there are scissors in it, with which we shear the sheep and the goats”; fr. 40 “A. And what did he have on and with him? Tell me!” “B. A thyrsus, a colorful and gold robe, and a wine vessel”; fr. 41 “And as you heard the words, a shudder that shook you to your eye-teeth came over you”; fr. 42 “Do you want some kind of columned halls and colorful porticoes?”; fr. 43 “No, but instead to walk in the fresh dung of cattle and sheep”; fr. 44 “And I will bring sardines from Pontus in baskets”; fr. 45  44 On the question of authenticity of citations cf. Zimmermann 2018, 48–49. 45 Pind. Nem. 7.17–33; Nem. 8.20–34. 46 Eur. Frr. 580, 581 TrGF V 2. 47 A comprehensive commentary can be found at Bianchi 2016, 198–301. Text in: PCG IV, 140– 147. A literary profile of Cratinus can be found at Zimmermann 2011b, 718–730.

On the Hermeneutics of the Fragment  

“And the idiot runs around screaming ‘baaah, baaah’ like a sheep”; fr. 49 “Goosebreeder, cattle-herd”; fr. 50 “a boxwood bed”. Even this sparse material can offer some clues to serve as a basis for interpretation of the piece. The title of the comedy, Dionysalexandros, refers to a form of comedy which can also be found among other authors: one person assumes the role or identity of a second person, leading to comic confusion. The most famous example is Amphitryon. In the comedy of Cratinus, Dionysus, the god of the theater, wine, intoxication, and ecstasy, takes on the identity of the Trojan prince Paris (also called Alexander), who set in motion the Trojan War with his abduction of the Spartan queen Helen, the wife of Menelaus. Fragment 40 suggests our Dionysian context: the thyrsus staff and wine pitcher are clearly identifiable as attributes of the god and his followers, the Maenads or Bacchants. Since the name Paris/Alexander appears in the title, the plot of the comedy must take place at the time of the Trojan War. We therefore have before us a comedy that is similar to contemporary tragedy in its use of Homeric myth — a form of comedy that is not attested in extant Aristophanes. Fragments 39, 43, 45, 48 and 49 have to do with a banquet or a celebration and 42 and 50 with luxury; furthermore, fragments 39, 43, 45, 48 and 49 have a bucolic ambiance, such as we recognize from Satyr plays, for example Euripides’ Cyclops. This admittedly not yet very enlightening picture nevertheless serves as a substantial enlargement of what is found in a papyrus from an ancient landfill at Oxyrhynchus and published in 1904 (P.Oxy. 663), 48 which preserves a part of the Hypothesis, or “Table of Contents” of Dionysalexandros. The text, which unfortunately has not been completely preserved, begins shortly before the “Parabasis”, one of the typical elements of a comedy of the Fifth Century, in which the chorus, standing on an empty stage, addresses the audience directly and in a metapoetic form speaks about the author and the comic Muse, expressing itself in a kind of agonal dialogue about other poets and about their artwork. As we learn from the Hypothesis, the play included a discussion between Hermes and Dionysus about the “Judgement of Paris”, the beauty contest between the three goddesses Hera, Athena and Aphrodite. Dionysus, bewitched by the beauty of the goddesses and at the prospect of seeing them naked, seems to have persuaded Hermes to allow him to pronounce the judgement in the role of Paris/Alexander, to whom the duty fell in myth. We can therefore speak of the comic “myth alteration” 49 that Cratinus has made. The three goddesses appear: Hera promises eternal rule, Athena sincere courage in battle, and Aphrodite

 48 Grenfell/Hunt 1904, 69–72. 49 For this specifically tragic technique, cf. Vöhler/Seidensticker 2005.

  Bernhard Zimmermann the marriage of the greatest beauty and attractiveness. Dionysus awards Aphrodite the victory, sails straight to Sparta, and returns with Helen — the leap forward in time, which defies logic and has no place in non-Aristotelian comedy, must have been bridged by a choral song. Dionysus hears shortly afterward that the Greeks have already arrived in Troy in search of Helen and are pillaging the countryside. He quickly hides Helen in a basket — here we see this element of slapstick comedy for the first time — and changes himself into a ram. 50 But the metamorphosis does not appear to have been entirely successful, as fr. 45 suggests: “this idiot is running around shouting ‘baaa’ like a sheep”. Now, alarmed by the approaching Greeks, the proper Paris/Alexander appears, discovers Helen and Dionysus and intends to deliver them over to the Greeks. But, faced with the beautiful Helen, he is overwhelmed with pity and wants to take her as his wife while surrendering Dionysus to the Greeks. The Satyrs, who make up the chorus, accompany their lord and promise not to abandon him. Concerning the plot before the Parabasis, we can only guess. We can assume that the play depends on the well-known topos of satyr-plays involving the separation of satyrs from their lord Dionysus. Dionysus may have announced in the Prologue — perhaps in the mode of an exposition such as we see in Euripides’ Bacchus — the reason for his presence in the Troad, namely the search for his satyrs. The Parodos, the choral entry song, can be imagined as a rustic scene comparable to that of the Euripidean Cyclops. Hermes appears to win over Paris as the judge in the beauty contest between the three goddesses, but instead he encounters Dionysus, who, probably through bribery, convinces Hermes to allow him to serve in the role of Paris/Alexander. In Dionysalexander Cratinus is clearly depending on satyr plays: 51 both in the conception of the story — the heroic myth is played out in the bucolic and animalistic world of the Satyrs — and also in the characters, namely those of Dionysus and the satyrs. The satiric elements of the Dionysalexander can be seen as Cratinus’ efforts to broaden the repertoire of comedy by enlarging it with another genre and bringing in something new onstage to win the approval of the public.

 50 This is mythologically and ritually completely appropriate, because the ram is a holy animal for Dionysus. 51 Fundamental to this poorly-attested genre of Greek theater is Lämmle 2013.

On the Hermeneutics of the Fragment  

Dionysalexander is nonetheless a comedy, and not a satyr-comedy, because it unfolds according to the motif of satyr plays that depends on the conception of a comic spectacle. 52 The play on mistaken identity — Dionysus as Paris — becomes even much more complex in that Cratinus “convincingly”, as the last sentence of the Hypothesis notes, “through hints” uses this comedy to mock the politician Pericles for leading Athens to war. How this hint that Dionysus/Paris represents Pericles was made clear is not evident in the fragments; nor is it possible to determine whether it depended on visual signals — such as the well-known and frequently-mocked onion-shaped head of Pericles — or whether it depended solely on verbal elements and dramatic action. That enemies devastate the country and that the protagonist Dionysus is characterized as a coward can easily be imagined as representing the situation of Athens at the beginning of the Peloponnesian War and especially with respect to Pericles. The Periclean strategy of abandoning the land to the Spartans and depending on the fleet could well be interpreted as cowardice. The fact of war having broken out is represented as the personal responsibility of Dionysus/Pericles – he wants to be the most beautiful and attractive — and, driven by sexual desire, he courts the retaliation of the Greeks in the comedy and the Spartans in reality. However, even the proper Paris, who would like to avoid the risk of war by exiling both Dionysus and Helen, succumbs to his emotions and impulses: to the compassion he has for Helen and his desire to win her as his wife. He, too, is in no way better than his divine doppelgänger. The political message that emerges from this burlesque plot is therefore entirely pessimistic: even if the man who desires war for egotistical reasons is banished, 53 nothing changes, because the other politicians also allow themselves to be led entirely by their personal interests and emotions. Further insights can be gained from this short overview of the Dionysalexander about genre history and generic questions concerning the elements that constitute comedy. While Aristophanes interacted primarily with the sister-genre tragedy, and especially with Euripides, as well as contemporary choral lyric, Cratinus apparently preferred models and reference points in the Archaic period: Homer in the Dionysalexander and the roughly contemporary Nemesis, in which  52 In general, the question of genre arises only in circumstances when the “Sitz im Leben” of a work has been lost and one is engaged with philological and literary concerns. This begins in Greece in the Hellenistic period in the third century BC. For the viewers in the Theater of Dionysus, every play which was put on in a contest between comic poets was per se a comedy. 53 The extradition of Dionysus might recall the Spartans’ demand for the expulsion of Pericles due to the miasma associated with the Cylonian Conspiracy, discussed by Thucydides in his History of the Peloponnesian War (1.27).

  Bernhard Zimmermann the strange birth of Helen from an egg was a central element – Zeus had seduced Leda in the form of a swan —; Hesiod and the Hesiodoi (Hesiod and his Companions); and Archilochus in the Archilochoi (Archilochus and his Companions). Cratinus seems to have developed the form of “transparent” comedy, which served Aristophanes so well in his Knights: behind the actual stage action — in this case the previous history of the Trojan War — a second level comes to light, which receives its meaning from the first, in Dionysalexander the question about the outbreak of the Peloponnesian war and the search for the guilty party and his motives. The fact that the god Dionysus appears as a character as he does in the Frogs of Aristophanes has to do not only with reasons of the content of the place but also suggests a particular “Dionysian poetry” of Cratinus, whose irrepressible and rousing power Aristophanes hints to in his Knights (424 BC) 54 and which Cratinus makes into a comic theme the following year in his Pytine (Wineflask), a retort to Knights, in which the younger poet represents the ideal of a sober, intellectual and thrifty comic art (v. 537 ff.). 55 It also points in this “Dionysian” direction that he appears to have put on the comedy in the entirely Dionysian form of a satyr play.

 The preceding remarks should have made it sufficiently clear that anyone who deals with the fragments of Greek tragedy or comedy should see himself as a restorer working with a picture, who, in addition to well-preserved, coherent sections of a mosaic also has a box containing thousands of pebbles, some of which are sure to fit with the mosaic. Others might be part of it, but must be laid to the side until in the course of time there may be other indications that conclusively suggest they belong to this specific mosaic. The trained eye can see that still other stones conclusively do not fit with the project currently under consideration. Thus, as a restorer-philologist, one is constantly faced by the challenge of laying the stones together so that they form, as much as possible, a full picture, in a way that respects both certainty and coherence, which is not generally speaking a large overlap. Some pieces will be easier and others more difficult or indeed incomplete. Some mosaic stones blend smoothly onto others and yet do not pro-

 54 Ar. Eq. 526–528. 55 Ar. Eq. 537–540.

On the Hermeneutics of the Fragment  

duce a whole, because experience suggests that something may be amiss. Intuitive “feeling” is also a part of philological thinking that somehow plays into our convictions. Importantly, we must take into account and be conscious of the fact that in all of our beliefs, literary taste, divinatio, always plays a role. 56 And although we may not be certain that certain stones really fit together, we can still fit together shards, while reserving the right to move them to another place later, or to put them back in the box as unassignable. Any philologist who is not satisfied with what is often the very small selection that we have of the complete works of an ancient author is obliged to include the fragments in his reflections. And like a restorer, he can orient himself based on the larger, extant units that suggest a framework and offer indisputable expectations. 57 Inevitably he will constantly work with parallels, always looking for similarities (similia), be it in word choice, meter, title, or anything else, although he must always be conscious that these parallels stand on shaky legs, because it is precisely a feature of good literature to always surprise or confound its reader. 58 We can of course read the fragments as aesthetically coherent, without requiring an answer about their complete form, like the poems of Sappho or the supposed “aphorisms” attributed to Heraclitus, which are not really aphorisms in the true sense, but part of a larger work that has not been preserved. 59 Or we can be content with understanding the language of the fragments and the facts and objects mentioned in them, namely the “Realia”. However, a philological engagement with fragments has other challenges. This approach seeks not only to reconstruct the place of the fragments in their original whole but also to consider the question of why a text fragmented in the tradition and how the resulting fragment was used in various literary discourses. We also often have testimonies about the life and work of an author that must be taken into consideration, which usually initially appears to be helpful but in the end can prove to be a complicating factor. The necessary considerations in reconstructing a text, while keeping the whole in mind and having to accept quite a number of assumptions, inevitably  56 On the conceptual history of divinatio: Schaeffer 1977. 57 On this, see Dällenbach 1984, 7: “Fragment und Totalität sind korrelativ; über das eine ist nicht zu sprechen ohne das andere”. 58 This recalls Aristophanes’ Frogs, in which the frog-chorus, contrary to the expectations of the viewers imagining a play like Wasps or Birds, play only a minor role and are probably never visible. It could also recall Euripides’ Phoenician Women, the name of which recalls the identical name of Phrynichus but with which it had no relationship. For the signalling effect of titles, cf. fragment 189 of Antiphanes, discussed above. 59 See Erler 2011, 270.

  Bernhard Zimmermann lead to a hermeneutic circle, 60 and one that is historically determined, because any text is read differently from how it would have been read 100, or even ten, years ago. But with appropriate awareness of this hermeneutic process, this factor represents not a risk but enrichment. 61 One is challenged to question the process of interpretation constantly, to be open about its dependence on the time period that produces it, and the types of expectations that are reasonable in approaching the text. Thus the “hermeneutic correlation”, the relationship between interpretation and the text being interpreted, becomes a process that is open and never complete, but rather inspires constant rethinking. 62 This hermeneutic of fragments requires courage in establishing a hypothesis which, especially when such a hypothesis turns out to be unsustainable in the course of discussion, can also suggest new paths to a solution. For it is only through building hypotheses that touch on either new theoretical approaches — which can serve as a heuristic tool but should not be uncritically applied to an ancient text — or new questions pertaining to a literary work or fragment that we can achieve a new view of texts that have been frequently read and interpreted. The hermeneutics of fragments is by nature a process of constant revision and questioning of the results, which can only ever be provisional. One could, with some exaggeration, say that this method is obliged to reveal mistakes as well as illuminating the text. Such a hermeneutic is from the beginning transdisciplinary and interdisciplinary, because the work with fragments is always an act of contextualization. So it is not only the literary context of the work of any particular author but also the genre and the particular rules and norms of the literary context and the text’s complex relationship to other literary works, as well as the contemporary and diachronic political, cultural and religious contexts that must be taken into account. The work with fragments is therefore an open science and an interdisciplinary dialogue about an experimental field of hermeneutics.

Bibliography Bianchi, F.P. (2016), Kratinos, Archilochoi – Empipramenoi, Heidelberg. Buchheim, T. (1989), Gorgias von Leontinoi. Reden, Fragmente und Testimonien, Hamburg. Burkert, W. (1990), Wilder Ursprung, Berlin.

 60 Gadamer 1986, 271. 61 In particular see Susan Sontag in her Essay “Against Interpretation” (in: Sontag 2013, 10– 20). Every interpretation changes the text, or even rewrites it. On this cf. Figal 2017, 107f. 62 Cf. Figal 2009, 216–219.

On the Hermeneutics of the Fragment  

Dällenbach, L. (1984), “Einleitung,” in: L. Dällenbach/C.L. Hart Nibbrig (eds), Fragment und Totalität, Frankfurt am Main, 7–17. Erbse, H. (1975), Überlieferungsgeschichte der griechischen klassischen und hellenistischen Literatur, in: H. Hunger et al. (eds), Die Textüberlieferung der antiken Literatur und der Bibel, München, 207–283. Erler, M. (2011), “Philosophie,” in: B. Zimmermann (ed.), Handbuch der griechischen Literatur der Antike. Vol. One: Die Literatur der archaischen und klassischen Zeit, München, 254– 288. Fetscher, J. (2001), “Fragment,” in: Karlheinz Barck et al. (eds), Ästhetische Grundbegriffe, Vol. 2, Stuttgart/Weimar, 551–588. Figal, G. (2009), Verstehensfragen, Tübingen. Figal, G. (2017), “Überraschungen. Zur Hermeneutik des Unvorhersehbaren,” in: Freiburger Universitätsblätter 217, 107–108. Gadamer, H.-G. (1986), Wahrheit und Methode, 5. Auflage, Tübingen. Gaier, U. (ed.) (1985), Johann Gottfried Herder, Frühe Schriften 1764–1772, Frankfurt am Main. Garvie, A.F. (1986), Aeschylus, Choephori, Oxford. Grenfell, B.P./A.S. Hunt (1904), “Argumentum of Cratinus’ Διονυσαλέξανδρος,” in: The Oxyrhynchus Papyri 6, 69–72. Hose, M. (1999), Kleine griechische Literaturgeschichte. Von Homer bis zum Ende der Antike, München. Jens, W. (ed.) (1971), Die Bauformen der griechischen Tragödie, München. Lämmle, R. (2013), Poetik des Satyrspiels, Heidelberg. Landfester, M. (ed.) (2007), Geschichte der antiken Texte. Autoren- und Werklexikon, Stuttgart/ Weimar. Lamari, A.A. (2017), Reperforming Greek Tragedy. Theater, Politics, and Cultural Mobility in the Fifth and Fourth Centuries BC, Berlin/Boston. Marrou, H.I. (1977), Geschichte der Erziehung im klassischen Altertum, München. Mauer, K. (2017), Leben und Werke des Interpolators. Eine Blindstelle der Klassischen Philologie?, Freiburg im Breisgau/Berlin/Wien. Most, G. (ed.) (1997), Collecting Fragments – Fragmente sammeln, Göttingen. Most, G. (2010), “Fragments”, in: A.T. Grafton/S. Settis (eds), The Classical Tradition, Cambridge, Mass., 371–377. Most, G. (2011), Sehnsucht nach dem Unversehrten. Überlegungen zu Fragmenten und deren Sammlern, in: P. Kelemen/E. Kulcsár Szabó/Á. Tamás (eds), Kulturtechnik - Zur Theorie des Umgangs mit Texten, Heidelberg, 27–43. Newiger, H.-J. (1996), Drama und Theater. Ausgewählte Schriften zum antiken Drama, Stuttgart. Orth, C. (2014), Antiphanes, in: B. Zimmermann/A. Rengakos (eds), Geschichte der griechischen Literatur der Antike, Vol. Two: Die Literatur der klassischen und hellenistischen Zeit, München, 1012–1022. PCG = Rudolf Kassel/Colin Austin (eds), Poeti Comici Graeci, 8 Volumes, Berlin/New York, 1983–2001. Page, D. (1934), Actors’ Interpolations in Greek Tragedy, Oxford. Reichel, M. (2011), “Epische Dichtung”, in: B. Zimmermann (ed.), Handbuch der griechischen Literatur der Antike, Vol. One: Die Literatur der archaischen und klassischen Zeit, München, 69–71. Schaefer, H. (1977), “Divinatio. Die antike Bedeutung des Begriffs und sein Gebrauch in der neuzeitlichen Philologie”, Archiv für Begriffsgeschichte 21, 188–225.

  Bernhard Zimmermann Schmitz, T. (1997), Bildung und Macht. Zur sozialen und politischen Funktion der Zweiten Sophistik in der griechischen Welt der Kaiserzeit, München. Sontag, S. (2013), Essays of the 1960s & 70s, ed. David Rieff, New York. Stanchi, N. (2007), La presenza assente. L’attesa del personaggio fuori scena nella tragedia greca, Milano. Stewart, E. (2017), Greek Tragedy on the Move. The Birth of a Panhellenic Art Form ca. 500–300 BC, Oxford. Taplin, O. (1974), The Stagecraft of Aeschylus. The Dramatic Use of Exits and Entrances in Greek Tragedy, Oxford. Tosi, R. (1988), Studi sulla tradizione indiretta dei classici greci, Bologna. Usener, K. (1995), “Palamedes. Bedeutung und Wandel eines Heldenbildes in der antiken Literatur”, Würzburger Jahrbücher für die Altertumswissenschaft. New Series 20, 49–78 Vöhler, M./B. Seidensticker (eds) (2005), Mythenkorrekturen. Zu einer paradoxalen Form der Mythenrezeption, Berlin/New York. Willi, A. (2003), The Languages of Aristophanes. Aspects of Linguistic Variation in Classical Attic Greek, Oxford. Zimmermann, B. (2000), Europa und die griechische Tragödie. Vom kultischen Spiel zum Theater der Gegenwart, Frankfurt am Main. Zimmermann, B. (2006a), Die griechische Komödie, Frankfurt am Main. Zimmermann, B. (2006b), Aischylos-Rezeption im 5. Jahrhundert v. Chr., in: Lexis 24, 53–62. Zimmermann, B. (2011a), “Über das Tragische bei den Griechen”, in: L. Hühn/P. Schwab (eds), Die Philosophie des Tragischen, Berlin/New York, 133–141. Zimmermann, B. (2011b), “Die attische Komödie,” in: B. Zimmermann (ed.), Handbuch der griechischen Literatur der Antike. Erster Band: Die Literatur der archaischen und klassischen Zeit, München, 718–730. Zimmermann, B. (2018), Die griechische Tragödie, Stuttgart. Zinn, E. (1994), Viva Vox. Römische Klassik und deutsche Dichtung, Frankfurt am Main u.a.

Jeffrey Henderson

Old Comic Citation of Tragedy As Such Fifth-century comedy borrowed from tragedy in three principal ways: by incidental quotation of tragic verses either unchanged or only slightly altered; by parody, that is, by distorting particular tragic verses or their scenic environments to make them seem ridiculous; and by paratragedy, that is, the incorporation or re-composition of tragic verses or scenes in order to enhance the comedy tonally, scenically, or thematically. In each case, there was a complete tragedy to which the comic borrowing originally belonged. But beyond this, much is still unclear. What form did these complete tragedies take when comic poets borrowed from them? Were they performances recalled, or texts read? Were most spectators expected to recall a whole tragedy, so that they could appreciate the original context of a borrowing? Or had there been intermediate excerption or dismemberment, so that comic borrowing and spectator recognition centered not on recollection of complete originals but rather on well-known excerpts: quotations, arias, speeches, or scenes? If so, who were the excerptors? Candidates would include the poets, the producers, or the performers themselves, and also members of the theatrical public such as scholars, teachers, public speakers, symposiasts, connoisseurs (including past or future performers), and fans. On what criteria would the excerpts have been chosen? Would these excerpts somehow have become popular, or would they become popular only after excerption? These questions center on a literary aspect of fifth-century comedy that bears on the broader transition from performance culture to the reading cultures that we find in place by the fourth century. What stages of this transition can we discern, and when did they happen? Looking back on the fifth century in light of later comic practice, do we see continuity or change? These are spacious questions to be sure, but something can be learned by focusing on those particular instances in which a comic speaker is in some way motivated to identify a tragic borrowing as such, whether the borrowing was paratragic, incidental parody, or a straight quotation. I will suggest that until very late in Aristophanes’ fifth-century career, most spectators still knew, and comic poets expected them to know tragedy only through performance, however familiar the spectators may have been with written texts of other kinds of poetry.

  Jeffrey Henderson Although Aristophanes was aware in the 420s that some tragic texts or excerpts were circulating, 1 he speaks of reading knowledge of tragedy not as characterizing his normal audience but as being limited to small groups of specialists, whom he associates with Euripides and the sophists and whom he decries. By the end of the century, however, and rather suddenly, reading knowledge of tragedy was apparently becoming general enough that in Frogs (Lenaea 405) Aristophanes no longer decries only these specialists for their book-reading but the entire audience along with them. In Frogs Aeschylus held on to his chair, but in the real world the winner was to be Euripides and his books, as amply shown by the literary culture of tragedy that continued to develop in the fourth century. 2 Incidental parody and straight quotation of tragedy are very frequent in comedies of Aristophanes’ era, 3 which has suggested to some that the poets must have counted on a significant number of spectators having the kind of literary knowledge that is attested for the fourth century. 4 But incidental parodies and straight quotations do not in fact presuppose spectator familiarity with their original contexts: each had been excerpted (sundered) from its original context and made part of the present comic performance, so spectators needed only to recognize it as tragic or tragic-sounding. More revealing, though less frequent, is paratragedy, which at least to some extent always does presuppose familiarity with its model, whether or not a comic character explicitly identifies the model. By contrast with incidental parody and straight quotation, paratragedy always assumed spectator recollection not only of the original but also, as the Aristophanic examples show, of the original as performed in a theater: unlike parodies and straight quotations, paratragedy always contains scenic elements of the original that could not be captured in texts. Labeling of paratragedy occurs in our earliest extant comedy, Aristophanes’ Acharnians (Lenaea 425), when Dicaeopolis borrows from Euripides elements of his play Telephus (438) so that, like Telephus, he could make a convincing speech and thus save his life and recover his honor. Dicaeopolis seeks not words from a script, however, but specifically a scenic identity, namely Telephus’ original costume and props. These inspire clever speech on their own: as he suits up, Dicaeopolis exclaims (line 447), “Bravo! I’m filling up with pithy sayings (ῥηματίων)

 1 Already in Clouds (D 423) speeches (rheseis) by Euripides are said to be learned at least in the “Phrontisterion”, the sophistic school in which Strepsiades had enrolled his son (lines 1353– 1390), but there is no evidence that whole plays were circulating at that time. 2 Recent studies are Hanink 2014, Wright 2013, and Zanetto 2014. 3 But much less frequent earlier; for possibilities see Bakola 2010. 4 As recently e.g. Wright 2012 and Farmer 2017.

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already!” This scenic emphasis establishes the pattern for paratragedy in subsequent comedies as well: in Peace, for example, Trygaeus’ announces his impersonation of Bellerophon as re-enacting a famous scene on the mechane, with a dung-beetle standing in for Pegasus: “My little Pegasus, my thoroughbred wings, you must pick me up and fly me straight to Zeus!” (lines 76–77). In Birds Sophocles’ Tereus (line 100) and in Thesmophoriazusae (lines 1059–1063) Euripides’ Echo (from Andromeda) are transported to the comic stage in their original costumes in order to take on new comic roles. In Thesmophoriazusae the women complain that Euripides slanders them not in texts but from the stage: “Where, on any occasion where there are spectators, tragic actors, and choruses, has he spared us his disparagement…” (lines 390–391), and the play’s extensive paratragedy of Telephus no longer needs labelling: an indication of that tragedy’s now-classic status. Inlaw’s escapes from the women do not merely quote the originals but re-enact them as what Euripides himself had called them: “contrivances of escape” (line 765 μηχανὴ σωτηρίας ~ Eur. Hel. 1034) using costumes and props, so that for example in re-enacting the recognition scene from Helen, Helen again recognizes Menelaus not merely by his words but, more crucially, by his original costume (lines 906–912). What seems clear is that when Aristophanes labels paratragedy, he expects the spectators to recall what they had seen in the theater. 5 The words, which could be captured in texts, were less essential to paratragedy than the music, dance, costumes, props, and staging, which could not. 6 Presumably most spectators acquired their knowledge of the originals not from texts but from theatrical performances: of new plays at the major festivals, of re-stagings of older plays at rural Dionysia. 7 Nor, apparently, did their knowledge or theater-going experience need to be extensive or récherché: parodies that assume familiarity with the original were drawn from relatively few plays: recent sensations like the escape-plays that Euripides produced after the failure of his Trojan trilogy in 415, or evident classics like Telephus (first produced in 438). Thus Inlaw’s tirade “à la Aeschylus’ Lycourgeia” when mocking Agathon (Th. 134–145 κατ᾿ Αἰσχύλον ἐκ τῆς Λυκουργείας) must recall a revival, since the paratragedy is re-enacted, both visually and verbally. 8 Many of the spectators will also have been theatrical performers themselves, like the old juror Philocleon in Wasps, who boasts that he can still dance

 5 This is the also the conclusion reached in the very detailed study by Mastromarco 2006. 6 On the visual and musical aspects see now Sills 2018, esp. pp. 147–179. 7 See Vahtikari 2014, Lamari 2017, and Stewart 2017. 8 For posthumous revivals of Aeschylus’ plays during Aristophanes’ career see Biles 2006– 2007.

  Jeffrey Henderson “those old dances with which Thespis used to compete” and challenges “today’s dancers” to match him (lines 1476 ff.). 9 Philocleon also lists among the privileges of being a juror that he can make the tragic actor Oeagrus “select the best rhesis from Niobe and recite it” (line 580): he has no thought of a text. Recollection solely of performance without the aid of texts may explain cases of originals inaccurately cited in comedy, unless the texts that have been transmitted to us derive from a different performance than the one cited. For example, the chorus leader of Clouds 534–536 recalls Electra in Aeschylus’ Libation Bearers as hoping to find the lock of Orestes’ hair instead of being surprised when she finds it, as in our text. In Frogs 1029 Dionysus cites the chorus in Aeschylus’ Persians as reacting loudly to the apparition of Darius, which does not occur in our text. Clouds 1371–1372 illustrates another kind of citation, one that recalls an excerpt rather than a complete performance: Strepsiades reports having heard his son recite a rhesis from Euripides’ Aeolus about Macareus and Canace, which he has recently learned in Socrates’ school, and understands it to refer to incest rather than rape. Evidently the old-fashioned Strepsiades had not seen this play, so his understanding may be a legitimate inference from a speech excerpted without context; spectators who had seen the play would recognize his mistake. These testable cases of inaccurate citation should make us wary of trusting citations that are untestable by reference to a lost original, for example Ar. fr. 696 (from an unidentified play), where the speaker imitates one of the dances from Aeschylus’ Phrygians (“they did lots of this and they did lots of that while they danced”), which he recalls watching (θεωρῶν) at the point in the play “when they came to help Priam ransom his dead son”. When spectators recalled performances, they will have recalled complete plays, whether new plays or revivals: as Nervegna 2007 has demonstrated, in every era of Greek theater “excerpting has a place among teachers, pupils and musicians perhaps, but does not belong to the world of actors performing in a public theatre before a popular audience” (41). This does not mean that no complete texts of tragedy were available, only that Aristophanic parody calling for recognition of the original context did not rely on them. 10 When Aristophanes began his career in 427, the circulation, redaction, and study of complete texts in such venerable traditions as epic, choral, personal, sympotic, occasional, and

 9 Plutarch notes that Phrynichus, Philoclean’s favorite tragic composer (line 220), was famed for his choreography (Mor. 732f). 10 We might compare the role of screenplays today: they are available but of interest primarily to critics and scholars. The general audience is expected to watch the whole film or TV show on screen, so that cinematic allusion and parody do not presuppose textual familiarity.

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oracular poetry was well established, 11 but there is no evidence of widespread circulation of complete texts of tragedy before 405, when Dionysus mentions “reading [Euripides’] Andromeda to myself (ἀναγιγνώσκοντί μοι)” in Aristophanes’ Frogs 52–53. This is unsurprising for a relatively new genre: except for Aeschylus, who enjoyed the unique right of posthumous production, 12 we have practically no textual attestation of tragedy (or of comedy) before the late 440s. In addition, tragedy was not an elite but a popular, even democratic, genre that through most of the fifth century was performed by amateurs. Nor do we find evidence even of a concept of whole tragedies apart from their performance contexts that would have motivated a desire for complete texts in addition to copies of select speeches or songs that had become popular apart from performance. The earliest articulation of such a critical concept is in Plato’s Protagoras 264c, applied to speeches: “every logos must be organized like a living being (ὥσπερ ζῶιον συνεστάναι) … so as to be neither headless nor footless but to have a middle, and members written in fitting relation to one another and to the whole (πρέποντ᾿ ἀλλήλοις καὶ τῶι ὅλωι γεγραμμένα)”. The critical concept of unified whole works was thereafter enshrined by Aristotle in the Peripatetic tradition, but as readers of dramatic scholia or the testimonia of fragments know, ancient scholars (Aristarchus is the exception) show little awareness of it, or indeed much interest in the original context of any comic borrowing. There was nevertheless some circulation of tragic texts and Aristophanes does acknowledge it, but when he mentions the existence of tragic texts in biblia he associates them not with the average spectator but with subgroups of whom the average spectator should be very suspicious: technicians and charlatans, immoral sophists, and deceptive orators, all of them sources for Euripides and other trendy poets. 13 Aristophanes does not applaud but rather decries the cultural pivot then taking shape in Athens from song- and performance-culture to literary culture. They are succinctly contrasted by Trygaeus, the hero of Peace: the goddess enjoys inter alia “pipes, performers of tragedy, songs by Sophocles” but not “pithy sayings for the courtroom” by Euripides (lines 531–534), as perhaps also in fr. 506 (play unknown), where “either a book has been the ruin of this man, or else Prodicus, or one of those idle chatterers”: the speaker sounds much like Theseus in Euripides’ Hippolytus, who regards as elitist and sinister the devotion of the young and crowd-shunning Hippolytus to “the vaporousness of many texts”

 11 Cf. Ford 2002, 2003; West 2011; Maslov 2015. 12 See Biles 2006–2007. 13 See the survey of Aristophanic references to books in Anderson and Dix 2014.

  Jeffrey Henderson (πολλῶν γραμμάτων καπνούς, lines 953–954). Strepsiades’ celebratory graduation party for his son in Clouds (lines 1353–1390) epitomizes Aristophanes’ attitude, contrasting songs by Aeschylus learned and performed to the lyre – a traditional educational and sympotic practice regarded by Pheidippides as “antiquated” (archaeon, lines 1357–1358) – with the recitation of a rhesis from Euripides that Phidippides has learned in Socrates’ school: clearly a novel and (to Strepsiades) a shocking development, though by Plato’s day this combination of songs with recitation would become standard in schools, and by extension at symposia. 14 In Frogs, meanwhile, it is Euripides, not Aeschylus, who relies on books for his compositions, as a source of “chatter-juice” (line 943). The poet who speaks in fr. 595 (from Gerytades?) is more eclectic, and careful not to include such chattiness: “taking [ ] of Sophocles, from Aeschylus [ ] as much as is [ ], Euripides entire, and on top of these toss in some wit (ἅλας), but make sure it’s witty not twitty (μὴ λάλας)”. In Frogs, what is different from earlier plays is that this sort of bookishness is no longer the exclusive province of the elite but has recently infected the spectators at large, as stated in the well-known statement by the Initiate chorus to the contestants, Aeschylus and Euripides, in lines 1111–1114: “if you’re afraid of any ignorance among the spectators, that they will not appreciate the subtleties (τὰ λεπτά) of what you two are saying, have no terror: that’s no longer the case, for they are veterans (ἐστρατευμένοι, i.e. of theater-going), and since each one has a book, he knows the fine points (τὰ δεξιά)”. That every spectator now has a book is no doubt an exaggeration, but it is clear that the general audience for tragedy can now be called literate. The play accordingly calls for a restoration not only of an old-school poet but also of the old-school audience: the current spectators represent the majority who favor Euripides, as opposed to the better element (τὸ λῶιστον) who favor Aeschylus. Earlier in the play, current spectators are characterized as muggers, purse-snatchers, father-beaters, burglars, and “rascals” (πανοῦργοι), who love Euripides’ “disputations and twists and dodges”, and among the criminals in the Underworld’s “ever-flowing shit” is “anyone who had a speech by Morsimus copied out” play (lines 151–153). 15 Sure enough, the evaluation of tragedy in Frogs includes the kind of close reading and practical criticism

 14 cf. Prt. 326a–b (stichic passages for reading-class, songs for lyre-school) and Leg. 810e–811a (teachers compile highlights [κεφάλαια] from the poets and combine them with entire dramatic rheseis). 15 One wonders where such a person would have gone to copy it: to Morsimus himself, à la Dicaeopolis to Euripides in Acharnians? Or to someone else who had a copy of the complete work? Or to a collection of excerpts, and if so, who would have created the anthology?

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that reflects sophistic practice and looks forward to (indeed informs) the literary criticism proper that would be further developed in the fourth century. The poetic contest that occupies the second half of Frogs may be a clue to how this kind of literary sophistication developed among spectators of tragedy. The poetic-contest format that operated with quotations from the recitative or stichic poetic genres seems to have predated the contest we see in Frogs, which focused on tragedy, and Aristophanes may well have innovated by making tragedy the main event of such a contest. 16 Parody with tragedy as its main target seems to develop only in the 420s. Earlier parody, like the earlier poetic contests, drew from the epic, hymnic, iambic, didactic, paraenetic (e.g. the Theognidea), and oracular poetry that was already circulating in both complete and anthologized texts well before Aristophanes’ career, and that informed festive contexts like the Panathenaea as well as private contexts like schools and symposia. These texts were thus well enough known to the audience to be subject to the kind of literary critique plus moral evaluation that was evidently possible for tragedy only later, toward the end of the century. In Frogs Aeschylus states that tragedy should be judged on the same criteria on which such recitative poets had traditionally been judged, and cites as his examples the same poets – Orpheus, Musaeus, Hesiod, and Homer – in the same order as they appeared in the contemporary anthology by Hippias the sophist. 17 This contest pattern is visible in comedies as early as the 430s, e.g. Cratinus’ Archilochus & Company (iambic poetry) and Telecleides’ Hesiod & Co. (didactic or theogonic). Most of them are very fragmentary, but the pattern is clear enough in our extant Aristophanes, for example the contest in Banqueters (427) between the old education based on Homeric values vs. the new education based on lawbooks; the oracle-contest in Knights (424), whose combatants boast of having whole buildings full of oracle-books; 18 and the contest of preludes in Peace (421), which tracks the Contest of Homer and Hesiod and quotes two of its verses (lines 1265–1304). As in Frogs, these contests both employed literary criticism based on representative quotations and used the quotations to create a representative persona for the poet and his adherents: Homer for the martial arts and the battlefield,

 16 Fragmentary plays include Aristophanes’ Gerytades (ca. 408); Phrynichus’ Muses (405, competing against Frogs) and Tragoidoi (?400); and ?Pherecrates’ Krapataloi (date uncertain). 17 Lines 1030–1036, cf. Hippias D–K 86 B6, describing his anthology as containing “sayings by Orpheus, Musaeus, Hesiod, Homer, and by many other poets, and by prose writers, some Greek and some foreign”. 18 For oracular contests see Yu 2017.

  Jeffrey Henderson Hesiod for peace and the countryside, Archilochus for criticism and abuse, and so on. 19 The close connection between poetic sentiment and moral value that we observe in the contests we can also see in the incidental parody and straight quotation of tragedy by comic characters. It matters who is quoting and whom (s)he quotes, so that quotation is an element of characterization. Characters who seek to appear clever and urbane, who seek to deceive, who are less manly, who are effeminate or misogynistic, tend to quote Euripides; more traditional, often older characters tend to quote Aeschylus or (like Philocleon in Wasps) even earlier tragedians. We also observe the importance of the tragedian’s stature both personal and poetic: and so Euripides’ mother, his wife, his associates, and his civic allegiance were relevant triggers for parody and quotation, as were Aeschylus’ martial valor, Sophocles’ geniality and avarice, and so forth. Conversely, while many other fifth-century tragedians are derogated, they are hardly ever parodied or quoted; the main sources of quotes and parodies were our triad of Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides, plus Euripides’ protégé Agathon in the years following his apparently memorable debut in 416, but not thereafter. 20 The situation is quite different in the fourth century. Tragedy is no longer a performance genre irreducibly separate from comedy and distinctly more elevated; it is now an increasingly textual, classical, and canonical repertory, library, and syllabus available to comedy as part of the spectators’ lives and is thus absorbed into the natural fabric of comedy itself, especially the more naturalistic Euripides. 21 Freely available for study, emulation, and enjoyment were both complete texts and collections of excerpts. 22 Thus fourth-century comedy begins to generate gnomic quotations of its own, quite unlike fifth-century comedy, which relied almost exclusively on the higher poetic genres for gnomai and could quote good ones as well as bad ones, like the notorious tongue that swears but not the mind (Eur. Hipp. 612). 23 Tragedy’s authority and prestige are unquestioned, its literary value, moral utility, and cultural quality unproblematically accepted. 24 The  19 See Henderson 2018, 303–307. 20 Cf. Kaimio and Nykopp 1997. 21 On the role of comedy in classicizing tragedy see Rosen 2006; for Menander’s use of tragedy as a common textual repertory Zanetto 2014. 22 Cf. Konstan 2011. 23 Cf. Gutzwiller 2000. Lysistrata’s citation of a gnome by the comic poet Pherecrates (line 158) is a rarity, but without such labeling the unelevated language of comedy no doubt obscures other instances that would have been obvious to the spectators. 24 As Ford 2003, 36 observes of song-texts, “texts helped Greeks shift their criticism from evaluating songs in moral and social terms to focusing on their intrinsic formal properties.”

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personal lives and relevant standing of tragic poets are no longer relevant, so that Euripides is just as authoritative as Aeschylus, and certainly more often quoted; a little exchange from Antiphanes captures the attitude: “(A) Hand me around the limb-pleaser, as Euripides said. (B) Euripides said that? (A) Who else? (B) Surely Philoxenus. (A) It doesn’t matter, my good man; you’re splitting hairs with me” (Antiphanes fr. 205.6–10, from Traumatias). Parody and paratragedy, which, like contests by citation, question and challenge the cultural status of the targeted play and use it to characterize or construct the comic situation, gradually disappear. Quotation becomes mainly a natural and normal way to display one’s knowledge and mastery of important literature, and it invariably elevates the tone of the conversation. 25 It was not even necessary to go to the theater to enjoy a play or to quote from it.

Bibliography Anderson, C.A./Dix, K.T. (2014), “Λάβε τὸ βυβλίον: Orality and Literacy in Aristophanes”, in: R. Scodel (ed.), Between Orality and Literacy: Communication and Adaptation in Antiquity, Leiden, 77–86. Bakola, E. (2010), Cratinus and the Art of Comedy, Oxford. Biles, Z. (2006–7), “Aeschylus’ Afterlife: Reperformance by Decree in 5th C. Athens?”, ICS 31– 32, 206–242. Farmer, M. (2017), Tragedy on the Comic Stage, Oxford. Ford, A. (2002), The Origins of Criticism: Literary Culture and Poetic Theory in Classical Greece, Princeton. Ford, A. (2003), “From Letters to Literature: Reading the ‘Song Culture’ of Classical Greece”, in: H. Yunis (ed.), Written Texts and the Rise of Literate Culture in Ancient Greece, Cambridge, 15–37. Gutzwiller, K. (2000), “The Tragic Mask of Comedy: Metatheatricality in Menander”, CA 19, 93– 122. Henderson, J. (2018), “Hesiod and Comedy”, in: S. Scully/A.C. Loney (eds), The Oxford Handbook of Hesiod, Oxford, 295–309. Hanink, J. (2014), Lycurgan Athens and the Making of Classical Tragedy, Cambridge. Kaimio, M./Nykopp, N. (1997), “Bad Poets Society: Censure of the Style of Minor Tragedians in Old Comedy”, in: J. Vaahtera/R. Vainio (eds), Utriusque linguae peritus: studia in honorem Toivio Viljamaa, Turku, 23–37. Konstan, D. (2011), “Excerpting as a reading practice”, in: G. Reydams-Schils (ed.), Thinking Through Excerpts: Studies in Stobaeus, Turnhout, 9–22. Lamari, A.A. (2017), Reperforming Greek Tragedy: Theater, Politics, and Cultural Mobility in the Fifth and Fourth Centuries BC, Berlin/Boston.

 25 Cf. Webster 1960, 155–162, Farmer 2017, 59–63.

  Jeffrey Henderson Maslov, B. (2015), Pindar and the Emergence of Literature, Cambridge. Mastromarco, G. (2006), “La paratragodia, il libro, la memoria”, in: E. Medda/M. Mirto/ M. Patoni (eds), Kōmōidotragōidia: intersezioni del tragico e del comico nel teatro del V secolo a.C., Pisa, 137–191. Nervegna, S. (2007), “Staging Scenes or Plays? Theatrical Revivals of ‘Old’ Greek Drama in Antiquity”, ZPE 162, 14–42. Rosen, R.M. (2006), “Aristophanes, fandom, and the classicizing of Greek tragedy”, in: L. Kosak/J. Rich (eds), Playing Around Aristophanes, Oxford, 27–47. Sells, D. (2018), Parody, Politics and the Populace in Greek Old Comedy, New York. Stewart, E. (2017), Greek Tragedy on the Move: The Birth of a Panhellenic Art Form c. 500–300 BC, Oxford/New York. Vahtikari, V. (2014), Tragedy Performances outside Athens in the Late Fifth and the Fourth Centuries BC, Helsinki. Webster, T.B.L. (19602), Studies in Menander, London. Wright, M. (2012), The Comedian as Critic: Greek Old Comedy and Poetics, Bristol. Wright, M. (2013), “Poets and Poetry in Later Greek Comedy”, CQ 63.2, 603–622. Yu, K.W. (2017), “The Divination Contest of Calchas and Mopsus and Aristophanes’ Knights”, GRBS 57, 910–934. West, M.L. (2011), “Pindar as a Man of Letters”, in: D. Obbink/R.B. Rutherford (eds), Culture in Pieces. Essays on Ancient Texts in Honour of Peter Parsons, Oxford, 50–68. Zanetto, G. (2014), “La tragedia in Menandro: dalla paratragedia alla citazione”, in: A. Casenova (ed.), Menandro e l’evoluzione della commedia greca, Florence, 83–104.

Ralph M. Rosen

On Literary Fragmentation and Quotation in Aristophanes: Some Theoretical Considerations What even is a literary fragment? The answer may well at first seem obvious and not even especially interesting. As classicists, we routinely use the term for something that does not seem, at any rate, very complicated. In our efforts to reconstruct the texts or artefacts from the historical periods that interest us, we often find ourselves dealing with evidence that has through time become detached from an original whole — no remaining record of a given Athenian tragedy or comedy, for example, but plenty of words, lines, even passages, preserved for serendipitous reasons, purporting to come from such a work. Further thought, however, shows the question to be far from straightforward, and in fact laden with philosophical import, both ontological and ethical. Answering the question ‘what is a fragment’ (an ontological question) becomes particularly fraught when juxtaposed with related questions, such as how it differs from a ‘quotation’ when embedded within another literary text, or, as recent discussion has queried, whether it is even legitimate to speak of a fragment in an ancient context, when the term itself seems to be relatively modern and lacking a good ancient lexicography of its own. 1 And then there are questions of what we do with fragments (the ethical question) — how do we use them in our project of textual reconstruction or reimagination, and what exactly do we suppose we are trying to accomplish? The specific problems that interest me here concern the question itself of literary fragmentation in Classical Greek culture — not practical or philological questions of textual reconstitution, but a more fundamental question of how (or whether) Athenian authors and audiences understood the very concept of a fragment in a literary culture that could look quite different from the one that produced our own concept of the fragment. I will focus on quotations from other authors embedded in Aristophanic comedies, and consider occasions when quotation seems to become — conceptually for Aristophanes and his audience — a “fragment”. Greek comedy is a particularly fruitful genre for considering this question, because its authors quote other literary texts so self-consciously, aware that they are highly marked as literary excerpts and usually come from non-comic

 1 See Most 2009, 9–14.

  Ralph M. Rosen authors. In other words, the clash of genre or tone so common in comic quotation — often through its parodic effect — readily highlights the very “excerptedness” of its quotation and directs spectators to ponder, even if only glancingly, the “whole” work from which an excerpt is taken. I begin by asking a few questions about what an Aristophanic literary quotation (I will not yet call it a fragment) might have conjured in the minds of its audience, when notions of textuality were different from our own, and when so many of these quotations came from works that were primarily consumed as performances rather than material texts. I will then turn to Aristophanes’ practice of literary quotation in Frogs, to show how a very specific notion of “fragmentation” as an actual mechanism for literary criticism and evaluation is implicit in this play. As I will argue, Frogs suggests that for Aristophanes a quotation can be conceptualized as (what we could call) a fragment in contexts where it self-consciously calls attention to itself explicitly as a part of a discrete and unified whole. In our own era, and especially within classical studies, a fragment always implies loss. Once upon a time, one supposes, there was a complete text or artefact — now all we have is this piece or pieces of it — a few lines, a word, a hand from a statue, a shard of a pot. As Most (2009, 11) has pointed out in his conceptual discussion of the fragment, in antiquity the “fragment” refers only to “physical objects never to portions of discourse”, and the vocabulary is always violent — Lat. “fragmentum” from “frango”, break, and similarly valenced Greek terms, such as apospasmata or klasmata. But, as Most also notes, the image of broken pieces from whole works was available metaphorically for texts in antiquity too, as we see in Horace’s phrase at Sat. 1.4.62 “disiecti membra poetae”, referring to verses of Ennius, whose poetry, Horace says, is strong enough to endure a hypothetical reordering of his individual words, his “membra”. A fragment, however, implies a more dire fate: it has not just been separated from another part of its whole, but it cannot be reunited with its whole, simply because the rest no longer exists. As long as the whole exists somewhere, a citation can be considered a “quotation” — reunitable, in theory, with its whole. If we are interested in how literary “fragmentedness” may have been understood by a Greek audience when an actual discourse of “the fragment” only came later, we would do well, I think, to consider as well an ancient concept of literary “wholeness” in an era when “texts” themselves were less accessible and stable artifacts than they have since become. By way of example, let us consider a case of literary quotation in Aristophanes which presents a complicated set of problems, both of attribution and kind. At Frogs 659–662, in the scene where Aeacus is flogging Xanthias and Dionysus to determine which is a god and which a slave, Dionysus at one point tries to

On Literary Fragmentation and Quotation in Aristophanes  

mask his pain by claiming he is quoting from two poets, first from Hipponax (who is named), then from Sophocles’ Laocoon (fr. 371 Radt; though no attribution is made in the text). ΔΙ. Ἄπολλον,—ὅς που Δῆλον ἢ Πυθῶν᾿ ἔχεις. ΞΑ. ἤλγησεν· οὐκ ἤκουσας; ΔΙ. οὐκ ἔγωγ᾿, ἐπεὶ ἴαμβον Ἱππώνακτος ἀνεμιμνῃσκόμην. ΞΑ. οὐδὲν ποιεῖς γάρ· ἀλλὰ τὰς λαγόνας σπόδει. ΑΙΑ. μὰ τὸν Δί᾿, ἀλλ᾿ ἤδη πάρεχε τὴν γαστέρα. ΔΙ. Πόσειδον— ΞΑ. ἤλγησέν τις. ΔΙ. ὃς Αἰγαίου πρωνὸς ἢ γλαυκᾶς μέδεις ἁλὸς ἐν βένθεσιν.



(Ar. Ran. 659–667) AEAC. What’s going on here? Got to go back over here. (strikes Dionysus) DION. Apollo!—who abides perchance on Delos or in Pytho. XAN. That hurt him, didn’t you hear? DION. No it didn’t! I was just recollecting a line of Hipponax. XAN. (to Aeacus) Look, you’re getting nowhere: go ahead and bash him in the ribs. AEAC. God no; (to Dionysus) stick out your belly now. (strikes Dionysus) DION. Poseidon! XAN. Somebody felt that! DION. —who hold sway on the cape of Aegae or in the depths of the deep blue sea. (Translation by J. Henderson)

  Ralph M. Rosen Although, for us, both of the quotations embedded in Aristophanes’ text are considered “fragments”, since the complete works from which either is taken have been lost to us, how were they perceived and conceptualized by Aristophanes and his audience? The two authors cited are different in genre, chronology and manner of aesthetic consumption by the audience: Hipponax composed short iambic poems which were probably popular at symposia, both in the 6th century when they were composed, and a century later in Athenian literary culture; 2 Sophocles, of course, was Aristophanes’ older contemporary, and produced tragedies at the dramatic festivals for Dionysus. We can say almost nothing about a contemporary fifth-century textual tradition of either poet, so it is not even clear what Aristophanes would have thought his quotations were quotations “of”. 3 Put another way, if these quotations were supposed to call to his audience’s minds a complete work — Sophocles’ Laocoon or a complete poem of Hipponax — was it even a material text that they would have thought of, as we might visualize a quotation wrested from lines on a written or printed page? If most people would not have had access to full texts, 4 how “whole” were these texts felt to be from which quotations were extracted? And if, for the majority of people, there was generally little hope of consulting (or remembering) a “whole” text, were Athenian audiences thinking of such Aristophanic quotations more as fragments (in our sense of quotations that can never be reunited with an original whole) than quoted excerpts?

 2 See Bartol 1992 and Bowie 2001, 2002, 39–40, and Rotstein 2010, 253–278, on ancient performance venues of iambic poetry. 3 On written texts and “books” in the fifth-century BC, Turner 1952; Pfeiffer 1968, 26–32; Pickard-Cambridge 1953 [1968] 68–74 (on dramatic texts); Thomas 1989, 35–48; Harris 1989, 65–115; Morgan 1998, 9–20. On the earliest stages of a Sophoclean text, see Avezzù 2012, 40–41. We know even less about the textual forms of Hipponax’ poetry in the 5th c. Masson 1962, 33 sums up succinctly: “On ne peut savoir non plus si l’auteur, après avoir fait mettre par écrit chaque poème, s’occupa lui-même d’établir une édition, ou si le premier recueil d’ensemble fut constitué après la mort du poète. Cependant, une copie en plusieurs exemplaires sur des feuilles de papyrus doit être postulée”. See also Degani 1984, 30–34; Rotstein 2010, 27–34. 4 Scholars have long debated the meaning of Aristophanes Frogs 1114, which suggests at first glance that Athenian audience members could, and did, refer to texts of the plays they were watching: ἐστρατευμένοι γάρ εἰσι, | βιβλίον τ᾿ ἔχων ἕκαστος | μανθάνει τὰ δεξιά· (“[don’t worry about the audience might not understand the subtleties of the play] for they’re disciplined, and each one has a book and understands the clever parts”. But by now there is near consensus that it is far from clear what reality lies behind these ambiguous lines. See, e.g., Harvey 1966, 602– 603; Woodbury 1976; Harris 1989, 87; Thomas 1989, 20–21 (“This image of the literate and bookish Athenians in its exaggerated form grossly underestimates the extent to which Athenian life was conducted orally”); Dover 1993, 35; Sommerstein 1996, ad loc. 256.

On Literary Fragmentation and Quotation in Aristophanes  

Specifically in this passage from Frogs, when Dionysus says, “No it didn’t [hurt me]! I was just recollecting a line [lit. ‘an iambus’] of Hipponax!” (οὐκ ἔγωγ᾿, ἐπεὶ | ἴαμβον Ἱππώνακτος ἀνεμιμνῃσκόμην, 660), what we really want to know is whether by “iambus” he means a specific poem of Hipponax, or just “some poem”. In this context, in any case, Dionysus seems to invoke Hipponax — the iambic poet famous for causing pain to others through his invective — to explain why he was himself crying out in pain. But it is unclear whether (or how) the “whole” of the Hipponactean work from which Dionysus quotes this line was accessible to the audience of the play — either memorized in advance as a complete work, or readily available as a textual artifact which could be consulted afterward by anyone who wanted to “track down” the quotation. The matter is further complicated by the question of attribution: a scholiast claims the line ascribed to Hipponax by Dionysus was in fact composed by the iambographer Ananius. 5 If this is true (as most editors believe it to be), 6 and if Aristophanes was intending a joke by having Dionysus misattribute the quotation to Hipponax instead, the excerpt would seem intended to float even more freely in the audience’s minds as a disembodied fragment with only tenuous moorings to an actual text. The quotation from Sophocles’ Laocoon presents a set of conceptual problems that arise from the ontology itself of works composed primarily for performance. What is Dionysus supposed to be remembering when he quotes from the Sophoclean play? As the god of theater, we could imagine that he would remember every line ever composed in his honor at an Athenian dramatic festival. But the textuality of a tragic performance would have been far more ambiguous and unstable to an Athenian audience than it is to us today. 7 Dionysus is made to quote lines from an event in the past (and here, too, if we can trust the scholia, he does not quote accurately or fully), 8 which, in order to be fully realized required all the accoutrements of a performance: actors, costumes, props, etc. Once again,

 5 See Rotstein 2010, 202–203: “Since the scholiast says that it is the character and not Aristophanes who does not know what he is saying, he or his source probably believed that the confusion was intentional”. 6 See Rotstein 202, n. 82, and 203. I have also discussed this passage in a different context at Rosen 1988, 15–16. 7 For reasons noted above in nn. 3 and 4. We cannot gauge with any confidence the extent of a literate (= “reading”) public in Classical Athens, nor do we know what exact form a text of Sophocles’ play would have taken in this period, even though we have to assume that something resembling an official written text did exist. 8 Dover 1993, ad loc., p. 274: “What [Dionysus] sings is a passage from Sophocles’ Laokoon (fr. 371), given by ΣVE in a version which is both divergent and more extensive”. See ad Soph. fr. 371 Radt, p. 331 for textual details.

  Ralph M. Rosen in other words, it is not at all clear if the quotation was actually meant to conjure up an actual text. As such, a quotation of this sort really maps more as a fragment of an experience on to a “whole” which — for the audience at any rate — is never really capable of being fully reconstituted. Someone in fifth-century Athens may well have been able to find whole texts that represented the occasions ex post facto from which Aristophanic quotations were drawn 9 — scholars or other intellectuals with access to archives or libraries — but it seems likely that the great majority of Aristophanes’ audience would have heard these quotations, ontologically speaking at least, as “fragments”. The celebrated poetic agon between Aeschylus and Euripides in Aristophanes’ Frogs even seems to suggest that the only way to talk about poetry in this period was to conceptualize it as a collection of fragmentary parts, where this very fragmentation is privileged over literary “wholeness”, at least when it comes to aesthetic analysis and assessment. Plato later analogized the idea of a whole “logos” to a living body with its parts “composed in fitting relation to each other and the whole” (πρέποντ᾿ ἀλλήλοις καὶ τῷ ὅλῳ γεγραμμένα) at Phaedrus 264 b– c, and this “biological cast”, as Ford puts it (2002, 265), clearly influenced Aristotle’s discussion of tragedy in the Poetics. 10 But Aristophanes’ poetic contest in Frogs strongly suggests that poetry had already been anatomized into constituent bits suitable for “fragmentation” insofar as they could be treated as autonomous poetic sherds with intrinsic value, good or bad. Porter (2010, 265) has discussed what he calls this “componential method” of literary analysis as inchoate in the agon of Frogs, and aligns it as well with Polyclitus’ contemporary theory of proportion (symmetria) in his Canon concerning the parts of a work of art. Indeed, the contest in Frogs is famously announced by a slave character at 798ff., with the promise of “bringing out rulers, and measuring tapes for words, and folding frames…and set squares and wedges; because Euripides says he’s going to examine the tragedies word for word.” From this perspective, the only way to conceptualize a whole is by assessing and measuring its parts.

 9 See Rosen 2006, 29–31 on the problem of ascertaining the prevalence of textual versions of dramatic works in Classical Athens, which I referred there as the “artifactualizing of an ephemeral performance” (29). 10 Ford 202, 265: “There is, then, a strong biological cast to Aristotle’s exposition of the ‘parts’ of plays and how they work together…Aristotle’s conception of organic composition had a payoff for critical practice as well: if we place the arts within a teleological nature that ‘does nothing in vain’…critics are then justified in examining each perceived detail of a literary text and asking what role it plays in the overall design”.

On Literary Fragmentation and Quotation in Aristophanes  

This notion is affirmed later in this scene at Frogs 1296–1305, where Aeschylus responds to Euripides’ critique of his lyrics. Here Dionysus asks Aeschylus where he collected (πόθεν συνέλεξας…) the components that went into his songs: ΔΙOΝ. τί τὸ φλαττοθρατ τοῦτ᾿ ἐστίν; ἐκ Μαραθῶνος ἢ πόθεν συνέλεξας ἱμονιοστρόφου μέλη; ΑΙΣΧ. ἀλλ᾿ οὖν ἐγὼ μὲν εἰς τὸ καλὸν ἐκ τοῦ καλοῦ ἤνεγκον αὔθ᾿, ἵνα μὴ τὸν αὐτὸν Φρυνίχῳ λειμῶνα Μουσῶν ἱερὸν ὀφθείην δρέπων· οὗτος δ᾿ ἀπὸ πάντων μὲν φέρει, πορνῳδιῶν, σκολίων Μελήτου, Καρικῶν αὐλημάτων, θρήνων, χορειῶν. τάχα δὲ δηλωθήσεται. (Ar. Ran. 1298–1303) DION. What’s this brumda brumda brumda brum? Did you collect these rope-winders’ songs from Marathon or someplace? AESCH. Never mind that; I took them from a good source for a good purpose: so I wouldn’t be caught culling the same sacred meadow of the Muses as Phrynichus, whereas this one takes material from everywhere: whore songs, drinking songs by Meletus, Carian pipe tunes, dirges, and dances. (Translation by J. Henderson)

Aeschylus picks up the general notion of “collecting” and concretizes it with the metaphor of collecting flowers from the meadow of the Muses — a common metaphor among Greek lyric poets. 11 The operative image lies in the verb δρέπω, “pluck”: whereas Aeschylus “carries his material from a good place, and for a good purpose” (1298, ἀλλ᾿ οὖν ἐγὼ μὲν εἰς τὸ καλὸν ἐκ τοῦ καλοῦ | ἤνεγκον αὔθ᾿), and Euripides takes his material “from everything”: whore-songs, drinking songs of Meletus, Carian aulos-songs, dirges and dances (οὗτος δ᾿ ἀπὸ πάντων μὲν φέρει, 1301). The implication is, of course, that Euripides’ lyrics are bad because their components are bad, and the only way to really get to the bottom of their value is to assess the parts, lopped off, as it were, from a whole. Not only are quotations embedded within works conceptualized as fragmentary, as we discussed earlier, but now it seems that all components that make up a whole work can be

 11 See Taillardat 1965, 436–438 for examples from the Classical period of the metaphor of “le poète-jardinier”.

  Ralph M. Rosen traced to antecedent genres and their constituent parts — like flowers in the meadow of the Muses. Because the parts can be contemplated independently of any wholes (like individual flowers in a meadow), our own term “fragment” begins to seem appropriate to describe a particularly Athenian unit of literary analysis. Even earlier in this scene, when Euripides had been preparing the audience for his critique of Aeschylus’ lyrics, there appears to be some play on the etymology of the Greek word for “lyric”, μέλος, in its derivation from its other meaning “limb”: 12 ΕΥΡ. πάνυ γε μέλη θαυμαστά· δείξει δὴ τάχα· εἰς ἓν γὰρ αὐτοῦ πάντα τὰ μέλη ξυντεμῶ. (Ar. Ran. 1261–1262) EUR. A great many wonderful lyrics, eh? We’ll soon find out, because I’m going to trim all his lyrics to a single pattern. (Translation by J. Henderson)

The meaning of line 1262 is not entirely clear, but the idea of “cutting back” or “cutting short” (ξυντεμῶ) the lyrics (as if they are bodily limbs) suggests that Euripides is criticizing Aeschylus’ lyrics for its fragmentary feel, i.e., they are all disconnected but taken together add up to a similar, singular badness. 13 As Euripides had said at 1249–1250: “I’ve got what I need to show that he’s a bad lyric poet  12 Del Corno (1992, 232 ad loc.) “…la ripetizione enfatica di μέλος fa pensare pure che s’intenda giocare sul significato alternativo di ‘membra’: Euripide, facendo a pezzi i canti di Eschilo, annientera pure lui stesso”. 13 The imagery behind “trimming” (ξυντεμῶ) Aeschylus’ lyrics to some sort of singularity (εἰς ἕν) seems at first glance to imply simply that he will do to Aeschylus what Aeschylus had just done to him in “testing” Euripides’ prologues with the “lost his little oil bottle” routine (1205– 1248). Possibly, as well, Euripides’ ξυντεμῶ here implies that Aeschylus’ lyrics float around as disconnected fragments which might be quotable but are too disconnected from each other to form a single whole. Pruning them, in this case, would help unify the fragments as parts of a notional whole, even though, as we have seen in 1250, that wholeness will be “bad” because (Euripides alleges) they are repetitive. This seems to be Radermacher’s reading (1921, 315 ad loc.): “Das ξυντεμεῖν τὰ μέλη εἰς ἓν…kann doch nur ein Potpourri aus samtlichen Liedern zusammengestellt bezwecken, was wir auch ‘gedrangte ϋbersicht’ nennen”. See also Del Corno 1992, 232 ad loc., although his second alternative seems preferable to the first: “Il significato e che i versi di Eschilo sono tanto uniformi che, mettendo insieme tutti i loro pezzi, riesce comunque possible

On Literary Fragmentation and Quotation in Aristophanes  

and is always composing the same thing” (καὶ μὴν ἔχω γ᾿ οἷς αὐτὸν ἀποδείξω κακὸν | μελοποιὸν ὄντα καὶ ποιοῦντα ταὔτ᾿ ἀεί). The famous weighing scene that follows the contest of choral lyrics, though obviously designed for high comedy, is nevertheless premised on a conception of poetry as a collection of fragmentable pieces which can be subjected to independent evaluation: ΧΟΡΟΣ ἐπίπονοί γ᾿ οἱ δεξιοί· τόδε γὰρ ἕτερον αὖ τέρας. νεοχμόν, ἀτοπίας πλέων, ὃ τίς ἂν ἐπενόησεν ἄλλος; μὰ τόν, ἐγὼ μὲν οὐδ᾿ ἂν εἴ τις ἔλεγέ μοι τῶν ἐπιτυχόντων, ἐπιθόμην, ἀλλ᾿ ᾠόμην ἂν αὐτὸν αὐτὰ ληρεῖν. (Ar. Ran. 1370–1377) CHORUS Experts are indefatigable, for here is another marvel, startling and altogether eccentric; who else could have thought it up? Gee, even if some chance passerby had told me about this, I wouldn’t have believed him, I’d have thought he was drivelling. (Translation by J. Henderson)

The chorus find the entire conceit incredible, a novelty (νεοχμόν, ἀτοπίας πλέων, 1372), but even Aeschylus had said (1365) that it is the only way to test their poetry: 14  tirarne fuori un insieme apparentemente omogeneo; oppure che i suoi corali sono tanto sconnessi, che non si distinguono da uno messo insieme a caso”. 14 Contra Porter 2010, 266: “The idea of resorting to calipers, square rules, and other calibrated instruments in order to scrutinize the aesthetic particulars of the two tragedians’ verses strikes the old-fashioned Aeschylus as abhorrent”. I assume that Porter draws this conclusion from Frogs 798–804, a passage in which Xanthias and Pluto’s slave discuss the imminent weighing scene (“poetry will be weighed in a balance”, καὶ γὰρ ταλάντῳ μουσικὴ σταθμήσεται, 797). At 803, Xanthias assumes (ἦ που…) that Aeschylus would “take badly” (βαρέως…φέρειν) the whole idea of applying such measuring techniques to poetry. Pluto’s slave responds that he “bent his head

  Ralph M. Rosen AΙΣΧ.

κἄμοιγ᾿ ἅλις· ἐπὶ τὸν σταθμὸν γὰρ αὐτὸν ἀγαγεῖν βούλομαι, ὅπερ ἐξελέγξει τὴν ποίησιν νῷν μόνον· τὸ γὰρ βάρος νὼ βασανιεῖ τῶν ῥημάτων. (Ar. Ran. 1364–1367) AESCH. I’ve had enough too; what I’d like to do is take him to the scales. That’s the only real test of our poetry; the weight of our utterances will be the decisive proof. (Translation by J. Henderson)

Aeschylus eventually tires of the weighing game and calls an end to it at 1407, telling them to stop with the “line-by-line” examination, since no amount of Euripidean verses could ever outdo the (literal) gravitas of his own: ΑΙΣΧ. καὶ μηκέτ᾿ ἔμοιγε κατ᾿ ἔπος, ἀλλ᾿ εἰς τὸν σταθμὸν αὐτός, τὰ παιδί᾿, ἡ γυνή, Κηφισοφῶν, ἐμβὰς καθήσθω, ξυλλαβὼν τὰ βιβλία· ἐγὼ δὲ δύ᾿ ἔπη τῶν ἐμῶν ἐρῶ μόνον. (Ar. Ran. 1407–1410) AESCH. No more of this line-by-line for me; he could get in that pan himself, with his wife and kids and Cephisophon, and take his books along too, and I’d have only to recite two of my lines. (Translation by J. Henderson)

In the context of the play the fragmentary approach to evaluating poetry proves aporetic, mostly because conceptualizing a poetic work in material terms is so easily susceptible to absurd, comic literalizing. But for all the obvious comedy, the agon does suggest that the practical business of talking about poetry in any kind of detailed, systematic way was felt to be accomplished best by thinking of it as a collection of independent bits and gobbets — fragments — configured as

 down and had a bull-like look” (ἔβλεψε γοῦν ταυρηδὸν ἐγκύψας κάτω, 804). But, as Dover (1993, 291) and Sommerstein (1996, 226) point out, ταυρηδόν is not always hostile, so it may simply refer to a posture of resignation, not disapproval. Certainly 1365 implies an active embrace on Aeschylus’ part of measuring poetry by weight, not disdain: ἐπὶ τὸν σταθμὸν γὰρ αὐτὸν ἀγαγεῖν βούλομαι.

On Literary Fragmentation and Quotation in Aristophanes  

wholes by a poet, but then literally de-constructed for contemplation and assessment. In the absence of other evidence, it is hard to know how much this particular conception of poetry simply arose from the fun Aristophanes realized he could have by literalizing it, i.e., whether this is a specifically comic view of poetry. But this question can take us back to our earlier discussion of whether fifth-century Athenian audiences thought of poetic works as “whole texts” and quotations from them as “excerpts implying that whole”; or whether our lexicon of fragmentation offers a more accurate way of understanding the relationship between excerpt and original, at a time when poetic works were not necessarily, or routinely, consumed as material texts. As Most has noted, there is no real discourse of “lost literary texts” and “surviving fragments” in this period, 15 but our discussion of literary quotation in Aristophanes has suggested that the reason for this derives from a different sense of textual wholeness than we are used to. In an era when accessing a complete written text of a work was for most people not straightforward or consistent, all quotations seem to have been conceptualized as fragmentary — the wholes from which they came “existed” in some notional sense, but practically speaking, they could only be scrutinized and appreciated through the constituent parts of these wholes.

Bibliography Avezzù, G. (2012), “Text and Transmission”, in: A. Markantonatos (ed.), Brill’s Companion to Sophocles, Leiden, 39–57. Bartol, K. (1992), “Where was Iambic Poetry Performed? Some Evidence from the Fourth Century BC”, CQ 42.1, 65–71. Bowie, E.L. (2001), “Early Greek Iambic Poetry: The Importance of Narrative”, in: A. Cavarzere/ A. Barchiesi/A. Aloni (eds), Iambic Ideas: Essays on a Poetic Tradition from Archaic Greece to the Late Roman Empire, Lanham MD, 1–27. Bowie, E.L. (2002), “Ionian Iambos and Attic Komoidia: Father and Daughter, or Just Cousins?”, in: A. Willi (ed.), The Language of Greek Comedy, Oxford, 33–50. Degani, E. (1984), Studi su Ipponatte, Bari. Del Corno, D. (19922), Le Rane, Rome. Dover, K.J. (1993), Aristophanes: Frogs, Oxford.  15 Most 2002, 13: “… [I]f we understand by the study of textual fragments the systematic search through the works by those authors that survive in order to gather up as far as possible actual pieces from texts that have not survived and information about them and their authors…then it must be recognized that the traces of such a scholarly practice during antiquity are virtually nonexistent”.

  Ralph M. Rosen Ford, A. (2002), The Origins of Criticism: Literary Culture and Poetic Theory in Classical Greece, Princeton. Harris, W.V. (1989), Ancient Literacy, Cambridge MA. Harvey, F.D. (1966), “Literacy in the Athenian Democracy”, REG 79, 585–635. Masson, O. (1962), Les Fragments du poète Hipponax, Paris. Millis, B.W./Olson, S.D. (2012), Inscriptional Records for the Dramatic Festivals in Athens IG II2 2318–2325 and Related Texts, Leiden. Morgan, T. (1998), Literate Education in the Hellenistic and Roman Worlds, Cambridge. Most, G. (2009), “On Fragments”, in: W. Tronzo (ed.), The Fragment: An Incomplete History, Los Angeles, 9–20. Pfeiffer, R. (1968), History of Classical Scholarship: From the Beginnings to the End of the Hellenistic Age, Oxford. Pickard-Cambridge, A.W. (19682), The Dramatic Festivals of Athens, Oxford. Porter, J. (2010), The Origins of Aesthetic Thought in Ancient Greece: Matter, Sensation, and Experience, Cambridge. Radermacher, L. (1954), Aristophanes’ ‘Frösche’. Einleitung, Text und Kommentar, Wien. Radt, S. (ed.) (1977), Tragicorum Graecorum Fragmenta, vol. 4, Göttingen. Rosen, R.M. (1988), Old Comedy and the Iambographic Tradition, Atlanta. Rosen, R.M. (2006), “Aristophanes, Fandom and the Classicizing of Greek Tragedy”, in: L. Kozak/J. Rich (eds), Playing around Aristophanes, Liverpool. Rotstein, A. (2010), The Idea of Iambos, Oxford. Sommerstein, A. (ed.) (1996), The Comedies of Aristophanes, vol. 9 (Frogs), Warminster. Taillardat, J. (1965), Les images d’Aristophane, Paris. Thomas, R. (1989), Oral Tradition and Written Record in Classical Athens, Cambridge. Turner, E.G. (19522), Athenian Books in the Fifth and Fourth Centuries, London. Woodbury, L. (1976), “Aristophanes’ Frogs and Athenian Literacy: Ran. 52–53, 1114”, TAPA 106, 349–357.

Anna A. Lamari

On Types of Fragments As closely bound to the vague concept of wholeness, the meaning of fragmentation can be drastically variant. Dionisotti maintains that “what you call a fragment can depend very markedly on what you consider to be whole or complete”1 and she is right in the sense that most of the times, a fragment cannot avoid the lurking antithesis to completeness which, by itself, is also a relative concept. As classicists, but also as modern narratees, our perception of dramatic fragments is chaotically different from the perception of dramatic fragments experienced by ancient playwrights, ancient audiences, or ancient readers. What we have received as fragments it is often what ancient writers have fragmentized and what we are struggling to rebuild, it is often what ancient narrators intentionally mutilated. “On a theoretical level, the act of excerption from a complete text could be seen as an act of deliberate fragmentation” Wright argues, and he is right since in the context of ancient Greek literature, “the person who selects a portion of the text and makes it into a quotation, is, in a sense, transforming or rewriting that text by subtracting the remainder”.2 Fragments that were transmitted as such have reached us in secondary of tertiary degree of fragmentation, while a fragmentary façade could also be a stylistic selection from a narrative’s first beginning. These basic observations set the theoretical framework of my discussion, which aims at studying the different types of fragments, as well as the mechanisms of their creation, which often consist of deconstruction and excerption from their source text, followed by reconstruction and insertion in a new context. In this chapter I attempt to examine the creation and narrative function of five types of fragmentation: 1. Fragments that are part of a longer work, the adjacent parts of which are not accessible to the speaker or writer (“Surviving Fragments”) 2. Fragments that are created by deliberate selection, although their source text survives (“Framed Fragments”) 3. Fragments that survive within other fragments (“Fragments within Fragments”) 4. Fragments that are really the primary narration which nevertheless is given a fragmentary façade (“Pseudo-Fragments”)

|| 1 Dionisotti 1997, 1. 2 Wright 2016, 602.

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Fragments that exist only through the transmission of the source text (“Fragments of Ancient Scholarship”)

The categories I note often overlap, their criteria coexist, one type is not excluding of the other and in most cases, fragments are characterized by an ambiguous temporality: although they look back to the source text from which they were excerpted, they mainly look forward, functioning as novel narrative units in a new unified context. After a theoretical discussion of the concept of fragmentation, I will address all those five categories, with specific examples.

Fragmented Narratives In narratological terms, fragmentation is a process which brings together two or more genres and results in a new genre or subgenre. This is achieved by the use of stereotypes from separate genres, which, when interwoven, they create a genre hybrid. In this sense, fragmentation is a mechanism that can transform the generic characteristics of a narrative into a new product, a mechanism that transforms framed segments into new wholeness. From the viewpoint of the author, such a procedure grows according to an organized narrative plan that aims at giving new life to a piece extracted from its narrative surroundings. Extracts from larger works have thus a double identity, functioning both as parts of the new texts, as well as independent short texts on their own right.3 This was indeed the way ancient Greek drama interacted with fragmentation. At a time when tragic fragments were not fragments and still belonged to their initial narrative environment, Greek literature de-contextualized them, causing fragmentation that led to narrative novelty and eventually — in some cases — to those fragments’ textual transmission. When used outside their initial context, fragments are described as minimal units, specimens of bigger wholes, which could nonetheless represent successfully the narrative they belonged to and grant for example Athenian captives in Sicily, their freedom. It is the story of Plutarch who tells us that the Sicilians were fond of Euripidean poetry by means of the little “morsels” Athenian visitors brought with them. When their captives recited it, the Sicilians gave them food and water and sometimes also their freedom:

|| 3 Wright 2016, 602.

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ἔνιοι δὲ καὶ δι᾽ Εὐριπίδην ἐσώθησαν. μάλιστα γάρ, ὡς ἔοικε, τῶν ἐκτὸς Ἑλλήνων ἐπόθησαν αὐτοῦ τὴν μοῦσαν οἱ περὶ Σικελίαν: καὶ μικρὰ τῶν ἀφικνουμένων ἑκάστοτε δείγματα καὶ γεύματα κομιζόντων ἐκμανθάνοντες ἀγαπητῶς μετεδίδοσαν ἀλλήλοις. τότε γοῦν φασι τῶν σωθέντων οἴκαδε συχνοὺς ἀσπάσασθαι τὸν Εὐριπίδην φιλοφρόνως, καὶ διηγεῖσθαι τοὺς μέν, ὅτι δουλεύοντες ἀφείθησαν ἐκδιδάξαντες ὅσα τῶν ἐκείνου ποιημάτων ἐμέμνηντο, τοὺς δ᾽, ὅτι πλανώμενοι μετὰ τὴν μάχην τροφῆς καὶ ὕδατος μετέλαβον τῶν μελῶν ἄισαντες. (Plut. Vit. Nic. 29.2–3) Some also were saved for the sake of Euripides. For the Sicilians, it would seem, more than any other Hellenes outside the homeland, had a yearning fondness for his poetry. They were forever learning by heart the little specimens and morsels of it which visitors brought them from time to time and imparting them to one another with fond delight. In the present case, at any rate, they say that many Athenians who reached home in safety greeted Euripides with affectionate hearts, and recounted to him, some that they had been set free from slavery for rehearsing what they remembered of his works; and some that when they were roaming about after the final battle they had received food and drink for singing some of his choral hymns. (Translation by B. Perrin)

Tragic fragments are in this case described as samples (δείγματα), smacks (γεύματα) of poetry, as the remains of bigger poetic units that were impossible to be memorized in their wholeness. A similarly fragmentary recital of Euripides is given in the Clouds when Phidippides rejects his father’s pleas for Simonides and performs some speech (ῥῆσίν τινα) by Euripides about how a brother was sleeping with his very own sister: (ΣΤΡΕΨΙΑΔΗΣ) ὁ δ᾽ εὐθὺς ἦγ᾽ Εὐριπίδου ῥῆσίν τιν᾽, ὡς ἐκίνει ἁδελφός, ὦ ᾽λεξίκακε, τὴν ὁμομητρίαν ἀδελφήν. (Ar. Nub. 1371–1372) (STREPSIADES) And he right away tossed off some speech by Euripides, about how a brother was sleeping god forbid, with his sister by the same mother.

The reference must be to Aeolus, and Macareus’ love with Canace and as in many other Aristophanic passages, fragmentary intertextual references are used as part of a memorized playlist of popular passages.

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In recent times, the idea of the fragment as a literary form developed in the 18th and 19th centuries, by means of the romantic trend of contemplating ruins.4 The capricci of romantic painters provided idealized collages of ancient ruins as fragmentary revivals of Egypt, Greece, and especially Rome, just as seen in the 18th-century paintings of Giovanni Pannini, or Francesco Guardi.5 And while Pannini and Guardi made compilations of already fragmented ruins, such as the remains of the Colosseum or the Temple of Hadrian, or even the Obelisk of Thutmose,6 collages can also include parts of paintings that were not “broken” before their immersion in a new context. Such is the case of the paintings of Barry Kite, a contemporary American artist who diverts famous masterpieces in order to create hybrid compositions featuring the Mona Lisa and Vincent van Gogh, or openly alluding to Michelangelo.7 Fragmentation however can also arise as an elliptic genesis; as in a freshly new artifact which was intentionally created as incomplete from the very beginning, like Rodin’s broken-off sculptures,8 or Degas’ scenes that imply a glimpse chopped out of a larger continuum.9

Playing with Fragments: Conscious Use of Fragmentation in Theater In the fourth century, dramatic reperformances were a vital part of the theatrical mechanism. Fragmentation by choice was a useful, perhaps even necessary theatrical practice exploited by dramatists and certainly commented upon by ancient theorists. Aristotle tells us about the institution of the embolima, the detached choral parts that were composed out of context and could thus be attached or substitute the choral odes of any tragedy. Dramatic poets exploited fragmentation by recycling dramatic parts that led to different narrative results when attached to different contexts:

|| 4 See Sistakou 2009, 381. 5 The romantic motif of “unfinished structure” was first detected by Rauber 1969. See also Harries 1994; Janowitz 2003; Thomas 2005; Bradshaw 2008. 6 For the cultural context of viewing ruins see Thomas 2008, 40–94. 7 See 8 See e.g. August Rodin’s L’Homme qui marche (c. 1900, National Gallery of Art, Washington DC). 9 See e.g. Edgar Degas’ Danseuses vertes (1879, Thyssen-Bernemisza Museum, Madrid).

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καὶ τὸν χορὸν δὲ ἕνα δεῖ ὑπολαμβάνειν τῶν ὑποκριτῶν, καὶ μόριον εἶναι τοῦ ὅλου καὶ συναγωνίζεσθαι μὴ ὥσπερ Εὐριπίδηι ἀλλ᾽ ὥσπερ Σοφοκλεῖ. τοῖς δὲ λοιποῖς τὰ ἀιδόμενα οὐδὲν μᾶλλον τοῦ μύθου ἢ ἄλλης τραγωιδίας ἐστίν: διὸ ἐμβόλιμα ἄιδουσιν πρώτου ἄρξαντος Ἀγάθωνος τοῦ τοιούτου. καίτοι τί διαφέρει ἢ ἐμβόλιμα ἄιδειν ἢ εἰ ῥῆσιν ἐξ ἄλλου εἰς ἄλλο ἁρμόττοι ἢ ἐπεισόδιον ὅλον; (Arist. Poet. 1456a25–32) It is necessary to consider the chorus as one of the actors, a part of the whole and a participant in the action, not as in Euripides, but as in Sophocles. The songs of the later tragedians have no more connection with the story than they do with any other tragedy, and so they sing embolima (“throw-ins”). Agathon was the first to produce this sort of thing. And yet what difference does it make if they sing embolima or insert as speech or a whole episode from one drama to another? (Translation by E. Csapo/W.J. Slater)

Aristotle might prefer the old-school choral parts of Sophocles, but he is here embracing fragmentation as an existing tool used in theatrical practice nevertheless. Aristotle testifies to the fact that choral odes, monologues, even entire episodes can be attached to any given tragedy, the way it happens with Agathon’s embolima. Dramatic poets exploited fragmentation by recycling dramatic parts that led to different narrative results when attached to different contexts.10 A scholion on the Clouds informs us of the possibility of a different beginning of Archelaus, that Aristarchus says, it might have been altered by Euripides himself. The scholion corresponds to lines 1206–1208, where Euripides the character recites the beginning of one of his plays: Aἴγυπτος, ὡς ὁ πλεῖστος ἔσπαρται λόγος, ξὺν παισὶ πεντήκοντα ναυτίλωι πλάτηι Ἄργος κατασχών (Ar. Ran. 1206–1208 = TrGF V2 fr. 846) Aegyptus, as the dominant story has been disseminated, accompanied by his fifty sons, with ship’s oar came to land at Argos. (Translation by S. Scullion)

|| 10 For a discussion of the use of a fragment from Eupides’ Stheneboea in the prologues-section of the Frogs and the different levels of its appreciation by the spectators, see Wright 2016, 604– 605.

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The passage leads happily to the audience’s reaction of calling out the recurring catch phrase ληκύθιον ἀπώλεσεν (“lost his little oil jar”) (also 1208, 1213, 1218)11 and it would have not troubled us further, were it not for the scholion below: Ἀρχελάου αὕτη ἐστὶν ἡ ἀρχή, ὥς τινες ψευδῶς. οὐ γὰρ φέρεται νῦν Εὐριπίδου λόγος οὐδεὶς τοιοῦτος. οὐ γάρ ἐστι, φησὶν Ἀρίσταρχος, τοῦ Ἀρχελάου, εἰ μὴ αὐτὸς μετέθηκεν ὕστερον, ὁ δὲ Ἀριστοφάνης τὸ ἐξ ἀρχῆς κείμενον εἶπεν. (Schol. Ar. Ran. 1026 = TrGF V2 ad fr. 846) This is the beginning of Archelaus, as some say; falsely. For no such passage of Euripides is now in circulation. For it is not, says Aristarchus, from Archelaus, unless he himself (sc. Euripides) altered it later, but Aristophanes quoted the original beginning. (Translation by S. Scullion 2006)

Broad consensus today does not consider these lines the beginning of Archelaus.12 This is of little importance to our argument however, especially since the authority of Aristarchus testifies to the possibility of a selected fragment altering the initial narrative orchestrated by the poet himself. If the hypothesis of Aristarchus is correct, Euripides exploited the transforming power of a fragment and used an alternative prologue in order to lead to a different narrative result.

Types of Fragments Surviving Fragments This category consists of fragments whose source text is not available in full to their narrator or their narrates. Ewen Bowie’s definition of a fragment is a useful start to the discussion: [A fragment is] a text of at least one letter, and in no case forming a complete work, cited by a speaker or writer in the knowledge that it constitutes only a part of a longer work, whether oral or literary, the adjacent parts of which are not accessible to the speaker or writer.13

In this type of fragmentation, a later author is quoting a fragment of an earlier text for a variety of purposes (generic, stylistic, narrative), but as it happens, his

|| 11 On ληκύθιον ἀπώλεσεν as a catch-phrase and its comic effect, see Dover 1993, ad 1200. 12 Harder 1985, 181; Collard/Cropp/Gibert 2004, 351 pace Page 1934, 93. 13 Bowie 1997, 53.

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access to the source text was also fragmentary. In this category, a narrator reproduces a fragment which is already created and does not create it by deliberate selection. A characteristic example of this sort of fragmentation is the Theognidea, a heterogenous corpus in elegiac verse, preserving poems and parts of poems of Theognis, but also of other elegiac poets such as Tyrtaeus, Mimnermus, Solon, and Euenus.14 There has been much discussion regarding the compiler and date of compilation of the collection, as well as the line of transmission of the different florilegia that led to the synthesis we now have as Theognidea.15 Irrespective of scholarly squabbling pertaining to this labyrinthine textual tradition, it is by now an established and indisputable fact that a “Xenophon” quoted by Stobaeus (4.29.53) did not have in front of him Theognis’ poetry, but was already quoting Theognis’ lines on the basis of some collection or florilegium. The text from Stobaeus reads as following: Ξενοφῶντος ἐκ τοῦ περὶ Θεόγνιδος. ῾Θεόγνιδός ἐστιν ἔπη τοῦ Μεγαρέως᾽. Οὗτος δὲ ὁ ποιητὴς περὶ οὐδενὸς ἄλλου λόγον πεποίηται ἢ περὶ ἀρετῆς καὶ κακίας ἀνθρώπων, καί ἐστιν ἡ ποίησις σύγγραμμα περὶ ἀνθρώπων, ὥσπερ εἴ τις ἱππικὸς ὢν συγγράψειεν περὶ ἱππικῆς. (Stob. 4.29.53) By Xenophon, from his book on Theognis: “The words are those of Theognis of Megara” [Theognidea 22–23]. This poet has composed his work about no other subject than about human excellence and worthlessness. And the poetry is a monograph about man, as if someone who was an expert in horses were to write a monograph on horsemanship. (Translation by E. Bowie)

No such work of Xenophon is elsewhere recorded and it has been strongly debated whether he is indeed the real author of the passage.16 Whoever its author, it is very probable that not the entire work was περὶ Θεόγνιδος, but merely a section devoted to him.17 What interests us more in our argument however is the fact that the quotation of “Xenophon” could not have been the beginning of the text.

|| 14 See West 198. 15 According to the divisions of West (1974), a Florilegium Magum is the source of the most predominant section of book 1 of the Theognidea (19–254), which West names florimegium purum, while the two other sections (excerpta meliora — 255–1002 — and excerpta deteriora — 1002 —) have derived from another one (according to West 1974) or two (according to Bowie 1997) other anthologies. See a review of major discussions in Bowie 1997, 62 n. 11. 16 See a review of the discussion in West 1974, esp. 56–57. 17 West 1974, 56.

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This means that “Xenophon” had a text before him in which the beginning of Theognis’ text,18 is actually verse 183 ff. and this means that what “Xenophon” was using was a kind of compilation composed earlier than the fourth century.19 The citation of Stobaeus encompasses a reference to fragments of a poet (Theognis), the narrator of which (“Xenophon”) did not have access to their main source. In this sense, the reference of Stobaeus and his citation of Xenophon is an example of citation of Surviving Fragments.

Framed Fragments This is the most easily identifiable type of fragmentation, in which a fragment is created for theatrical reasons while the primary text is still “alive” and in full circulation. These fragments are created by deliberate selection when parts of texts are intentionally extracted from their context in order to be immersed in a new whole and then, in some cases, even survive only as part of it. This category is strictly tied to specific narrative goals, according to which a fragment is created and used in order to lead to specific narrative results, be it a comment or parody. The mechanisms of this type of fragmentation dictate the knowledge of the source text both from the narrator and the narratees.20 If this knowledge did not exist, the allusion would have been narratively useless and would have never happened in first place. Aristophanes provides some of the most characteristic examples of this type of fragmentation and in this section, I will mostly focus on a well-known list of such fragments, the one found in the prologues-part of the Frogs.

|| 18 West 1974, 56–57. 19 Bowie 2012, 131–132 opts for an early date (fifth century) and tracks down the compiler as the poet Euenus of Paros, who allegedly composed a collection in order to provide his students with an aide-memoire of elegiac poetry. 20 I still consider these passages fragments, even if their narrator is aware of the full source text from which they were deliberately extracted (pace Bowie 1997, 57). Similarly, Wright considers analogous passages “quotations”, regardless the different levels of recognition of the passage by the spectators, maintaining that “Aristophanes can be seen as subtly differentiating between the effects of his play on different types of audience member — the bookish and the not-so-bookish” (2016, 604–605).

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The prologues section (Ran. 1119–1245) starts with a narrative frame: Euripides the character announces a section in which he will examine Aeschylus’ art systematically, from one end of his plays to the other.21 (ΕΥΡΙΠΙΔΗΣ) καὶ μὴν ἐπ᾽ αὐτοὺς τοὺς προλόγους σοι τρέψομαι, ὅπως τὸ πρῶτον τῆς τραγωιδίας μέρος πρώτιστον αὐτοῦ βασανιῶ τοῦ δεξιοῦ. (Ar. Ran. 1119–1121) Now then, let me turn just to your prologues, so as first off to examine the first section of this competent man’s tragic drama. (Translation by J. Henderson)

The section ends with Dionysus, finalizing the criticism of prologues and inaugurating the beginning of the parody of lyrics:22 τὸ ληκύθιον γὰρ τοῦτ᾽ ἐπὶ τοῖς προλόγοισί σου ὥσπερ τὰ σῦκ᾽ ἐπὶ τοῖσιν ὀφθαλμοῖς ἔφυ. ἄλλ᾽ εἰς τὰ μέλη πρὸς τῶν θεῶν αὐτοῦ τραποῦ. (Ar. Ran. 1246–1248) Yes, that oil bottle grows on your prologues like sties on eyes. For heaven’s sake turn to his choral lyrics now.

This wider narrative section is however further compartmentalized in narrower frames, which engulf the beginnings of nine tragedies. In this sense, a big narrative frame created by the lines spoken by Euripides and Dionysus encapsulates nine framed narratives of prologues, i.e. nine framed tragic fragments. I call the fragments of those prologues framed because their position in the narrative is marked as something narratively different through a clear introduction like “go ahead and recite your prologue” spoken by one of the characters and a clear finalizing statement either in the form of an evaluating comment from the characters or with the λυκήθιον ἀπώλεσεν catch phrase.

|| 21 See especially Euripides’ insistence on a systematic order of examination in lines 1120–1121, ὅπως τὸ πρῶτον τῆς τραγωιδίας μέρος / πρώτιστον αὐτοῦ βασανιῶ τοῦ δεξιοῦ (see Sommerstein 1997 ad loc.). 22 Lines 1251–1363.

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Fig. 1: Framed fragments in Ar. Ran. 1119–1245.

As you can see in the table above (fig. 1), the wider frame which is created by the two statements of Euripides encompasses nine framed fragments, consisting of Aeschylus’ Choephoroi and Euripides’ Antigone, Archelaus, Hypsipyle, Stheneboia, second Phrixos, Iphigeneia in Tauris, Meleager, and Melanippe Wise. The fragments are framed by very characteristic introducing statements by Dionysus, Aeschylus and Euripides, such as ἴθι δὴ λέγ᾽ (1180), καὶ δὴ χρὴ λέγειν (1205), or λέγ᾽ ἕτερον … πρόλογον (1210), and in almost all cases, the Euripidean prologues are concluded by the ληκύθιον ἀπώλεσεν catch phrase (1208, 1213, 1218, 1226, 1233, 1238, 1241, 1245) spoken by Aeschylus and in the last case by Dionysus. The clear narrative boundaries of each fragment signal the structured and coordinated foreignness of the passages to the Aristophanic text. Aristophanes wants to highlight the function of those sections as an intertextual addendum and for that he uses clear indications that create fragments and also signify their beginning and end. This type of fragmentation captures the attention of the audience, and its extrovert signaling works as a detection method that invigorates the spectators’ theatrical and intertextual alertness.

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We are very much tempted to connect this meticulous signaling with the lines sung by the chorus just before the prologues section: the chorus encourage Euripides to speak of the old and the new, and to speak subtly and wisely (1105– 1108). They exhort him not to be afraid of the intellectual poorness of the spectators because the audience are now competent enough: εἰ δὲ τοῦτο καταφοβεῖσθον, μή τις ἀμαθία πρόσῆι, τοῖς θεωμένοισιν, ὡς τὰ λεπτὰ μὴ γνῶναι λεγόντοιν, μηδὲν ὀρρωδεῖτε τοῦθ᾽· ὡς οὐκέθ᾽ οὕτω ταῦτ᾽ ἔχει. ἐστρατευμένοι γάρ εἰσι, βιβλίον τ᾽ ἔχων ἕκαστος μανθάνει τὰ δεξιά· αἱ φύσεις τ᾽ ἄλλως κράτισται, νῦν δὲ καὶ παρηκόνηνται. μηδὲν οὖν δείσητον, ἀλλὰ πάντ᾽ ἐπέξιτον, θεατῶν γ᾽οὕνεχ᾽, ὡς ὄντων σοφῶν. (Ar. Ran. 1109–1118) And if you’re afraid of any ignorance among the spectators, that they won’t appreciate your subtleties of argument, dont worry about that, because things are no longer that way. For they’re veterans, and each one has a book and knows the fine points; their natural endowments are masterful too, and now sharpened up. So have no fear, but tackle it all, resting assured that the spectators are sage.

Aristophanes’ use of fragmentation in the Frogs is exquisite in many ways. It is instigated by the poet although the source texts are still in circulation in their full form, and perhaps even because of this, it is carefully signalled through linguistic frames that set the beginning and end of every fragment.23 Framed fragmentation

|| 23 If we tried to visualize Aristophanes’ structure of framed fragmentation we would find multiple analogies in the cappriccio of Pannini, the 18th century painter and architect, who, in his painting Ancient Rome (1757) he manages to depict thirty-five architectural sites and sculptures from ancient Rome without interrupting the flow of the main visual narrative. The archaeological remains are clearly signaled by the golden frames in which they are inserted, while the green and red curtains are dexterously pulled aside in order to give us visual access to the treasury, but also visually set the wider frame in which the thirty-five golden frames are encapsulated.

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can lead to a departmentalized narrative result, which however still maintains an uninterrupted narrative flow.

Fragments within Fragments This category stays very closely to that of the framed fragments. In this case however, fragments are not surrounded by narrative frames, but they provide information that most likely have been gathered via a mediated source. In this case, the fragment does not have its initial verbal form, but it is comprised of information regarding its content. When a tragic fragment is nested within another fragment, information about an ancient drama is channelled through an intermediate source that was what the author that are finally able to read consulted when he was writing his book. This category is dominated by Apollodorus.24 In a discussion of the parenthood of Argos Panoptes, Apollodorus refers to the father of Io and quotes the tragedians, many of whom say that she was the daughter of Inachos.25 A few lines later, Apollodorus turns to the tragic tradition again, this time quoting Asclepiades of Tragilus (Tragoidoumena) in specific: the text juxtaposes Asclepiades with Pherecydes, who attibutes the parenthood of Argos either to Arestor or to Inachos. The two possibilities interchange and the selection of the one excludes the other. Manuscript tradition reads ὃν Ἀσκληπιάδης μὲν Ἰνάχου λέγει, Φερεκύδης δὲ Ἀρέστορος, but as first noticed by Heyne back in 1783,26 a scholion on Phoenissae 1116 makes clear that in Pherecydes, Argos is the son of Arestor (τοῦ δὲ γίνεται Ἀρέστωρ, τοῦ δὲ Ἀργος),27 especially since the scholiast

|| 24 When quoting sources, Apollodorus does not eliminate himself to a single genre: his references might include epic poets, tragedians, and mythographers alike. His references are often structured as Zitatennest, namely a long reference to multiple authors that might have been even reproduced by a single source. The ground is slippery and the text of Apollodorus has been recently called a “textual artefact, built by editors upon the slippery basis of sources which are themselves also textual artefacts (scholia and lexicographical works)” (Villagra 2017, 59). Some of his references however can still fall under a category of minimal fragments quoted by later authors. 25 Aesch. PV 589; Soph. El. 5 and the fragmentary Inachos (TrGF IV frr. 269–295), where Io is also a plot character. Io’s ancestry is also frequently brought up in Aeschylus’ Supplices (see esp. 291–324). For the role of Io in Prometheus Bound see Murray 1958; Griffith 1983, 12. For Inachos see Griffith 1983, 188–190; Sutton 1979; Lloyd-Jones 2003, 112–135. 26 Heyne 1783, 252–253. 27 Schol. Eur. Phoen. 1116 (Schwartz I 365.23–366.2), ὁ μὲν γὰρ Φερεκύδης [frg. 22] φησὶν αὐτὸν ἐπὶ τοῦ ἰνίου ἔχειν ὀφθαλμὸν ἅμα δηλῶν ὅτι δύο ἐγένοντο Ἀργοι. Γράφει δὲ οὕτως· ‘ Ἄργος ὁ Διὸς

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quotes a long passage from Pherecydes, proving that he had direct access to it. The passage would then run as follows: Ἄργου δὲ καὶ Ἰσμήνης τῆς Ἀσωποῦ παῖς Ἴασος, οὗ φασιν Ἰὼ γενέσθαι. Κάστωρ δὲ ὁ συγγράψας τὰ χρονικὰ καὶ πολλοὶ τῶν τραγικῶν Ἰνάχου τὴν Ἰὼ λέγουσιν· Ἡσίοδος δὲ καὶ Ἀκουσίλαος Πειρῆνος αὐτήν φασιν εἶναι. ταύτην ἱερωσύνην τῆς Ἥρας ἔχουσαν Ζεὺς ἔφθειρε. φωραθεὶς δὲ ὑφ’ Ἥρας τῆς μὲν κόρης ἁψάμενος εἰς βοῦν μετεμόρφωσε λευκήν, ἀπωμόσατο δὲ ταύτῃ μὴ συνελθεῖν· διό φησιν Ἡσίοδος οὐκ ἐπισπᾶσθαι τὴν ἀπὸ τῶν θεῶν ὀργὴν τοὺς γινομένους ὅρκους ὑπὲρ ἔρωτος. Ἥρα δὲ αἰτησαμένη παρὰ Διὸς τὴν βοῦν φύλακα αὐτῆς κατέστησεν Ἄργον τὸν πανόπτην, ὃν Φερεκύδης μὲν Ἀρέστορος λέγει, Ἀσκληπιάδης δὲ Ἰνάχου, Κέρκωψ δὲ Ἄργου καὶ Ἰσμήνης τῆς Ἀσωποῦ θυγατρός· Ἀκουσίλαος δὲ γηγενῆ αὐτὸν λέγει.28 (Apollod. Bibl. 2.1.3 [5–6] (Asclep. Trag. FGrH 12 fr. 16)) Apparatus: Φερεκύδης … Ἀσκληπιάδης Heine : Ἀσκληπιἀδης … Φερεκύδης Α (conf. schol. Eurip. Phoen. 1116) Argos and Ismene daughter of Asopos had a son, Iasos, who they say was the father of Io. But the chronicler Castor and many of the tragedians say that Io was the daughter of Inachos. Hesiod and Acousilaos say that she was the daughter of Peiren. Zeus seduced her while she was serving as priestess of Hera. When he was caught by Hera, he touched the girl and turned her into a white cow, swearing that he had not had intercourse with her. That is why Hesiod says that oaths made in matters of love do not draw the ire of the gods. Hera got the cow from Zeus and set all-seeing Argos to guard her. Pherecydes says that Argos was the son of Arestor, Asclepiades that he was the son of Inachos, and Cercops that he was the son of Argos and Ismene daughter of Asopos. But Acousilaos says that he was an autochthon. (Translation by R. Scott Smith/S. Trzaskoma)

The passage provides a great number of references, bringing together information from the tragedians, but also from Castor, Hesiod, Acousilaos, Pherecydes, Asclepiades, and Cercops. It has been maintained that ‘the vagueness of the reference to the tragic texts and its insertion in a chain of references make it … very doubtful that Apollodorus would have consulted here the tragic passages themselves: rather he used learned commentaries or previous mythographers’.29

|| γαμεῖ Πειθὼ τὴν Ὠκεανοῦ. τοῦ δὲ γίνεται Κρίασος, τοῦ δ᾽ Ἐρευθαλίων, ἀφ᾽ οὗ Ἐρευθαλίη πόλις καλεῖται ἐν Ἄργει, καὶ Φόρβας. Τοῦ δε γίνεται Ἀρέστωρ, τοῦ δὲ Ἄργος, ὧι Ἥρη ὀφθαλμὸν τίθησιν ἐν τῶι ἰνίωι καὶ τὸν ὕπνον ἐξαιρεῖται καὶ ἐφιστᾶι φύλακα αὐτὸν τῆι Ἰοῖ. ἔπειθ᾽ Ἑρμῆς αὐτὸν κτείνει’. 28 Text is of Wagner 1926. 29 Huys 1997, 315.

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The accumulation of the sources certainly decreases the possibility of Apollodorus checking his sources first hand. It seems that Apollodorus reveals his only source (as far as the tragedians are concerned) at the moment he quotes Asclepiades. The unspecific character of the expression πολλοὶ τῶν τραγικῶν points at the possibility of Apollodorus’ use of a mythographical source and certainly Asclepiades could have been a good possibility.30 If this scenario is correct, then the information that we gather from Apollodorus is about a tragic fragment regarding the parenthood of Argos and Io, which Apollodorus is not reproducing having the tragic texts in front of him, but rather, after using an intermediate source, perhaps Asclepiades, whom, we can assume, did have access to the initial texts.

Pseudo-Fragments Playful interaction with fragments, or even the creation of fragments as such is part of the intellectual works of narrators of different genres in the course of different chronological periods, be it classical or Hellenistic poets, romantic or contemporary painters. The adoration of the fragment has grown because of different reasons and with different results according to the era in which it was developed and to whether the fragment was intentionally created or de facto the only available. The Aitia-prologue provides us with one of the most characteristic examples of conscious selectivity, in which the poet proudly celebrates discontinuity and incompleteness: Πολλάκι μοι Τελχῖνες ἐπιτρύζουσιν ἀοιδῆι νήιδες, οἳ Μούσης οὐκ ἐγένοντο φίλοι, εἵνεκεν οὐχ ἓν ἄεισμα διηνεκὲς ἢ βασιλ[η . . . . . . ]ας ἐν πολλαῖς ἤνυσα χιλιάσιν ἢ . . . . . ] . ους ἥρωας, ἔπος δ᾽ ἐπὶ τυτθὸν ἑλ[ίσσω παῖς ἅτε, τῶν δ᾽ ἐτέων ἡ δεκὰς οὐκ ὀλίγη. (Callim. fr. 1, 1–6 Pfeiffer)

|| 30 Even if we read Φερεκύδης μὲν Ἀρέστορος λέγει, Ἀσκληπιάδης δὲ Ἰνάχου, pace Villagra 2017, 60. The fact that such a reading presents Io and Argos Panoptes as siblings does not by definition exclude itself from the tragic tradition. Besides, different tragedies often present conflicting versions of the myth, and with the myth of the Danaids this happens to be even stronger. As characteristically maintained by Garvie 2006, 163–164, “the most remarkable feature of the accounts [of the myth of the Danaids] is their lack of agreement in almost every detail of the story”.

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Often the Telchines mutter against me, against my poetry, Who, ignorant of the Muse, were not born as her friend, Because I did not complete one single continuous song (on the glory of?) kings . . . in many thousands of lines Or on . . . heroes, but turn around words a little in my mind Like a child, although the decades of my years are not few. (Text and Translation by A. Harder)

The first lines of the poem have given rise to long discussions for numerous reasons. What is of interest to us at this point is the fact that the poem starts by projecting the impression of something small and discontinuous (οὐχ ἓν διηνεκὲς ἄεισμα), although it is developed in some thousands of lines.31 In this sense, these first lines deliberately create a false fragmentary impression in a complete composition. One of the most characteristic examples of such a narrative impression is the Lipogrammatic Odyssey by Triphiodorus, as well as the Lipogrammatic Iliad by Nestor of Laranda, who both composed new versions of the two epics upon a word-game according to which, one letter of the alphabet was missing in each of the twenty-four books (alpha from Book 1, beta from Book 2 and so on). In both of these cases, an otherwise complete narrative is intentionally given fragmentary characteristics. The Suda explains both lipogrammata as following: Νέστωρ· Λαρανδεύς, ἐκ Λυκίας, ἐποποιός, πατὴρ Πεισάνδρου τοῦ ποιητοῦ, γεγονὼς ἐπὶ Σευήρου τοῦ βασιλέως· Ἰλιάδα λειπογράμματον ἤτοι ἀστοιχείωτον· ὁμοίως δὲ αὐτῶι ὁ Τρυφιόδωρος ἔγραψεν Ὀδύσσειαν· ἔστι γὰρ ἐν τῆι πρώτηι μὴ εὑρίσκεσθαι ἄλφα καὶ κατὰ ῥαψωιδίαν οὕτως τὸ ἑκάστης ἐκλιμπάνειν στοιχεῖον. [Sud. s.v. Νέστωρ (ν 261)] Nestor, of Laranda, in Lycia, an epic poet, father of the poet Pisandrus, active under the reign of [Septimius] Severus. [He wrote] a lipogrammatic Iliad, that is with one character missing. Triphiodorus wrote an Odyssey in the same fashion. In the first [book], one does not find [the letter] alpha, and along the whole poem, the letter designating each book is missing. (Translation by P. Schubert)

The very experiment of the lipogrammatic Iliad and Odyssey is based on a forced correspondence between the 24 letters of the Greek alphabet and the 24 Books of each of the two Homeric epics. Nestor and Triphiodorus had to rewrite in the same meter all lines of each Book from which the given letter was missing. This is a

|| 31 See the discussion in Harder 2012, 12–13.

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very demanding task, especially with respect to letters that are very common to the Greek language (e.g. alpha, epsilon, iota, kappa, omicron, pi, sigma) and would unavoidably result in the re-composition of many lines of the relevant Books. In a seminal article on this topic,32 James Porter draws attention to the fact that lipograms are difficult games, using as proof the fact that E.G. Turner, the editor of Papyrus Bodmer XXVIII,33 noted that neither he nor two audiences to whom he had presented his material had realized that the very papyrus he was editing was asigmatic, and that this became evident to him only when pointed by a colleague. Lipogramms are not easy to detect when a given text is not familiar to the audience. Conversely, when a text is well-known we would expect that the lipogrammatic new composition would be observed by the audience, since they would easily compare it with the version they are aware of. This, I concur, is exactly the case with the lipogrammatic Iliad and Odyssey of Nestor and Triphiodorus respectively. In fact, it is against the background of the familiarity of any hellenophone audience with Homer, even in the imperial period, that we should interpret Nestor’s and Triphiodorus’ experiment.34 This observation lies at the heart of the function of such lipogrammatic texts as pseudo-fragments. The aim of this demanding game was to create the impression of recasting an archetype not by refashioning its characters, plotline or viewpoint but by remolding its cast through selective fragmentation. The outcome would

|| 32 Porter 2007. 33 A satyr-play on the confrontation of Heracles and Atlas (Turner 1976). 34 The dating of Nestor and Triphiodorus (2nd–3rd cent. AD) is remarkably in tune with an interest in detecting alphabetic anomalies in Homer. Athenaeus (10.458a–e) offers an entire list of relevant cases, which are drawn from the Iliad and the Odyssey (and to a lesser extent from comedy). They pertain to the following phenomena: (1) repetition of verse beginning and ending with the same letter (alpha: Il. 4.92, 5.226 and 453; epsilon: Il. 4.89, 5.886; eta: Il. 5.133 and 370; iota: Il. 6.60 and 206; sigma: Il. 1.90; omega: Il. 16.364); (2) asigmatic verses (Il. 7.364); (3) verses whose first and last syllable, if put together, create a given name (Il. 2.557, 658, 732); (4) verses whose first and last syllable, if put together, create the name of a utensil (Il. 8.202, Od. 17.580, 18.107); (5) verses whose first and last syllable, if put together, create the name of some food (Il. 1.538 and 1.550). Athenaeus classifies this category of alphabetic game under ‘riddles’ (γρίφοι), which in this case are based on an existing text that is, contrary to lipogrammatic experiments, not altered at all. Having said this, we should not fail to notice that the alphabetic literary games on Homer (and comedy) presented by Athenaeus are also of a pseudo-fragmentary nature. This time though their fragmentary function lurks behind their seemingly impeccable poetic façade. Their literary or other aspects become null and void. What interests the reader is a syllabic stitching in visually and aurally detectable slots of the line or the lipogrammatically oriented asigmatic effect.

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have been an Iliad that is a pseudo-fragment of Homer’s Iliad, an Odyssey that is a pseudo-fragment of the Homeric Odyssey, since under their fragmentary façade the two epics would have followed their plotline, character-drawing technique, and Weltanschauung.35 Lipogrammatic experiments are at least as old as Lasus of Hermione who was the first to our knowledge to have toyed with the composition of a poetic text deliberately deprived of a single letter. Lasus’ floruit is dated to the last quarter of the sixth century BC but his lipogrammatic tryouts did not originate ex nihilo. Sacadas of Argos composed a Pythian nomos in five parts representing the fight between Apollo and the serpent at Pytho. This composition became a set-piece, not least because Sacadas was able to “voice” the serpent’s hissing by recourse to the use of sibilants. Sacadas’ experiment was a hit. Vocal sibilance became widely known, especially since his Pythian nomos was replete with musical innovation. The next step to Sacadas’ innovation was undertaken by another poet from the wider area of Argolis. Lasus of Hermione tried to bring the sound of words and music in harmony by eliminating the letter sigma from two compositions of his (the dithyramb Centaurs and a Hymn to Demeter) because he regarded it as “difficult to pronounce” or “harsh-sounding (σκληρόστομον)” “and illsuited to the aulos”.36 The story goes on with the most famous student of Lasus, Pindar who in his second Dithyramb adopted sigmatism not only per se but also so as to place himself within the continuing debate about vocal sibilance and music.37 Lasus’ experiment is inscribed within a wider matrix of beliefs concerning

|| 35 A rather different case are the Homeric centos, though they also function as pseudo-fragments. One famous example is a work by the empress Eudocia Athenais (wife of the emperor Theodosius II, fifth cent. AD) who composed a poem on the life of Christ that was exclusively composed of Homeric lines, which had been reordered, so as to suit the new plotline. This biblical pastiche is also a pseudo-fragment but of a different sort. What is noteworthy is that in the preface of this work, composed in dactylic hexameters by Eudocia herself, we have a straightforward explanation both of the fact that she undertook this task in order to expand what the fourthcentury Christian bishop Patricius had started but also her own apologetic to potential complaints concerning her recasting Homer’s text. We do not know whether Nestor or Triphiodorus had followed an analogous practice. 36 Athen. 11.467a = fr. 87 Wehrli (I owe this reference to Porter 2007, 1 n. 5). In the wake of modern lettrisme and G. Perec’s famous “Histoire du lipogramme”, published by an association the name of which toys with this phenomenon (Oulipo < οὐ λείπω), Porter (2007, 1) has rightly called Lasus’ experiment a “proto-Oulipian gesture”. 37 See Zimmermann 2008, 44–50; LeVen 2014, 81–83.

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musical sound. It may well be the case, as Porter has suggested, that his lipogrammatic practice had the rather odd aim to “enable and unleash sound through the suppression of sound”.38 It is now time we ask an important question: how is selective lipogrammatism linked to pseudo-fragmentation? By suppressing letters, lipogrammatism suppresses sound, thus creating the impression of double-fragmentation, both on the level of the text and on the level of its aural perception. Yet, this is only an impression, the impression of false-fragmentation aiming to enable and unleash in greater force the function and sound of other letters and their sounds, together with which the missing letter forms part of a whole. Many centuries later, in January 1845, Edgar Allan Poe publishes The Raven, a poem about a talking raven’s mysterious visit to a distraught lover. The bird is pictured as sitting on a bust of Pallas and instigates the lover’s distress by a constant repetition of the word “Nevermore”. The Raven is structured upon a rich intertextual scheme, but most importantly, in its 18 stanzas of six lines each, Poe never uses the letter z. The poem has a harmonious flow, but at the same time, a fragmentary feeling, which actually has been compared to the Mayan ruins in Chiapas, Mexico: The passion and sentiment are also original, while the style has a fragmentary character, like the architecture of the ruins of Chiapas, where frescoes, and rude but beautiful workmanship, are scattered about in the wildest profusion. (John Sullivan Dwight, review in the Harbinger, 6 December 1845, 1, 410–411).39

The review reminds us of the cappricci, and the way in which a ruin is inserted in a painting as a visual fragment. The lipogramatic structure underscores the fragmentary façade of a narrative that is really unfragmented. A pseudo-fragment is the celebration of fragmentary stylistics in an unfragmented narrative. Along with Triphiodorus, Nestor, and Poe, Auguste Rodin insists on fragmented torsos,40 and one of his futuristic successors, Umberto Boccioni constructs sculptures of synthetic continuity built upon multi-layered fragmentation.41

|| 38 Porter 2007, 13. 39 Walker 1986, 240. 40 See e.g. August Rodin’s, Torse féminin avec main de squelette sur le ventre (c. 1883, Musée Rodin, Paris). 41 See e.g. Umberto Boccioni, Synthèse du dynamisme humain (1913, Location unknown, destroyed).

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Fragments of Ancient Scholarship Over the course of the history of the transmission of classical literature, ancient scholarship has become a powerful medium for the preservation of classical texts. The works of ancient scholars are very often the source for literary fragments. This category however will not examine literary fragments that have been transmitted by ancient scholarship, but rather fragments of ancient scholarship. As in most cases of fragmentary transmission, ancient scholarship is transmitted by intermediate sources like lexicographical collections, miscellaneous works (such as that of Athenaeus), or the ancient scholia. In the case of ancient scholarship, those sources provide us with the textual choices opted by the grammarians, with or without a simple note on the grammarian’s reading. This would mean that the fragment of the grammarians, is actually their own reading of the classical text, transmitted to us through a intermediate source. In Euripides’ Hecuba, the phantom of Polydorus delivers the prologue and describes how his father Priam secretly sent him away to the court of Polymestor since he was very young to fight. Lines 13–14 read as follows: (ΠΟΛΥΔΩΡΟΥ ΕΙΔΩΛΟΝ) νεώτατος δ᾽ ἦ Πριαμιδῶν, ὃ καί με γῆς ὑπεξέπεμψεν. … (Eur. Hec. 13–14) (PHANTOM OF POLYDORUS) I was the youngest of Priam’s sons, and it was for this reason that he sent me away secretly. …

Schwartz prints the following scholia: νεώτατος δ᾽ ἦν: ἀντὶ τοῦ ἤμην φησίν. Ἀττικῶς δὲ ἦν. καὶ χωρὶς δὲ τοῦ ν ἦ, ἀντὶ τοῦ ἔα. Οὕτω Δίδυμος. ἐν μέντοι τοῖς ἀντιγράφοις ἦν φέρεται καὶ κοινὴ ἀνάγνωσις ἦν. (Schol. Eur. Hec. 13 Schwartz 1887, 13) “I was the youngest”: he says ἦν instead of ἤμην. In Attic ἦν. And also without ν (ἦ), instead of ἔα. Thus Didymus. But ἦν is transmitted in the manuscripts and the common reading is ἦν.

We note the expression οὕτω Δίδυμος. What is the Didymus fragment here? It is his own reading of the manuscript, in our case a single-lettered word: ἦ. In this case of fragmentation, a fragment provides a variant for the source text and is

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itself at the same time, a sample of work from a fragmentary transmitted author. As explained by Franco Montanari, at times the fragment that acts as a source of information on the thought of an ancient philologist is given exclusively by a word of the author studied by the philologist, i.e. by the reading he selected or the conjecture he felt it necessary to introduce in a given passage of his author.42

The Euripidean variant is the Didymus fragment and in this sense, a fragment of secondary literature as such is identical with a varia lectio of a text of primary literature. With analogous examples from Aristarchus, the comments of ancient grammarians constitute a separate category of fragmentation, consisting of fragments with a double identity: examples of ancient scholarship, and simultaneously, variae lectiones of ancient Greek texts. The creation of fragments breaks downs narrative to reinvent cohesion in a new hybrid genre. By abolishing the context of the source text, the new narrative is led to a new compartmentalized wholeness that nonetheless managed to preserve its narrative flow. In a new wholeness, fragments acquire new characteristics and novel narrative roles that do not look backward, towards the source text, but forward, towards the new narrative whole in which they are engulfed.

Bibliography Bowie, E. (1997), “The Theognidea: a step towards a collection of fragments?”, in: G.W. Most (ed.) (1997), Collecting Fragments / Fragmente sammeln, Göttingen, 53–66. Bowie, E. (2012), “An Early Chapter in the History of the Theogonidea”, in: X. Riu/J. Pòrtulas (eds) (2012), Approaches to Archaic Greek Poetry, Messina, 121–148. Bradshaw, M. (2008), “Hedgehog Theory: How to Read a Romantic Fragment Poem”, Literature Compass 5.1, 73–89. Collard, C./Cropp, M.J./Gibert, J. (2004), Euripides: Selected Fragmentary Plays with Introductions, Translations, and Commentaries, vol. 2, Warminster. Csapo, E./Slater, W.J. (1995), The Context of Ancient Drama, Ann Arbor. Dionissotti, A.C. (1997), “On Fragments in classical scholarship”, in: G. Most (ed.) (1997), Collecting Fragments / Fragmente sammeln, Göttingen, 1–33. Dover, K.J. (1993), Aristophanes’ Frogs: Edited with Introduction and Commentary, Oxford. Garvie, A.F. (2006), Aeschylus’ Supplices, Play and Trilogy, rev. ed., Exeter. Griffith, M. (1983), Aeschylus’ Prometheus Bound, Cambridge.

|| 42 Montanari 1997, 275.

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Harder, A. (1985), Euripides’ Kresphontes and Archelaos: Introduction, Text and Commentary, Leiden. Harries, E.W. (1994), The Unfinished Manner: Essays on the Fragment in the Later Eighteenth Century, Charlotesville VA/London. Henderson, J. (2002), Aristophanes’ Frogs, Assemblywomen, Wealth, Cambridge MA. Heyne, Ch.G. (1783), Ad Apollodori Atheniensis Bibliothecam Notae, pars I, Göttingen. Huys, M. (1997), “The Fabulae of Ps.-Hyginus: a source for the reconstruction of Euripides’ lost tragedies?: Part II”, Archiv fur Papyrus Forschung und Verwandte Gebiete 43, 11–30. Janowitz, A. (2003), “The Romantic Fragment”, in: D. Wu (ed.) (2003), A Companion to Romanticism, Malden MA, 442–451. LeVen, P.A. (2014), The Many-Headed Muse: Tradition and Innovation in Late Classical Greek Lyric Poetry, Cambridge. Lloyd-Jones, H. (2003), Sophocles: Fragments, repr. with corrections and additions, Cambridge MA. Montanari, F. (1997), “The Fragments of Hellenistic Scholarship”, in: G. Most (ed.) (1997), Collecting Fragments / Fragmente sammeln, Göttingen, 273–288. Murray, R.D. (1958), The motif of Io in Aeschylus’ Supplices, Princeton. Nisetich, F. (2001), The Poems of Callimachus, Oxford. Page, D.L. (1934), Actors’ Interpolations in Greek Tragedy, Oxford. Perrin, B. (1989), Plutarch’s Lives with an English Translation, Cambridge MA. Porter, J. (2007), “Lasus of Hermione, Pindar and the riddle of s”, CQ (57.1) 1–21. Rauber, D.F. (1969), “The Fragment as Romantic Form”, Modern Language Quarterly 30, 212– 221. Schubert, P. (2007), “From the Epics to the Second Sophistic, from Hebuba to Aethra, and finally from Troy to Athens: Defining the Position of Quintus Smyrnaeus in his Posthomerica”, in: M. Baumbach/S. Bär (eds) (2007), Quintus Smyrnaeus: Transforming Homer in Second Sophistic Epic, Berlin, 339–356. Schwartz, E. (1887–1891), Scholia in Euripidem, Berlin. Scullion, S. (2006), “The Opening of Euripides’ Archelaus”, in: D. Cairns/V. Liapis (eds) (2006), Dionysalexandros: Essays on Aeschylus and his Fellow Tragedians in Honour of Alexander F. Garvie, Swansea, 185–200. Sistakou, E. (2009), “Fragments of an Imaginary Past: Strategies of Mythical Narration in Apollonius’ Argonautica and Callimachus’ Aitia”, RFIC 137, 380–401. Sutton, D.F. (1979), Sophocles’ Inachus, Meisenheim. Thomas, S. (2005), “The Fragment”, in: N. Roe (ed.) (2005), Romanticism, Oxford, 502–520. Thomas, S. (2008), Romanticism and Visuality. Fragments, History, Spectacle, London/New York. Villagra, N. (2017), “Lost in Tradition: Apollodorus and Tragedy-Related Texts”, in: J. Pàmias (ed.) (2017), Apollodoriana: Ancient Myths, New Crossroads, Berlin/Boston, 38–65. Wagner, R. (1926), Mythographi Graeci vol. 1: Apollodori Bibliotheca, Stuttgart/Leipzig. Walker, I. (ed.) (1986), Edgar Allan Poe: The Critical Heritage, London/New York. West, M.L. (1974), Studies in Greek Elegy and Iambus, Berlin. West, M.L. (ed.) (1980), Delectus ex Iambis et Elegis Graecis, Oxford. Wright, M. (2016), “Euripidean Tragedy and Quotation Culture: The Case of Stheneboea F661”, AJPh 137, 601–623. Zimmermann, B. (2008), Dithyrambos: Geschichte Einer Gattung, Berlin.

Matthew Wright

How Long Did the Lost Plays of Greek Tragedy Survive? In a way, it is astonishing that any texts of Greek tragedy have survived at all, considering the length of time that has elapsed and the historical events that have taken place since their first performances. By nature books are fragile things, hard to preserve and all too easy to destroy. We are exceptionally fortunate to possess as many as thirty-two complete tragedies, which have somehow made their way to us through a long and haphazard process of transmission. 1 It might so easily not have happened. On the other hand, it might seem surprising that more tragedies did not survive, considering the enormous number of texts that must once have been in circulation throughout the civilised world. Even despite tragedy’s wide popularity throughout antiquity, and its centrality to education and literary culture over an even longer period, our knowledge of the surviving plays depends on just a handful of medieval manuscripts. What happened to the tragic corpus between antiquity and the Middle Ages is not quite clear. Our evidence suggests that most of the plays that happened to survive did so because they became established, at some point in the second or third century AD, as a standard “selected edition” of tragedy. Such a selection was no doubt convenient for educational use, but we cannot know whether it was deliberately put together for that reason. 2 The selection consisted of twenty-four plays: seven each by Aeschylus and Sophocles, and ten by Euripides. But there is no very obvious explanation why this precise number of works was chosen (why not seven, or ten, apiece?) or why these particular titles were seen as preferable to so many others. Perhaps surprisingly, there is no indication that considerations of quality played any part in the choice. One might have supposed that the plays that were preserved were invariably those that won first prizes in the festivals, or those that were consistently most highly regarded by ancient critics, but this is demonstrably not the case. Of course, the making of qualitative aesthetic judgements must be seen as an inherently controversial business, then as now, but still it is hard to feel convinced that it was the best tragedies that were selected, no matter how

 1 Garland (2003) provides a lively and accessible account of this process; cf. Battezzato 2003. 2 See Pearson 1917, xlvi–xlvii; Zuntz 1965, 254–255; Finglass 2012, 13, reacting to the unprovable suggestion of Wilamowitz (1907) that a single figure, such as a second-century schoolmaster, was responsible for the selection.

  Matthew Wright we might define “best”. We can agree that many of them are works of great artistic merit, but so too, by all accounts, were many of the lost plays. (Was Aeschylus’ Suppliant Women really considered to be better than, say, his Niobe or Myrmidons? Surely not.) Furthermore, it is also important to stress that until the second century AD (or thereabouts) the “selected” plays are not particularly well represented in relation to the “unselected” plays, either in papyrus remains and book citations or in the performance record. 3 In other words, the relative popularity or unpopularity of a play does not seem to have been a significant factor in the selection process. And so one is led to look for other explanations. The comparative absence of racy or outré subject matter among the selected plays may suggest that some sort of bowdlerizing impulse was at work. It is striking that the theme of erotic love, which is encountered very frequently in the plots of lost tragedies (especially those of Euripides), is scarcely represented in the selected works, 4 and that plays featuring homosexuality, incest, rape, bestiality and cannibalism are omitted almost entirely. 5 Positive reasons for inclusion, as opposed to rejection, are harder to discern. One notes that there are two or three groups of titles that cluster around a single myth, such as the exploits of Orestes, Electra and Iphigenia, or the family of Oedipus. It has been suggested that such thematic clustering may be due to the prevalent practice of comparison-and-contrast (synkrisis) in educational contexts. 6 This suggestion is plausible, but, if correct, it is hard to explain why those responsible for the selection did not choose works that were more directly comparable — such as the three Philoctetes plays discussed side-by-side in Dio Chrysostom’s fifty-second Oration, or the three parallel Oedipus tragedies by Aeschylus, Sophocles and Euripides. (A brief glance through the titles of lost plays will reveal many other more obvious candidates for synkrisis.) 7 However that may be, no one has ever succeeded in identifying any other organizing principles, thematic connections or features of form or content linking together the twenty-four selected tragedies, which are extremely heterogeneous in character. Nor, apparently, do these plays share any special characteristics that would make them particularly suitable for educational use.  3 For comparison of papyrus survival rates over time (selected vs. non-selected plays) see Garland 2003, 53–54; Avezzù 2012, 46–47; Carrara 2009, esp. 138–139, 211–212, 251–252, 383–386, 585–593. Cf. Appendix 2 below. 4 See Wright 2017, 224. Euripides’ penchant for love-stories is noted by ancient critics, e.g. Ar. Frogs 1042–55, Long. De Subl. 15.3, Plut. Erotikos (Mor. 748–771). 5 Cf. Easterling 2006, 12–15 for the view that maximum accessibility was a factor, in the sense that the selected plays of Sophocles provide “something for everyone”. 6 Russell/Winterbottom 1972, 504. 7 A list of shared titles and subjects is provided by Wright 2016a, 203–205.

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Thus the question of who made the selection and why eludes a definite answer. But the emergence of this selected edition seems to have coincided with an increasing neglect of all the other tragedies. This is strongly indicated by the dwindling quantity of citations and papyrus fragments from plays outside the selected edition after the second century AD. It seems certain that the creation of the selected edition was, after the decree of Lycurgus (see below), the most decisive single moment in the transmission history of tragic texts. Nevertheless, a few other plays of Euripides also survived – the so-called “alphabetical tragedies”, the titles of which begin with Ε/Η/Θ/Ι: Helen, Heracles, Children of Heracles (Herakleidai), Electra, Suppliant Women (Hiketides), Iphigenia at Aulis, Iphigenia among the Taurians and Ion. 8 This tells us that – somewhere in the world, at some point in time — people were continuing to read and make copies of non-selected plays. This group of plays looks like part of a “Complete Works” of Euripides arranged alphabetically, but it demonstrates that even an apparently complete collection might be unreliable and full of gaps. It is tantalizing to reflect that other known Euripidean titles beginning with the same letters — Erecththeus, Theseus, Thyestes, Ino, Ixion and the lost Hippolytus — might easily have survived among this group but did not. The gaps are probably due to the haphazard assembly of individual book-rolls, which would have contained one play each. 9 Once a group of plays had been transferred to the new codex format, it seems that their specific selection and ordering would have been fixed more securely, and that their survival would have been less precarious. 10 Scholars typically refer to the survival of the alphabetical tragedies as a “happy accident” or “miracle”. 11 In other words, there was a parallel tradition of textual transmission, entirely independent of the selected edition, which left almost no trace on the historical record until the fourteenth century (the date of the codex Laurentianus, our main source for these plays). How this came about, even if not a miracle, is certainly mysterious. But the survival of the alphabetical plays is extremely significant. It shows us that we do not really know how long, or in what circumstances, any of the tragedies outside the mainstream “selected” tradition survived between antiquity and the fourteenth century; they obviously did

 8 The satyric Cyclops is also preserved in this group. 9 So Zuntz 1965, 277; cf. Snell 1935, who speculates that the nine surviving “alphabetical” plays represent the contents of two separate book-cases, each containing precisely five rolls (including Hecuba, which would not need to be re-copied since it already existed in the selected edition). 10 Cf. Finglass 2012, 13–14 on the transition from bookroll to codex as a factor affecting a play’s survival or loss. 11 E.g. Zuntz 1965, 277–278, Kovacs 2005, 387.

  Matthew Wright not drop out of circulation entirely. 12 All of which means, of course, that the rediscovery of further medieval manuscripts containing lost plays would not be a completely unrealistic fantasy — but let us not get carried away. 13 Even though so much about the preservation or disappearance of texts must remain obscure, it is important to enquire exactly how and when the lost plays became lost. How many people within antiquity still knew these plays? Did they encounter them in the medium of performances or books? When ancient writers quoted or discussed tragedies now lost, did they still have the full texts before them? For how long did texts of these works remain available? Can we pinpoint the last recorded sightings of lost plays? Our evidence is very incomplete, but we can make at least a tentative attempt to answer some of these questions. It is normally assumed that during the tragedians’ lifetimes copies of their plays will have existed in their own personal collections, and that after their deaths the poets’ families will have retained all or most of these texts. No direct evidence for such book collections exists, apart from a testimonium that mentions Euripides as the owner of an unusually well-stocked private library, 14 but it seems a reasonable assumption. Book-ownership was becoming widespread in the fifth century, and the fact that the tragedians’ descendants were able to stage revivals of their work indicates that copies of the scripts must have lain readily to hand. 15 In addition, the huge number of tragic quotations, allusions and parodies in fifth-century comedy, many of them intricate and recherché, strongly suggests (to me, at least) that the comedians also had access to texts of a wide range of tragedies when writing their own plays. 16

 12 Signs of knowledge of the “alphabetic” plays have been detected in a small number of Byzantine texts: see Magnelli 2003. 13 For a touching example of scholarly fantasy see Weitzmann 1959, 26–27, 78–80, who managed to persuade himself, on the basis of illustrations in an illuminated manuscript of Oppian (Venice, Marcian. Cod. Gr. 479), that texts of Euripides’ Daughters of Pelias, Ino and other plays remained in circulation during the eleventh century: see Zuntz 1965, 278–281 for trenchant criticism. 14 Athen. 1.3a (TrGF 5 T49; cf. T50a–b). 15 E.g. Aristias, Euphorion, Iophon, Sophocles II (TrGF 1.9, 1.12, 1.22, 1.62); cf. Sutton 1987 on theatrical families in general. 16 See Lowe 1993; Wright 2012, 141–171.

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Comedians throughout the fourth century continued to draw on tragedy, showing a marked preference for fifth-century drama over works by their contemporaries. 17 This may suggest that these earlier plays and their authors were already starting to acquire the status of “classics” — or, at any rate, that the works of Aeschylus, Sophocles and Euripides remained well known for many decades after their deaths. Euripides is attested more often than Sophocles or Aeschylus in the fragments of “middle” and “new” comedy, but no firm conclusions can be drawn on this basis because our evidence is so jejune. For the same reason the absence of identifiable allusions to any other fifth-century tragedians cannot prove that their plays had already fallen into desuetude, though it may well be that this was so. All we can say for certain is that comedy during the whole of the fourth century, up to and including the plays of Menander, demonstrates knowledge of lost works by all three major tragedians. 18 It is striking that the titles of numerous comedies from this period mirror the titles of now-lost tragedies — for instance, Diphilus’ Daughters of Danaus, Eubulus’ Europa, Antiphanes’ Athamas, Anaxandrides’ Tereus, Nicochares’ Lemnian Women and literally dozens of others along similar lines. 19 Were some or all of these works parodies of specific tragedies — and, if so, on whose tragedies were they based? We cannot be certain whether these comedies were paratragic or simply mythological in conception, but they strongly suggest the ongoing availability and popularity of fifth-century tragedy, extant and non-extant plays alike. At around the same time scholars were starting to write critical and historical studies of tragedy. As well as Aristotle’s extant Poetics, which discusses many now lost tragedies, we know of many other similar works of secondary literature produced in the fourth and early third centuries — including Aristotle’s Performance Records (Didaskaliai), Victories at the Dionysia and On the Tragedians, Heraclides of Pontus’ On the Three Tragedians and On Euripides’ and Sophocles’ Plots, Chamaeleon’s On Aeschylus, Douris’ On Euripides and Sophocles, Philochorus’ On Euripides and his five-book monograph On Sophocles’ Myths, and Dicaearchus’

 17 See Wright 2013, 619–622; Farmer 2017, 11–113, and (on Menander in particular) Gutzwiller 2000; Cusset 2003. 18 Identifiable allusions to lost works (all refs. are to Kassel-Austin): Anaxilas fr. 19, Diphilus fr. 32 (Aeschylus); Alexis fr. 157, Antiphanes fr. 191, Timocles fr. 6 (Sophocles); Anaxandrides fr. 66, Archippus fr. 47, Diphilus fr. 74, Eubulus fr. 26 and fr. 67, Nicostratus fr. 29, Philemon fr. 73, Timocles fr. 6, Antiphanes fr. 19; Menander, Aspis 407, Carchedonios fr. 7, Epitrepontes 760–768, Heros 84, Samia 324–326, 498–500 (Euripides). 19 For detailed discussion see Nesselrath 1990 and 1993; cf. Casolari 2003.

  Matthew Wright Plot-Summaries of Sophocles and Euripides and Contests at the Dionysia. 20 The titles of all these works indicate that they provided comprehensive, synoptic coverage of the material. Obviously the early scholars had access to all the plays as well as contextual information about their production. These books, like many of the plays they discussed, have disappeared, but they were no doubt known and used by later scholars — some of whom will have had far less (if any) first-hand knowledge of the plays themselves. (This is a particularly important consideration when weighing up the evidential value of citations from lost plays: see below.) People’s knowledge of tragedy during the fourth century and later would have depended, increasingly, on acquaintance with the texts in the form of books, but also, to a variable degree, on a continuing tradition of performance. In 386 BC the Athenians voted to include a performance of “old tragedy” alongside new works at the City Dionysia. 21 This measure does not imply that there had been no revivals of older tragedies before that date, but it is a sign of the ongoing popularity of such plays and the increasing esteem in which certain fifth-century writers were being held. 22 No doubt these reperformances at the Dionysia will have included many plays now lost, but we have almost no record of specific tragedies that were produced under this rule. Similarly, we know of many other theatres and performance contexts throughout Greece — and far beyond — in the fourth century and later, but we have next to no information about the actual plays that were produced there. 23 Many fourth-century vase-paintings from South Italy and Magna Graecia depict scenes related (in some sense) to the subject-matter and characters of tragedy: these images are often treated as evidence for frequent reperformances of fifth-century drama beyond Athens, including many non-extant plays. 24 However, as I have argued elsewhere, the status of such evidence is ambiguous. 25 The problem is not simply that it is open to doubt whether drama (in general) had any direct influence on the world of art. 26 Even if one is inclined to be less sceptical,

 20 TrGF 3, pp. 101–102; TrGF 4 T148–155; TrGF 5 T206–217. 21 IG ii2 2318, 2323, 2323a; cf. Pickard-Cambridge 1988, 99–100, 123–125. 22 On reperformance in antiquity see Lamari 2015. 23 See Csapo/Wilson 2015; Csapo et al. 2014. 24 See Taplin 2007 and (with particular reference to the question of reperformance) Vahtikari 2014 and Nervegna 2014. 25 Wright 2016a, xxii–xxiii. 26 E.g. Small 2003, in a bracingly sceptical discussion, refers to “the parallel worlds” of classical art and text.

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it is hard to demonstrate links between vase-paintings and particular performances, as opposed to widespread familiarity with the texts in book form. 27 But regardless of one’s own point of view on such problems generally, it has to be admitted that there is not a single vase-painting that can definitely be connected with a specific performance of a lost tragedy — and for our current purposes this is an insurmountable problem. At best, the vase-paintings can provide a rough indication of which plays and myths remained well known. Surviving images have been plausibly linked to a wide range of non-extant plays. For instance, in his Pots and Plays Oliver Taplin includes fifth- and fourth-century images that may (with varying degrees of probability) be related to Aeschylus’ Edonians, Europe, Niobe, Prometheus Unbound, Phineus and Phrygians; Sophocles’ Creusa, Tereus and Thyestes at Sicyon; and Euripides’ Aeolus, Alcmene, Andromeda, Antigone, Antiope, Dictys, Melanippe, Meleager, Oeneus, Oenomaus, Stheneboea, Telephus, Hypsipyle, Phoenix, Phrixus I and Chrysippus. But this is a judiciously-chosen sample, rather than a complete list of all available possibilities: there have been many other attempts to match up vases and lost tragedies. 28 Most recently Vesa Vahtikari, in a sensible and scrupulous survey of the evidence, has identified just seven lost plays that were “very probably” reperformed outside Athens in the fourth century: Euripides’ Antiope, Telephus and Stheneboea, Sophocles’ Thyestes in Sicyon, and tragedies about Andromeda, Oenomaus and Niobe (authorship uncertain); this list is supplemented by various other tragedies that were “probably” or “possibly” reperformed. 29 But in none of these cases (alas) is certainty achievable. What the artistic evidence suggests is that, as we might have expected, a wide range of non-extant plays remained well known throughout the fourth century, and indeed that the lost plays are no less well represented than most of those which happened to survive. The distribution of images also seems to suggest, more unexpectedly, that Euripides became the most popular tragedian from a relatively early date. But, however we may choose to interpret this evidence, it can only take us as far as the late fourth century. After that date the picture is much less clear. Appendix 1 provides, in handily accessible format, a record of all definitely attested reperformances of lost plays from the ancient world, along with our evidence for these performances — which consists of not vase-paintings but a mixture of literary and epigraphic sources. In a few cases the identity of the author or play is uncertain, but we can at least be confident that these performances did  27 Cf. Zuntz 1965, 257–259. 28 See esp. Webster 1967; Todisco 2003. 29 Vahtikari 2014, esp. 135, 147–150, 175, 183–189, 191–198, 221–247.

  Matthew Wright happen. This table contains only those productions that we know about — just twenty of them, an insignificantly tiny number. Because it is very far from being a complete or representative list, it is impossible to identify any meaningful patterns or trends. There are more plays here by Euripides than anyone else, but this might just be an accident of survival. A few titles (Cresphontes, Archelaus, Ino and Andromeda) appear more than once, but this does not prove that these were especially popular plays. There are no attested reperformances of plays by tragedians other than Aeschylus, Sophocles and Euripides, but we cannot be certain that no such productions were staged. All that we can conclude for certain is that a number of the lost plays were still being staged from time to time throughout the Hellenistic world and well into the Roman period. If the lost plays’ performance history is obscure, a little more can be said about the transmission of texts from the fourth century BC onwards. During the 330s or 320s, Aeschylus, Sophocles and Euripides underwent a process akin to canonization after they were named by a decree of Lycurgus as the three official state tragedians of Athens. Among the most important results of this decree was the collection and preservation of authorized texts of their plays, which were deposited in the state archive. 30 Thus Athenians at this date still had access to many — if not all — of the works attributed to the triad. However, we have no idea how these texts were obtained, or what they looked like, or how authentic they were, or whether it proved possible to acquire a text of every single play. It is also unclear exactly what was the main impetus behind Lycurgus’ Authorized Version. Did it represent an entirely new enterprise? Had the Athenians never before kept archival copies of any of the Dionysia entries or prizewinners? 31 Had there been a previous attempt to produce an authentic text, coinciding with the reintroduction of “old” tragedy at the Dionysia? 32 Was the creation of the Authorized Version primarily a symbolic act, intended to establish the triad and preserve their legacy, or did it represent an attempt to ensure textual accuracy and authenticity at a time when lots of rogue editions were circulating? On the whole one would like to know a good deal more about the Lycurgan text. At any rate, the creation of this state-authorized edition was an act of crucial importance. This decisive act ensured the preservation of the works of the three “classic” tragedians, but it also contributed directly to the loss of all the hundreds

 30 [Plut.], X orat. 841f. See Scodel 2007; Hanink 2014; Wright 2016a, xvii–xviii. 31 A pre-existing archive is assumed by Reynolds/Wilson 1991, 5; Kovacs 2005, 381–382 and others; Battezzato 2003, 9–12 sees Lycurgus’ project as entirely unprecedented. 32 Implied by Quintilian 10.1.66, who says that the Athenians began to permit reperformances after the plays had been revised: see Lamari 2015, 195.

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of other tragedies by everyone else. From this time and forever afterwards, all the tragedians apart from the triad were relegated to the status of “minor” poets and became neglected. (Well before the end of the fourth century Heraclides of Pontus was able to publish a book entitled On the Three Tragedians, the title implying that there were only three.) 33 It is unclear just how quickly this process happened, or just how total was the obscurity into which they fell, but the fact that no official texts were produced of their work made it almost inevitable that these “minor” tragedians would — sooner or later — sink from view. And yet the fact that we have even a handful of fragments from the other tragedians suggests that copies of (or extracts from?) some of their plays survived, in some form, long enough for them to be quoted by a few bookish individuals here and there. We are told, by Galen, that in the mid-third century BC, at the request of Ptolemy III Euergetes, the Athenians’ official texts of Aeschylus, Sophocles and Euripides were sent to the Library at Alexandria: this means that these texts will have formed the basis of all later editions. 34 It seems, however, that some of the plays got lost in transit, or that they had already disappeared before Lycurgus was able to collect them. This is suggested by the fact that no one could ever say exactly how many plays each poet wrote: the figures quoted in our sources differ considerably. 35 Several of the surviving manuscripts contain catalogues, which supposedly list the tragedians’ complete works but are defective: they omit titles of plays which we know existed, and they include titles which are nowhere else attested. We have one definite example of a play that was known about (from didascalic records) but unobtainable by the librarians: Aristophanes of Byzantium, in his hypothesis to Euripides’ Medea of 431 BC, recorded that its accompanying satyr-play The Reapers (Theristai) “is not preserved” (οὐ σώιζεται). Even some of the plays that did reach Alexandria were judged spurious: for instance, Aristophanes is said to have rejected as many as seventeen of the titles attributed to Sophocles. 36 It is obvious that the texts still required a lot of editing. From the third century onwards Alexandrian scholars — including Alexander of Aetolus, Aristophanes of Byzantium and Aristarchus of Samothrace — devoted themselves to improving and emending the texts, and it was at this period that great advances were made in the science of textual criticism. As well as producing newly edited texts, the

 33 TrGF 4 T151. 34 Gal. Commentary on Hippocrates’ Epidemics 3, 2.4 (TrGF 4 T157, 5 T219). Battezzato 2003, 19– 25 treats Galen’s account with scepticism. 35 TrGF 3 T1, T2, T78; TrGF 4 T1–2; TrGF 5 T1, T3 and p. 80. 36 Life of Sophocles 1.18 (TrGF 4 T1.76–7).

  Matthew Wright Alexandrian scholars also compiled lists of all the tragedies known to them and wrote monographs, plot-summaries (hypotheseis) and commentaries (hypomnêmata) on many of the plays. 37 This labour left its mark on all subsequent texts, and it seems likely that many of the hypotheseis and marginalia that are preserved in our medieval manuscripts ultimately derive from the writings of scholars in the Hellenistic period. But did all the plays receive equal amounts of scholarly attention? It has been suggested, plausibly, that one factor affecting a play’s preservation (or its inclusion in the later “selected edition”) would have been the existence of an accompanying commentary, which would have made the play more suitable to be studied and taught in schools. 38 However, we cannot say exactly which plays did or did not have commentaries at any particular period during antiquity, and there are in fact definite signs that some of the lost plays (such as Aeschylus’ Lycurgus and Sophocles’ Troilus and Chryses) did have Alexandrian commentaries. 39 I suspect that many more plays than the “selected” twenty-four titles originally had commentaries which later became lost or obsolete. It seems reasonable to suppose that the texts of many lost works survived into the Roman period, on the basis that several Roman playwrights produced tragedies with the same titles. Works such as Livius Andronicus’ Hermiona, Ino and Tereus, Pacuvius’ Atalanta, Antiopa and Thyestes, Accius’ Andromeda and Chrysippus, Ennius’ Erechtheus, Melanippa and Cresphontes, and many others besides, may well have been influenced or directly inspired by lost works of Aeschylus, Sophocles and Euripides. 40 But because all these Latin works are also lost it is impossible to do more than speculate about the connections between the Greek and Roman dramas. Even in cases where the Roman tragedy survives in full, such as the complete plays of Seneca, the loss of the supposed Greek model means that any sort of sustained comparison is ruled out. 41 Consequently we cannot be sure exactly which Greek plays remained available in the Roman period and which did not. Numerous authors throughout the Greek, Roman and Byzantine periods wrote about the lost plays and alluded to their plots; they also quoted from them,

 37 See Pfeiffer 1968, esp. 222–223, 274–277. 38 Garland 2003, 44; Kovacs 2005, 387. 39 TrGF 3, p. 234 (Σ Theocritus 10.18); TrGF 4 fr. 624 (Hesychius E1847), fr. 728 (Σ Aristophanes, Frogs 191). 40 See Nervegna 2014, 177–178; cf. Boyle 2006, esp. 27–55, 88–89, 202–209. 41 On the numerous difficulties involved see Zwierlein 2004.

How Long Did the Lost Plays of Greek Tragedy Survive?  

thus preserving the majority of our fragments. Whenever we come across a reference or a verbatim quotation in a later text, we might suppose that the later author had the relevant tragedy in front of him and was relying on direct knowledge. If only we could be sure of this, we would be able to demonstrate that complete texts of nearly all the tragedies survived for many hundreds of years. Unfortunately, we cannot. We simply do not know on what basis our sources were able to cite the plays in question. Were some of them already lost — or obsolescent, or little-known, or difficult to access — at the time of citation? It is normally assumed that writers up to the Hellenistic period, at least, would have been able to consult a more or less complete range of texts. But did later writers such as (e.g.) Strabo, Stobaeus, Pollux, Hesychius or Photius invariably quote from first-hand knowledge, or were they relying on secondary sources, such as earlier commentaries, anthologies or lexicons? This is a crucially important question, which applies equally to all book-fragments, including the fragments of the neglected tragedians as well as the “classic” triad. Unfortunately, like so many questions of this sort, it is impossible to answer definitively. 42 Our approach to the problem will depend on how optimistic or sceptical we are prepared to be. We are free to believe that all our fragments are quoted directly from the complete works. Such a belief would be impossible to disprove, but most people would regard this degree of credulity as somewhat naïve. We might suspect that any fragments which are repeatedly quoted by multiple authors, verbatim and without significant variation or expansion, are unlikely to derive from first-hand knowledge of the text. Again, this would be impossible to disprove, but such an attitude might seem excessively sceptical. Perhaps we might be inclined to trust certain quoting authors more than others. Any writers who possess an unusually wide and detailed general knowledge of literature (such as, say, Plutarch, Cicero or Athenaeus) are probably more reliable sources than average – but we cannot be sure that every single one of their tragic quotations was taken directly from a complete text. Perhaps the relative date of a source is important: we might prefer to believe that the later a source is, the less likely it is that the quotation is first-hand. This principle might seem to be straightforwardly grounded in the law of probability, but it is too simplistic, and it does not take account of specific details or citational contexts. We cannot even be quite certain that an exact contemporary of a tragedian will invariably be quoting from a full

 42 The most detailed discussion of the problem (displaying a high degree of scepticism) remains that of Pearson 1917, i.xlvi–xci; cf. Zuntz 1965, 255–257; Garland 2003, 74–75; Finglass 2012, 14.

  Matthew Wright text (it has been argued, for instance, that Aristophanes often quotes tragedy on the basis of his memory of performances that he attended). 43 Alternatively, we might focus on specific formal features of quotations, trying to judge whether certain types of fragment are inherently more likely to have been excerpted from whole texts. Maybe lexicographic fragments (often consisting of a single word or phrase) and gnomic fragments (which lent themselves to decontextualized excerption, and which are naturally memorable) are more likely to have been passed down at second hand, via the medium of quotation culture. By contrast, maybe certain types of longer fragments, including dialogue portions with a change of speaker (which are very rarely encountered), non-gnomic citations, descriptive testimonia and so on, are more likely to have required direct access to the Urtext. This last line of approach strikes me as being potentially the most profitable. But ultimately, as far as I can see, there is no definitive test that could prove whether or not an author is quoting from first-hand knowledge of a play. If we open any volume of TrGF at random and examine the book-fragments and testimonia of any lost tragedy, together with their citation contexts, we will typically encounter a motley collection of different types of quotation from authors of different dates. The majority of fragments tend to be gnomic or lexicographic — that is, precisely the sort of quotation that can function as autonomous, free-standing utterances, requiring no contextual knowledge of the source text. 44 The remainder of the fragments will be more miscellaneous. If we are lucky we may encounter an extended passage of continuous text, but in such cases we will easily be able to imagine a reason why the verses in question might have been excerpted or preserved, independently of their source, to illustrate a point. In each individual case we can try to come up with criteria or arguments to determine a reasonable degree of probability, but I challenge the reader to identify a single quoted fragment that could not have come down to us via an intermediate source rather than first-hand acquaintance with a text. This is hugely important because it means that — to judge on the basis of book-fragments alone — full texts of the lost plays might have disappeared relatively soon after they were written, leaving behind only a few snippets, indirect recollections and inherited critical opinions.

 43 Mastromarco 2006; cf. Revermann 2006. 44 See Wright 2016b, on the way in which gnomic quotations in particular developed a “life of their own” within quotation culture. Cf. Carrara (2009) for indications that the textual transmission of gnomic anthologies was a parallel process independent of the transmission of complete works.

How Long Did the Lost Plays of Greek Tragedy Survive?  

Nevertheless, book-fragments do not tell the whole story. Papyrus fragments unearthed from the sands of Egypt are more revealing. These are (in most cases) the remains of entire books, and they allow us to be more precise about the texts that were still being read — at least in Egypt, if not elsewhere — at various dates from the third century BC right down to the fifth or sixth century AD. Some of these papyrus books were obviously anthologies of extracts, and there are a few ambiguous examples, but in many cases it is certain that we are looking at the remnants of complete playscripts. As in the case of performance records, we are dealing with such a disproportionately small selection of material that we cannot treat it as representative: it does not provide a solid basis for generalizations about textual transmission or ancient reading habits. However, what papyrus fragments prove is that many lost plays by all three members of the triad remained in circulation for many centuries after their original composition. Appendix 2 lists all currently known papyrus books that preserve parts of identifiable lost tragedies. 45 This list will inevitably — and happily — be rendered obsolescent by the ongoing publication of new fragments. For instance, during the last decade or so we have seen the first editions of important fragments of Sophocles’ Epigoni, Euripides’ Ino and Sophocles’ Tereus, 46 and no doubt papyri as yet unpublished have further riches in store. Here I omit references to papyrus fragments of the surviving tragedies, but those who have compared and contrasted this material have noted several striking features. 47 As already noted, until the second century AD (or thereabouts) there is no sign that the plays that have survived were more widely read than the ones that have not. A few plays are more prevalent than others, but a wide variety of tragedies was still in circulation for many centuries. The extant plays are not especially well represented in the papyri, and some of them are not attested there at all. After the second century AD the twenty-four surviving plays of the “selected edition” come to dominate the pattern overwhelmingly, suggesting that people ended up reading the non-selected plays much less than before. However, we do still have papyrus fragments of numerous non-selected plays dating from the three or four centuries that followed. These include not just lost works (such as Sophocles’ Epigoni and Euripides’ Ino, Cresphontes, Oedipus and Melanippe Bound) but also extant works that

 45 This information is compiled from several sources, including TrGF, Carrara 2009, the Leuven Database of Ancient Books (, and the Oxford Archive of Performances of Greek and Roman Drama ( I omit reference to papyrus fragments of unidentifiable tragedies: see TrGF 2 (Kannicht-Snell) fr. 627–726 (pp. 175–309). 46 P.Oxy. 4807 (published 2007), 5131 (published 2012) and 5292 (published 2016). 47 See esp. Garland 2003, 50–55; Carrara 2009; Avezzù 2012; Finglass 2012, 33–34.

  Matthew Wright did not make it into the selected edition (such as Euripides’ Helen and the two Iphigenia dramas). 48 In other words, the non-selected tragedies, though comparatively neglected, continued to circulate and did not disappear immediately or totally. More unexpectedly, it will be seen that we also have three possible examples of papyrus books containing the work of other, neglected tragedians (Critias’ Peirithous, Astydamas’ Hector and a play by Chaeremon), though it has to be admitted that all three cases are ambiguous. The authorship of Peirithous was and remains contested (it may well be Euripidean); 49 the attribution of the Hector fragments to Astydamas rests on conjecture; 50 and the papyrus containing the Chaeremon fragment(s) may be part of a gnomic anthology rather than a complete script of one of Chaeremon’s plays. 51 If it could be definitely shown that complete works by these so-called “minor” tragedians were still readily available in book form many years after their deaths, this would be extremely significant: it would mean that the period of their continuous textual transmission was much longer than normally assumed, and it might prompt us to view them as figures of lasting importance rather than ephemeral nonentities. As it is, we cannot be certain that this was so. Thus it may be that only the plays of the “classic” triad had any substantial afterlife beyond the beginning of the Hellenistic period. Ultimately (and somewhat depressingly) there is no way of knowing which plays endured the longest, or how long full texts remained available. As things currently stand, our latest recorded evidence of a book containing a complete lost tragedy is from the fifth or sixth century AD — the date of the codex Claromontanus, which contains substantial portions of Euripides’ Phaethon. 52 Could it be, then, that Phaethon is the lost play that came closest to surviving into the modern world? Certainly it was still being read a whole millennium after its first performance, and not so very long before our earliest medieval manuscripts of the extant plays. But there is no reason to suppose that other lost plays did not survive as long, or even longer. Since we have only the ambiguous evidence of book-fragments from the period between the latest papyri (fifth or sixth century) and the earliest manuscripts (tenth century), we can do no more than imagine the fate of the texts during these centuries.

 48 Carrara 2009, 335, 374–375, 427–435, 479–482. 49 Collard 2007. 50 See Snell 1971, 138–153 and TrGF 1 ad loc. (pp. 201–204); cf. Taplin 2009. 51 See Snell 1971, 166 and TrGF 1, p. 222; cf. Schubert 2013. 52 Paris. gr. 107B, fol. 162–163 (TrGF 5 F772a–774, 779a–781 Kannicht). Cf. Carrara 2009, 574– 575 (who emphasizes that the provenance of the papyrus is unknown).

How Long Did the Lost Plays of Greek Tragedy Survive?  

In conclusion, then, the factors determining a play’s survival or loss remain largely obscure. Apparently a mixture of factors was involved, including deliberate choice as well as a large degree of randomness. The plays that happened to survive were not always the most popular, most successful or most critically acclaimed. Nor indeed are they are a representative sample of Greek tragedy as a whole: they do not even reflect the full range of tragedy by Aeschylus, Sophocles or Euripides. 53 We cannot tell whether it was performances or books that played the greater part in keeping the plays alive. We can never be sure exactly when each play finally disappeared from view: all that we can do is try to identify the last recorded sighting. No very compelling overall patterns or tendencies definitely emerge from the evidence. It is tempting to conclude that Euripides was read more widely than Aeschylus or Sophocles during antiquity, just because his works are attested more often (from the mid-fourth century onwards), but we cannot be entirely confident that this is true. To reach any firm conclusions about theatrical productions, reading habits or the spread of tragedy at any period in antiquity we would need access to a full range of information that we simply do not have. Our paltry remains offer a few sporadic glimpses into a vanished and inaccessible world: they do not in any sense constitute a complete or representative sample of evidence. And yet all these negative conclusions do not amount to an admission of complete hopelessness. Investigating the transmission history of the lost plays is a useful exercise. It makes us think carefully about important questions concerning our knowledge of the past and the preservation of our cultural heritage. It reminds us how tenuous and incomplete our evidence is, and thus forces us to think very carefully about our methodology and approaches as literary historians. It warns us against the sort of inaccurate generalizations that can lead to misleading or distorted accounts of the tragic genre. It demonstrates that the plays that happened to survive came down to us partly by accident, and it suggests that the history of textual transmission could easily have been very different with only tiny alterations at crucial moments in history. Most importantly of all, it reveals that many of the lost tragedies survived for a surprisingly long time. This last fact may even encourage us to view the rediscovery of lost plays as a less remote prospect than we might have thought.

 53 See Wright 2019 for further discussion.

  Matthew Wright

Appendix 1 Tab. 1: Definitely attested performances of lost tragedies during antiquity Date


Author and play


c.  BC

Halai Aixonides/Aexone (Attica)

Sophocles, Telepheia

IG ii.  (TrGF  DID B, p. ; cf. TrGF , p. ): tragedies at the Rural Dionysia. It has been suggested that this is a production of the younger Sophocles (Snell, TrGF , p. ).

c. – BC


[Aeschylus or Sophocles?], Epigoni

Athenaeus .d (alluding to an acclaimed performance by the tragic actor Andronicus)

c. – BC


Sophocles, Oenomaus

Demosthenes .; cf. Demochares FGrHist  Fa; see also TrGF  p. 

c. – BC


Euripides, Cresphontes

as above

c. – BC


[Euripides?], Thyestes Demosthenes .

c. – BC


Euripides, Phoenix

– BC


Euripides, Andromeda Lucian, How to Write History 

c. – BC


Euripides, Archelaus

IG v. . (TrGF DID B , ): inscription found near theatre at Tegea

c. – BC


Euripides, Archelaus

as above

– BC


[Sophocles?], Ixion

Inscription from Athenian agora recording revivals of “old” tragedy: see Merritt () – .

c. – BC


Euripides, Alcmene

Plautus, Rudens –

 BC


Sophocles, Syndeipnoi

Cicero, To his Brother Quintus ..

Demosthenes .

How Long Did the Lost Plays of Greek Tragedy Survive?  



Author and play


c.  BC– AD


[Euripides?], Hypsipyle

Athenaeus .e–f

early first century AD


Euripides, Auge

Philo, Every Good Man is Free 

– AD

Tarsus or Hispalis (?)

Euripides, Andromeda Eunapius of Sardis (FGH IV F) describing a touring actor during Nero’s reign (perhaps performing excerpts or songs)

– AD


Euripides, Ino

Philostratus, Life of Apollonius .

c. – AD


Euripides, Ino

Plutarch, Moralia a

c. – AD


Euripides, Cresphontes

Plutarch, Moralia e

c. – AD


Sophocles, Tympanistai

CIL . (listed among performances by a pantomime dancer, L. Aurelius Apolaustus)

late second century AD


Euripides, Tatian, Address to the Alcmeon [in Psophis?] Greeks . (see TrGF , p. )

Appendix 2 Tab. 2: Remains of ancient papyrus books containing parts of lost tragedies Date

Author and play


rd century BC

Euripides, Alexandros

P.Stras.W.G. – (TrGF  F, a, d, a-e, k)

rd century BC

Euripides, Antiope

P.Petrie I.- (TrGF  F)

rd century BC

Euripides, Erechtheus

P.Sorb. inv.  (TrGF  F)

rd century BC

Euripides, Phaethon

BKT ,, pp. – (inv. ) (TrGF  F.–): from an anthology of lyric excerpts

rd century BC

Euripides, Hypsipyle

P.Petrie II.(c) (TrGF  F)

  Matthew Wright


Author and play


rd century BC

Euripides, Ino

P. Cairo inv.  (TrGF  F): part of a school textbook; also includes Phoenician Women –

rd century BC

Euripides, Antiope

P.Petrie I. () (TrGF  F): probably part of an anthology of maxims

rd century BC

Euripides, Aegeus

P.Berol. inv.  (TrGF  F): from an anthology

rd century BC

Sophocles, Niobe

P.Grenf. II.(a) (P.Lit.Lond. ) (TrGF  F–); P.Hib.  (TrGF  Fa)

rd century BC

Chaeremon (unknown work)

P.Hib. . (TrGF . Fb): initial letters of each line form an acrostic spelling out the author’s name; consecutive gnomai may be taken from an anthology or may have formed a single continuous passage. See Schubert ().

nd century BC

Euripides, Cresphontes

P.Mich. inv.  (TrGF  Fa); P.Köln X. (inv. - recto) (TrGF  F(a), pp. – )

nd century BC

Euripides, Protesilaus

BKT V., pp. – (inv. ) (TrGF  F.–); from an anthology

nd century BC

Euripides, Melanippe Bound

BKT V., pp. – (inv. ) (TrGF  F); from an anthology

before  BC

Aeschylus, Carians or Europa

P.Didot col. iv (TrGF  F)

c.  BC

Euripides, Telephus

P.Mil. I.. (TrGF  F)

late nd century BC

Euripides, Danae

P.Ross.Georg. I. (TrGF  F); from an anthology

nd or st century BC

Aeschylus, Psychagogoi

P.Köln  (TrGF  Fa)

between st century BC and Euripides, Phrixus ( or ) rd century AD

PSI  (TrGF  Fb): date and precise attribution disputed

between st century BC and Aeschylus, Children of Herard century AD cles

“Papyrus du Fayoum”  (Pack ) (TrGF  Fb): date disputed (see TrGF , pp. –)

st or nd century AD

Aeschylus, Myrmidons

PSI  (TrGF  Fc)

st or nd century AD

Euripides, Telephus

P.Oxy.  (TrGF  Fa)

How Long Did the Lost Plays of Greek Tragedy Survive?  


Author and play


st or nd century AD

Euripides, Andromeda

P.Oxy.  (TrGF  F–)

st or nd century AD

Euripides, Cresphontes

P.Fay.Coles  (TrGF  F)

st or nd century AD

Sophocles, Prophets or Polyidus (?)

P.Oxy.  fr.  (TrGF  Fa); attribution not beyond doubt

early nd century AD

Sophocles, Tereus

P.Oxy. 

nd century AD

[Critias?], Peirithous

P.Oxy. , fr. – (TrGF . F, F–): authorship disputed in antiquity

nd century AD

Euripides, Cretans

P.Oxy.  (TrGF  Fb–d)

nd century AD

Aeschylus, Niobe

PSI  (TrGF  Fa)

nd century AD

Aeschylus, Glaucus of Potniae PSI  (TrGF  F–a); P.Oxy.  (TrGF  Fb)

nd century AD

Aeschylus, Glaucus the SeaGod

P.Oxy.  (TrGF  Fe); P.Oxy.  (TrGF  Fc–d)

nd century AD

Aeschylus, Myrmidons

P.Oxy.  (TrGF  F–a)

nd century AD

Aeschylus, Xantriai

P.Oxy.  (TrGF  F–b)

nd century AD

Sophocles, Niobe

P.Oxy.  (TrGF  Fa)

nd century AD

Euripides, Antigone [or Antiope?]

P.Oxy.  (TrGF  F)

nd century AD

Euripides, Telephus

BKT V., pp. – (inv. ) (TrGF  Fc)

late nd century AD

Euripides, Alcmeon [in Psophis?]

PSI XIII. (TrGF  F)

nd or rd century AD

Astydamas, Hector (?)

P.Hib. .; P.Amh. .; P.Strasb.W.G. . (TrGF . F**h?, F**i?, F**a?): from different sources; identification and attribution conjectural.

nd or rd century AD

Euripides, Archelaus

P.Oxy.  (TrGF  F)

nd or rd century AD

Euripides, Hypsipyle

P.Oxy.  (TrGF  Fb–b)

nd or rd century AD

Euripides, Theseus (?)

P.Oxy.  (TrGF  Fb; attribution conjectural)

nd or rd century AD

Euripides, Cretans

BKT V., pp. - (inv. ) (TrGF  Fe)

nd or rd century AD

Sophocles, Scyrians

P.Oxy.  (TrGF  F–c)

nd or rd century AD

Sophocles, Ajax the Locrian

P.Oxy.  (TrGF  Fa–g)

rd century AD

Sophocles, Epigoni

P.Oxy. 

rd century AD

Euripides, Ino

P.Oxy. 

  Matthew Wright


Author and play


rd century AD

Euripides, Cresphontes

P.Oxy.  (TrGF  Fa)

th century AD

Euripides, Oedipus

P.Oxy.  (TrGF  F)

th or th century AD

Euripides, Melanippe Bound

BKT V., pp. - (inv. ) (TrGF  F)

th century AD

Euripides, Phaethon

Codex Claromontanus (Paris gr. B, fol. -) (TrGF  Fa– )

Bibliography Avezzù, G. (2012), “Text and transmission”, in: A. Markantonatos (ed.), Brill’s Companion to Sophocles, Leiden, 39–57. Battezzato, L. (2003), “I viaggi dei testi”, in: L. Battezzato (ed.), Tradizione testuale e ricezione letteraria antica della tragedia greca, Amsterdam, 7–31. Boyle, A. (2006), Roman Tragedy, London. Carrara, P. (2009), Il testo di Euripide nell’ antichità, Florence. Casolari, F. (2003), Die Mythentravestie in der griechischen Komödie, Munster. Collard, C. (2007), “The Pirithous fragments”, in: C. Collard, Tragedy, Euripides and Euripideans, Exeter, 56–68 [original version published in: J.A. López Férez (ed.) (1995), Da Homero a Libanio, Madrid, 183–193]. Csapo, E./Goette, H.R./Green, J.R./Wilson, P. (eds) (2014), Greek Theatre in the Fourth Century BC, Berlin. Csapo, E./Wilson P. (2015), “Drama outside Athens in the fifth and fourth centuries BC”, in: A.A. Lamari (ed.), Reperformances of Drama in the
Fifth and Fourth Centuries BC. Authors and Contexts (Trends in Classics 7.2), Berlin, 316–395. Cusset, C. (2003), Menandre ou la comédie tragique, Paris. Easterling, P.E. (2006), “Sophocles: the first thousand years”, in: J. Davison/F. Muecke/P. Wilson (eds), Greek Drama III: Essays in Honour of Kevin Lee, BICS Supplement 87, 1–15. Farmer, M. (2017), Greek Tragedy on the Comic Stage, Oxford/New York. Finglass, P.J. (2012), “The textual transmission of Sophocles’ dramas”, in: K. Ormand (ed.), A Companion to Sophocles, Malden/Oxford, 9–24. Garland, R. (2003), Surviving Greek Tragedy, London. Gutzwiller, K. (2000), “The tragic mask of comedy”, ClAnt 19, 102–137. Hanink, J. (2014), Lycurgan Athens and the Making of Athenian Tragedy, Cambridge. Kovacs, D. (2005), “Text and transmission”, in: J. Gregory (ed.), A Companion to Greek Tragedy, Malden/Oxford, 379–393. Lamari, A.A. (ed.) (2015), Reperformances of Drama in the 
Fifth and Fourth Centuries BC: Authors and Contexts, Trends in Classics 7.2, Berlin. Lowe, N. (1993), “Aristophanes’ books”, Annals of Scholarship 10, 63–83. Magnelli, E. (2003), “Un nuovo indizio (e alcune precisazioni) sui drammi ‘alfabetici’ di Euripide a Bisanzio tra XI e XII secolo”, Prometheus 29, 193–212.

How Long Did the Lost Plays of Greek Tragedy Survive?  

Mastronarde, D.J. (2017), “Text and transmission”, in: L. McClure (ed.), A Companion to Euripides, Malden/Oxford, 11–26. Merritt, B.D. (1938), “Greek Inscriptions”, Hesperia 7, 77–160. Nervegna, S. (2013), Menander in Antiquity: The Contexts of Reception, Cambridge. Nesselrath, H.-G. (1990), Die attische mittlere Komödie, Berlin. Nesselrath, H.-G. (1993), “Parody and later Greek comedy”, HSCP 95, 181–195. Pearson, A.C. (ed.) (1917), The Fragments of Sophocles, 3 vols., Cambridge. Pfeiffer, R. (1968), History of Classical Scholarship from the Beginnings to the End of the Hellenistic Age, Oxford. Pickard-Cambridge, A.W. (19883), The Dramatic Festivals of Athens, rev. T.B.L. Webster/ J. Gould/D.M. Lewis, Oxford. Reynolds, L./Wilson, N.G. (19913), Scribes and Scholars, Oxford. Russell, D.A./Winterbottom, M. (1972), Ancient Literary Criticism, Oxford. Schubert, C. (2013), “Ein literarisches Akrostichon aus der ersten Hälfte des vierten Jahrhunderts v. Chr.? Zu Chairemon, TrGF I, 71 F14b”, GFA 16, 389–397. Scodel, R. (2007), “Lycurgus and the state text of tragedy”, in: C. Cooper (ed.), Politics of Orality, Leiden, 129–154. Small, J.P. (2003), The Parallel Worlds of Classical Art and Text, Cambridge. Snell, B. (1935), “Zwei Töpfe mit Euripides-Papyri”, Hermes 70, 119–120. Snell, B. (1971), Szenen aus griechischen Dramen, Berlin. Sutton, D.F. (1987), “The theatrical families of Athens”, AJP 108, 9–26. Taplin, O.P. (2007), Pots and Plays, Los Angeles. Taplin, O.P. (2009), “Hector’s helmet glinting in a fourth-century tragedy”, in: S. Goldhill/ E.M. Hall (eds), Sophocles and the Greek Tragic Tradition, Cambridge, 251–263. Todisco, L. (ed.) (2003), La ceramica figurata a soggetto tragico in Magna Grecia e in Sicilia, Rome. Vahtikari, K. (2014), Tragedy Performances Outside Athens in the Late Fifth and the Fourth Centuries BC, Helsinki. Webster, T.B.L. (19672), Monuments Illustrating Tragedy and Satyr Play, London. Weitzmann, K. (1959), Ancient Book Illumination, Cambridge MA. Wilamowitz-Moellendorf, U. von (1907), Einleitung in die griechische Tragödie, Berlin. Wright, M.E. (2012), The Comedian as Critic: Greek Old Comedy and Poetics, London. Wright, M.E. (2013) “Poets and poetry in later Greek comedy”, CQ 63, 603–622. Wright, M.E. (2016a), The Lost Plays of Greek Tragedy. Volume 1: Neglected Authors, London. Wright, M.E. (2016b), “Euripidean tragedy and quotation culture: the case of Stheneboea F661”, AJP 137, 601–623. Wright, M.E. (2017), “A lover’s discourse: eros in Greek tragedy”, in: R.A. Seaford/J.M. Wilkins/ M.E. Wright (eds), Selfhood and the Soul, Oxford, 219–242. Wright, M.E. (2019), The Lost Plays of Greek Tragedy. Volume 2: Aeschylus, Sophocles and Euripides, London. Zuntz, G. (1965), An Inquiry into the Transmission of the Plays of Euripides, Cambridge. Zwierlein, O. (2004), Lucubrationes Philologae, Band I: Seneca, Bern.

Francesco Paolo Bianchi

What we Do (Not) Know about Lost Comedies: Fragments and Testimonia  An Aristophanic comedy generally contains about 1.500 verses and altogether the eleven surviving Aristophanic comedies contain about 17.000 verses. If we think of Cratinus and Eupolis, the other authors of the Archaia who formed together with Aristophanes the Alexandrian triad, 1 we will find that their works survive only as a corpus of about 500 fragments and a corresponding number of lines each; 2 therefore, all we have of Cratinus and Eupolis can be compared to just a third of only one aristophanic play. As E. Norden stated in his “römische Literatur” about one hundred years ago, after centuries of tradition what we have is only a huge Trümmerhaufen: “wie die griechische Literatur, so besitzen wir auch die römische nur als einen Trümmerhaufen, der im Vergleich mit ihrem ursprünglichen Bestande etwa so geringfügig ist wie die Ruinen des heutigen Forum Romanum im Vergleich mit demjenigen der Kaiserzeit”; 3 this means that we have to think of any lost comedy as something that “does not exist”, to quote S.D. Olson’s words, “it did exist once upon a time, but it does not exist any longer; that is what «lost» means” and we must realize “that we can never test our hypothesis against their object”. 4 My paper focuses on four case examples of lost comedies, which are attributed to Cratinus and known to us through the fragments belonging to the indirect tradition and through testimonies; fragments and testimonies interact and work jointly towards an overall interpretation, but raise also a set of problems, which have to be examined, in order to prevent us from a simplistic over-interpretation.

 1 The Alexandrinian triad is explicitly attested for the first time in Hor. sat. I, 4 1 Eupolis atque Cratinus Aristophanesque poetae, but no doubt that its origin can be traced back to the Hellenistic age and to the Alexandrian scholars, maybe to Lycophron περὶ κωμῳδίας, see Bianchi 2017, 364–368 ad Cratin. test. 27 K–A. (with previous references). 2 Cratinus, PCG IV (1983), frr. 1–514 K (frr. 505–514 dubia); Eupolis, PCG V (1986), frr. 1–494 (frr. 490–494 dubia). For the transmission and the surviving fragments of Cratinus s. Bianchi 2017, 40–102, for Eupolis s. Olson 2017, 14–16. 3 Norden 1927, 93. 4 The three quotations in Olson 2015, 211.

  Francesco Paolo Bianchi

 The first case is one of the most famous comedies written by Cratinus, the Dionysalexandros; 5 its fame is due mainly to the lucky discovery by Grenfell and Hunt in 1904 of a papyrus, published in editio princeps the same year (P.Oxy. IV, 663). On the basis of palaeography the papyrus can be dated back to the II–III century AD, and contains an ancient fragmentary hypothesis of this play; in some respects we can consider this record as an unicum, since it “belongs to a (sub-literary) genre with clearly defined features and a considerable number of parallels, but up to now it is also the only argumentum to a non Aristophanic comedy of the archaia we can read”. 6 On the other hand, there are only 13 fragments known through the indirect tradition, whose problems and difficulties are common to other similar texts, and in this particular case seem to be even more difficult: we have neither evidence of political reference, nor names of kōmōdoumenoi, nor elements for the chronology; and also the attribution of the fragments to some sections of the comedy is at least very uncertain. The relationship between the hypothesis and the fragments preserved by the indirect tradition is particularly informative. The hypothesis allows us to understand roughly the plot: the text is on two columns, 25 lines the first (19 complete), whose initial section is lost, and 20 the second (18 complete); “the title occurs not where it would be expected […] but at the top of the last column”, 7 and it suggests that the papyrus originally contained an edition of Cratinus’ comedy, opened by the title, written in a large blank space, an ἄγραφον in which thereafter the hypothesis was added; 8 thanks to a comparison with other similar Aristophanic hypotheseis 9 it is possible to say that the lost section contained the summary of prologue, parodos and agon, the three sections which normally precede the parabasis. The first lines that we can entirely read belong to the summary of the parabasis whose

 5 PCG IV, 140–147, testt. i–*ii, frr. 39–51 K–A. 6 Bakola 2010, 193. For P.Oxy. 663 see Bianchi 2016, 211–241 with previous bibliography. 7 Grenfell/Hunt 1904, 69. 8 See especially Caroli 2007, 248–250 and van Rossum-Steenbeek 1998, 38, which suggests also that “it is not unthinkable that this hyp. once formed part of a collection of hypp.”. 9 E.g. Ach. 1, Eq. A1, Nub. A5, Vesp. 2, Pax A3, Av. A2, Lys. A1, Ran. 1, which present linguistic (e.g. description of parabasis), stylistic (simple sentences and terse style), and structural (focus on the action, aesthetic consideration at the end) similarities (see for details Bakola 2010, 193 fn. 28).

What we Do (Not) Know about Lost Comedies: Fragments and Testimonia  

content is hidden behind the mysterious abridgement ΠΥΩΝΠΟΙΗ; 10 it follows a quite linear sketch of the ensuing events: παραφανέντα τὸν |11 ∆ιόνυσον ἐπισκώ(πτουσι) (καὶ) |12 χλευάζου(σιν)· ὁ δ(ὲ) πα- |13 ραγενομένων〈 〉|14 αὐτῷ παρὰ μ(ὲν) ῞Η̣̣ρ̣α̣ [ς] τυραννίδο(ς) |15 ἀκινήτου, πα[ρ]ὰ δ’ Ἀθηνᾶς |16 εὐψυχί(ας) κ(α)τ(ὰ) πόλεμο(ν), τῆς |17 δ᾽ Αφροδί(της) κάλλιστό(ν) τε κ(αὶ) |18 ἐπέραστον αὐτὸν ὑπάρ-|19 χειν,κρίνει ταύτην νικᾶν|20 μ(ε)τ(ὰ) δ(ὲ) ταῦ(τα) πλεύσας εἰς |21 Λακεδαίμο(να) (καὶ) τὴν Ἑλένην |22 ἐξαγαγὼν ἐπανέρχετ(αι) |23 εἰς τὴν Ἴδην. ἀκού(ει) δ(ὲ) με-|24τ’ ὀλίγον τοὺς Ἀχαιοὺς πυρ-|25 πολ]εῖν τὴν χώ(ραν) (καὶ) [ [... col. II, rr. 29–48] τὸν Ἀλέξαν[δ(ρον). τὴν μ(ὲν) οὖν Ἑλένη(ν) |30 εἰς τάλαρον ὡς τ̣α̣[ |31 κρύψας, ἑαυτὸν δ ̓ εἰς κριὸ[ν |32 μ(ε)τ(α)σκευάσας ὑπομένει |33 τὸ μέλλον. παραγενό- |34 μενος δ’ Ἀλέξανδ(ρος) κ(αὶ) φωρά- |35 σας ἑκάτερο(ν) ἄγειν ἐπὶ τὰς |36 ναῦς πρ(οσ)τάττει ὡς παραδώσων |37 τοῖς Ἀχαιοῖ(ς). ὀκνούσης δ(ὲ) τῆς |38 Ἑλένη(ς) ταύτην μ(ὲν) οἰκτείρας |39 ὡς γυναῖχ’ ἕξων ἐπικατέχ(ει), |40 τὸν δ(ὲ) ∆ιόνυ(σον) ὡς παραδοθη- |41 σόμενο(ν) ἀποστέλλει, συν- |42 ακολουθ(οῦσι) δ’ οἱ σάτυ(ροι) παρακαλοῦν- |43 τές τε κ(αὶ) οὐκ ἂν προδώσειν |44 αὐτὸν φάσκοντες. κωμῳ- |45δεῖται δ’ ἐν τῶι δράματι Πε- |46 ρικλῆς μάλα πιθανῶς δι’ |47 ἐμφάσεως ὡς ἐπαγηοχὼς |48 τοῖς Ἀθηναίοις τὸν πόλεμον And after Dionysus appears, they make fun of him and jeer him. After Hera offers him unshakable royal power, Athena offers him courage in war, and Aphrodite offers that he be the best-looking and most sexually attractive man there is, he judges her the winner. After this, he sails to Sparta and takes Helen away, and returns to Ida; shortly thereafter he hears that the Achaeans are laying the country waste and looking for Alexandros. He hides Helen as quickly as he can in a basket, changes his own appearance to make himself look like a ram, and waits for what will happen next. After Alexandros appears and catches them, he orders (his men) to take them both to the ships to turn them over to the Achaeans. But when Helen is reluctant, he pities her and detains her to be his wife; but he sends Dionysus off to be surrendered. The satyrs follow along, encouraging (him) and saying that they will not abandon him. Pericles is made fun of quite persuasively in the play via innuendo for having brought the war on the Athenians. (Translation by S.D. Olson)

Among the most relevant facts we count the judgment of the Goddesses (ll. 13– 16), 11 the information that the scene was on the mount Ida (ll. 20–23), the arrival of the true Alexandros who discovers Dionysos and Helen (ll. 33–41), the identity of the chorus as a chorus of satyrs (l. 42); furthermore, we are told at ll. 44–48 that the comedy has a political dimension and mocks Pericles μάλα πιθανῶς δι᾽ ἐμφάσεως (where emphasis is a terminus technicus for a hidden mock opposed to an open one) 12 for a precise reason, ὡς ἐπαγηοχὼς τοὺς Ἀθηναίους ἐπὶ πόλεμον,  10 See Bianchi 2016, 218–224 for a summary of the different interpretations. 11 This scene is one of the most vexed and was interpreted in many different ways, see Bianchi 2015. 12 “Versteckte Anspielung”, Koerte 1904, 490–491. On the emphasis see Sonnino 2003, Bakola 2010, 198–206 (198 n. 35 for further bibliography).

  Francesco Paolo Bianchi because he had brought the war on the Athenian. Since the expression τὸν πόλεμον at line 48 is commonly interpreted as a reference to the outbreak of the Peloponnesian War, we can infer that the comedy was written in 430 or 429 BC, before Pericles’ death. 13 As for the 13 fragments of indirect tradition, none of them, as already said, can be practically integrated into the dramatic action reported in the hypothesis. The only exception may be fr. 45 K–A ὁ δ ̓ ἠλίθιος ὥσπερ πρόβατον βῆ βῆ λέγων βαδίζει “the fool goes around saying ‘Baa! baa!’ like a sheep”, 14 preserved by lexicographical sources and by Eustatius, since it records the onomatopoeic sound “baa baa” for the sheep noise. 15 It seems to be “a mocking description of the disguised Dionysus’ attempts to avoid capture by Paris”; 16 from Meineke onwards 17 the fragment was attributed to the scene in which a scared Dionysus hides himself thanks to his transformation into a ram, at ll. 31–37 of the hypothesis. Although this assumption is plausible, we have to remark the general nature of the utterance. It is also possible that we are in front of a gnomic saying that had no relationship with the plot, but was placed, perhaps, in the lost agōn, since in fact, both the spirit and the meter of the fragment, the catalectic iambic tetrameter, are usual for the comic agōn. 18 To come to the other fragments, we can just make some suggestions, which are sometimes very different from each other and all of them seem plausible in the same way, as the following three examples show. Fr. 40 K–A στολὴν δὲ δὴ τίν ̓ εἶχε; τοῦτό μοι φράσον. / (B.) θύρσον, κροκωτόν, ποικίλον, καρχήσιον, “(A.) What sort of clothing was he wearing? Tell me this! (B.) He had a thyrsus, a multicoloured himation, and a drinking-cup” 19 could be part of the scene, in which Paris, probably the speaker A, is looking for Dionysus, the individual clearly referred to (as the four words of v. 2 indicate); 20 fr. 41 K–A εὐθὺς γὰρ ᾑμώδεις

 13 For the chronology of the Dionysalexandros, see Bianchi 2016, 207–210. 14 Transl. Olson 2007, 425. 15 Phot. β 130 = Etym. Gen. β 105 Berg. (AB; Etym. Magn. 196, 7) = Sud. β 250; Eust. in Od. 1721,26; Eust. in Il. 768,14. 16 Olson 2007, 91. 17 Meineke FCG II.1, 40, cfr. Bianchi 2016, 274–276. 18 For the catalectic iambic tetrameter in the agon of a comedy, see Perusino 1968, 64–66, 97–121. 19 Transl. Olson 2007, 425. 20 See Olson 2007, 91: “The individual referred to is clearly Dionysus, and Speaker A is probably Paris, who is attempting to discover who assumed his identity in order to judge among the goddesses and then stole Helen from Menelaus”. For the four words of v. 2, all referring to Dionysus, see Bianchi 2016, 248–252.

What we Do (Not) Know about Lost Comedies: Fragments and Testimonia  

ἀκούων τῶν ἐπῶν τοὺς προσθίους ὀδόντας, “The minute you heard her words you began to gnash your front teeth” 21 shows a scared character: it could be Dionysus himself, afraid from the Achaenas or from Paris, while both are looking for him, or it could be another character who is pointing to Dionysus, tremendously excited after hearing the goddesses’ proposals; 22 fr. 48 νακότιλτος ὡσπερεὶ κῳδάριον ἐφαινόμην, “Wool-plucked, I looked like a fleece”, 23 could refer to Dionysus’ unmasking ad described in hyp. col. II rr. 31 s., 34 s. 24 To sum up, the case of Dionysalexandros shows that the hypothesis provides significant information about the plot, the characters and also the political issues of the play; relying just on the fragments of the indirect tradition, we would not be aware of these features at all. This case should remind us that we must be very cautious every time we try to infer general conclusions on the plot from a few fragments; “wie sehr man sich bei allen Rekonstruktionsversuchen selbst von Stücken, von denen zahlreiche und umfangreiche Fragmente erhalten sind, auf dünnem Eis befindet, zeigt in aller Deutlichkeit der Dionysalexandros des Kratinos: ohne das Papyrusfund der Hypothesis des Stücks wäre man kaum auf die vielschichtige, mit ständigen Rollenwechseln überraschende Handlung gekommen”. 25 In this sense, we can remember that, before the discovery of the hypothesis, Meineke doubted that Dionysalexandros could effectively be attributed to the young Cratinus, because of the mythological content and moreover; following an explanation proposed by Schweighaeuser, he believed that the comedy referred to Alexander the Great's campaign “Dionysiacae pompae adsimulatam”. 26 This interpretation is today for us clearly wrong, but at that time there was no evidence against this view.

 21 Transl. Olson 2007, 425. 22 The last one is the hypothesis of Pieters apud K–A PCG IV, 142, compare Olson 2007, 91: “probably a description of Dionysus’ reaction when one of the goddesses attempted to bribe him to judge her the most beautiful and he had trouble containing himself”. For the other interpretations, see Bianchi 2016, 255. 23 Transl. Henderson 2011, 184. 24 Koerte 1904, 494 and n. 1 “für 41 [= 48 K–A] weiss ich keine recht geeignete Stelle vorzuschlagen [...] Sprach vielleicht Dionysos den Vers, nachdem er seine Rolle als Widder aufgegeben hatte?”, see Bianchi 2016, 292–293. 25 Zimmermann 2011, 716. 26 Meineke FCG II.1, 37, cfr. Meineke FCG I, 57, 413. See Bianchi 2016, 199 n. 153.

  Francesco Paolo Bianchi

 The second example is the Nemesis. 27 We have two variants of Nemesis’ myth, which ends with Helen’s birth; in both versions Zeus and Nemesis have intercourse and Nemesis gives birth to an egg. This egg is then handed to Leda, who broods it up to its hatching; 28 in this way it is possible to maintain both traditions about Helen’s birth, on the one hand from Leda, as known from the Homeric poems onwards, and on the other hand from Nemesis. 29 According to the first version, in order to flee Zeus, Nemesis roams the world and hides herself by changing her shape into animal forms (Cypria fr. 10 Bernabè), but Zeus “pursued Nemesis after changing himself too into a goose, and after he united with her she laid an egg from which Helen was born”. 30 In the second variant Zeus, to achieve his goal, transforms into a swan, then lets Aphrodite, transformed into eagle, pursue him; he seeks shelter in Nemesis’ bosom and has intercourse with her in Rhamnous, probably an allusion to Nemesis’ temple in Rhamnous (destroyed by the Persians in 490 BC, refurbished during the 430s and finished about 10/15 years later) and, in general, a “local variant [...] inspired by the presence of Nemesis in Attica”. 31 The fullest account of this second version is in Hyg. Astr. II 8 and, according to Eratosthenes’ Katasterismoi, 32 it was the va-

 27 PCG IV, 179–185, test. i–ii, frr. 114–127 K–A. The comedy was produced all but certainly in 431 BC (better than 429 BC), as can be inferred particularly from fr. 125 K–A ex schol. Ar. Av. 125c which refers a problematic mention of the soothsayer Lampon, see Bianchi 2017, 23–28 (26–28 for the discussion of a dating in 429 BC). 28 According to Apollod. III 10, 7 a shepherd found the egg and brought it to Leda; in Sapph. fr. 166 V. Leda found herself the egg; finally in schol. Lycophr. v. 88 Scheer Nemesis herself gave the egg to Tyndareos who gave it to Leda. 29 See Casolari 2003, 80 n. 62: “Sie ist möglicherweise auf einen Versuch zurückzuführen, die beiden Sagen in der Weise zu vereinigen, daß aus Leda diejenige wird, die das wahrscheinlich von Nemesis stammende Ei findet”, cfr. generally ibid. 80– 83 and on the myth of Helen and her birth the bibliography in Reinhardt 2011, 257 n. 978. 30 Cypria fr. 11 Bernabè ex Philod. Piet. B 7369 Obbink, translation of Henderson 2012, 3. About this version of the myth see in particular Luppe 1974b. 31 Henderson 2012, 3, cfr. ibid. for the the temple in Rhamnous: “the subtext was celebration of Nemesis’ local role in helping the Athenians punish Persian hybris at Marathon, for legend had it that the Persians had brought with them a block of Parian marble for their trophy, and it was from this block that Nemesis’ statue was carved (Paus. 1.33.2–3, 7–8). See moreover Henderson 2012, 9 nn. 17–21, Bianchi 2017, 116 n. 139. 32 Eratost. catast. epit. 25, 30b Oliv. = p. 142 Rob. = Cratin. Nemesis test. ii K–A (PCG IV, 179) Κύκνου (v.l. κύκνοϲ) οὗτοϲ ἐστιν ὁ καλούμενος μέγας, ὃν κύκνῳ εἰκάζουσιν. Λέγεται δὲ τὸν Δία ὁμοιωθέντα τῷ ζῴῳ τούτῳ [...] καταπτῆναι εἰς Ῥαμνοῦντα τῆς Ἀττικῆς κἀκεῖ τὴν Νέμεσιν

What we Do (Not) Know about Lost Comedies: Fragments and Testimonia  

riant chosen by Cratinus; Eratosthenes’ account ends with the phrase ὥς φησι Κράτης ὁ ποιητής, but scholars generally accept Valckenaer’s emendation of Κράτης in Κρατῖνος, 33 since a scholium to Germanicus’ translation of Aratus’ Phenomena narrates the same story but ends with the words “ut ait Cratinus”. 34 The learned tradition has often mixed up the names Crates and Cratinus; 35 furthermore, none of the comedies attributed to Crates is about Nemesis, whereas the indirect tradition records that Cratinus wrote a comedy called Nemesis. At any rate, even if we assume that the evidence refers to Cratinus, nothing is told in this accounts about the title of the comedy where the myth was narrated. Since we know of a comedy Nemesis written by Cratinus, it seems consistent to refer the allusion to this comedy, also because none of the other titles preserved for Cratinus’ plays can be associated with this myth; although we can’t exclude that Nemesis’ story was incidentally quoted in another comedy, in a way that we ignore, some fragments, preserved by the indirect tradition and usually assigned to the comedy Nemesis, support the assumption that the reference is to Cratinus Nemesis, where the poet followed this particular version of the myth: “es besteht wohl kein Zweifel, dass es sich dem Sachverhalt nach nun um die ‘Nemesis’ handeln kann. Das wird zudem aus einigen (noch zu erörternden) Fragmente deutlich”. 36 In fr. 114 K–A ὄρνιθα τοίνυν δεῖ σε γίγνεσθαι μέγαν ‘and so you’ll have to become a big bird’ 37 someone “has to become a big bird”; it could be spoken by Zeus and referred to Aphrodite, who has to become an eagle, 38 or the addressed is Zeus himself, who has to become a swan and “dicit haec sive Venus sive Mercurius sive alius Iovis in explenda libidine minister, iubens eum facere quod opus sit ut Nemesi potiatur”. 39 Perhaps, it should be preferred this last alternative: the fragment was preserved at Athenaios IX 373c for the male form of ὄρνις and therefore is “more likely Zeus becoming the swan, since ‘big bird’ is masculine here, and in the

 φθεῖραι. τὴν δὲ τεκεῖν ῷόν, ἐξ οὗ ἐκκολαφθῆναι καὶ γενέσθαι τὴν Ἑλένην ὥς φησι Κράτης (Κρατῖνος Valckenaer) ὁ ποιητής. 33 Valckenaer 1824, 166. 34 German. p. 89, 19 Breysig “Hic est cygnus, in quem ferunt Iovem se transfigurasse et transvolitasse in terram Atticam Rhamnunta ibique compressisse Nemesim, ut ait Cratinus tragoediarum scriptor, eamque edidisse ovum, unde nata sit Helena”. 35 See Kassel–Austin PCG IV, 121. 36 Luppe 1974a, 50. 37 Transl. Henderson 2012, 8. 38 See Hyg. Astron. 2.8 “Iuppiter... iubet... Venerem aquilae simulatam se sequi, ipse in olorem conversus”, cf. Luppe 1974a, 53, Bakola 2010, 171, 222 and 251. 39 Kock CAF I, 48.

  Francesco Paolo Bianchi catasterism version ‘big bird’ means swan, as does ‘purple-winged bird’ in fr. 121”. 40 In fr. 115 K–A Λήδα, σὸν ἔργον· δεῖ σ ̓ ὅπως εὐσχήμονως / ἀλεκτρυόνος μηδὲν διοίσεις τοὺς τρόπους, / ἐπὶ τῷδ ̓ ἐπῴζουσ ̓, ὡς ἂν ἐκλέψῃς καλὸν / ἡμῖν τι καὶ θαυμαστὸν ἐκ τοῦδ ̓ ὄρνεον ‘Leda, the task is yours; you must be / no less adapt than a cock / in clucking over this, so you can hutch us / an amazing bird from this one’ 41 the speaker exhorts Leda to brood (ἐπῴζουσ᾽(α)) the egg (designated with the pronouns τῶδ᾽(ε), v. 3, and τοῦδ᾽(ε) v. 4) up to its hatching. Hermes is generally identified as the speaker because, according to Hyginus (Astr. II 8) he brought Leda the egg; 42 it is also possible that this fragment gives some suggestions for the setting: we know that Zeus has intercourse with Nemesis in Rhamnous but since Leda has to be in Sparta and there are two other fragments that allow us to situate the setting of part of the play in Sparta, we can assume that “from fr. 115 together with frr. 117 and 119 [...] at some point the action shifted from Attica to Sparta”. 43 Particularly important for the interpretation of the Nemesis is fr. 118 K–A μόλ ̓ ὦ Ζεῦ ξένιε καὶ καραιέ (“come, O Zeus, patron of foreigners and head of state”), 44 which allows us to disclose the political dimension of the drama, since it hints doubtless at Pericles, spotted for his onion-shaped head (see the word καραιέ); 45 the political facet of the play is confirmed also by fr. 125 K–A, which mentions the famous soothsayer Lampo, a friend of Pericles. 46 According to the prevailing view, the Nemesis, like the Dionysalexandros, contained the interaction of myth and city politics: “the assimilation of Zeus to Pericles in fr. 118, the traditional role

 40 Henderson 2012, 4. Fr. 121 K–A ὄρνιθα φοινικόπτερον is preserved in the same section of Athen. IX 373c immediately before fr. 114 K–A and it can be compared with Hor. carm. IV 1 10 purpureis oloribus, see Henderson 2012, 10 fn. 27. 41 Transl. Henderson 2012, 8. 42 See Moessner 1907, 60, Luppe 1974a, 51–52, Bakola 2010, 171, Henderson 2012, 6–7 (who also suggests that Hermes was disguised as Tyndareos); for other less probable interpretations of the speaker of fr. 115 see Bianchi 2017, 117 n. 143. 43 Henderson 2012, 6. Cratin. fr. 117 K–A Σπάρτην λέγω γε † σπαρτίδα † τὴν σπάρτινον, “when I say ‘Sparta-ward’ I mean ‘Sparta’, not a spartine!”; fr. 118 K–A Ψύρα τε τὴν Σπάρτην ἄγεις “you’re treating Sparta like Psyra” (both translations in Henderson 2012, 8). 44 Transl. Henderson 2012, 8. 45 The fragments is quoted at Plut. Vit. Per. III 3 for the comic mocks in comedy to the head of Pericles, cf. Ar. Ach. 530 s. with Olson 2002, 530 s., Telò 2007, 175 s., Bagordo 2013, 128–130 (ad Telecl. fr. 18 K–A, Hēsiodoi) and 220–222 (ad Telecl. fr. 45 K–A, inc. fab.) with further bibliography. 46 For this fragment see above n. 28.

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of Nemesis and Helen as bringers of war in poetry and the new shrine at Rhamnous [...] and the Spartan setting of the play’s Leda action all encourage us to look for the topical resonance in Nemesis”; 47 this is, of course only a possibility, which cannot be proved and actually, also in the case of the Dionysalexandros (see above), in spite of the information delivered by the hypothesis, we do not understand exactly the relationship between myth and politics. Moreover, as Bakola pointed out, “first and foremost, Nemesis travestied a mythic tale [...] the sparseness of the surviving material and the nature of the mythic tale make it difficult to say precisely how political satire was interwoven with the mythical and the dramatic plot-strands of the play [...] we must assume that, as in the case of Dionysalexandros, the narrative stayed firmly in the field of mythological burlesque, and was enhanced by allusions to drama”. 48 Therefore, the case of the Nemesis shows that we can get an overall view of the plot thanks to the accidental preservation of a mythological account, which quotes the name of Cratinus; the plot’s reconstruction seems to be confirmed by some fragments preserved by the indirect tradition, whereas other fragments, incorporating other important information like the political references, imply the coexistence of both myth and politics.

 A third example is the comedy Odyssēs. 49 In some respects, we find here similar features to our first example, the Dionysalexandros. We can read about the Odyssēs in two passages from the Περὶ διαφορᾶς κωμῳδιῶν by Platonios, an unknown grammarian probably of the third or fourth century AD: 50

 47 Henderson 2012, 7. 48 Bakola 2010, 220 and 224 (second and third quotation). 49 PCG IV, 192–200, frr. 143–157 K–A. For the chronology of the play, see below n. 55. 50 Kaibel 1898, p. 48 referring to Περὶ διαφορᾶς κωμῳδιῶν ll. 64–66, p. 6 Koster = 79–81, p. 36 Perusino ὁρῶμεν γοῦν τὰς ὀφρῦς ἐν τοῖς προσώποις τῆς Μενάνδρου κωμῳδίας ὁποίας ἔχει annotates: “da redet einer der Menander von der Bühne her kennt, also gewiss kein Byzantiner”, cf. Perusino 1989, 13: “in epoca prebizantina, quando Menandro veniva ancora rappresentato” (with the referenco to A. Dain, La survie de Ménandre, Maia 15, 1963, 278–309 for the staging of Menander), Storey 2003, 46 (“any time before AD 500”), Sommerstein 2009, 273–274. It is indeed doubtful, cf. Nesselrath 2000, 242 n. 11: “There is, however, the possibility that Platonius has simply taken over this sentence out of an earlier source”.

  Francesco Paolo Bianchi τοιοῦτος οὖν ἐστιν ὁ τῆς μέσης κωμῳδίας τύπος, οἷος ἐστιν ὁ Αἰολοσίκων Ἀριστοφάνους καὶ οἱ Ὀδυσσεῖς Κρατίνου καὶ πλεῖστα τῶν παλαιῶν δραμάτων οὔτε χορικὰ οὔτε παραβάσεις ἔχοντα [...] τοιαῦτα δὲ δράματα καὶ ἐν τῇ παλαιᾷ κωμωδίᾳ ἔστιν εὑρεῖν, ἅπερ τελευταῖα ἐδιδάχθη λοιπὸν τῆς ὀλιγαρχίας κρατυνθείσης. οἱ γοῦν Ὀδυσσεῖς Κρατίνου οὐδενὸς ἐπιτίμησιν ἔχουσι, διασυρμὸν δὲ τῆς Ὀδυσσείας τοῦ Ὀμήρου. (Platon. diff. com. (proleg. de com. I) p. 4 ll. 29–31 / 49–52 Koster = p. 34, ll. 35–38 / 61–65 Perusino) Such, then, is the form of Middle Comedy, of the kind exemplified by the Aiolosikōn of Aristophanes and the Odyssēs of Kratinos and very many of the old plays which have neither choral songs no parabases [...] Middle Comedy abandoned such [political] plots and turned to the mockery of stories told by the poets, since there was no risk of punitive sanctions attached, for example, to making fun of Homer when he said something unskillfully, or of some tragic poet. Such plays are also to be found in Old Comedy, those which were produced last when oligarchy had already taken power. The Odyssēs of Kratinos, at any rate, has no censure of anyone [sc. contemporary], but parody of the Odyssey of Homer. 51 (Translation by A. Sommerstein)

Platonios reports the following statements about the Odyssēs of Cratinus: 1) the comedy had neither choral songs nor parabasis (οὔτε χορικὰ οὔτε παραβάσεις); 2) it was staged in the last phase of the Archaia, after the rise of the oligarchy; 3) it lacked political assault (οὐδενὸς ἐπιτίμησις); 4) it was a parody (διασυρμός) of Homer’s Odyssey. As Sommerstein stated, “of the things that Platonios asserts about Odyssēs, the only one of which we can be sure is that the play parodied Homer’s Odyssey — and that we knew already”. 52 With respect to the first information, the lack of choral songs and of the parabasis, we have indeed no evidence for the parabasis; on the other hand, however, the fragments handed down through the indirect tradition preserve, undoubtedly, lyric sections: the kind of verse used in fr. 151 K–A is the paremiac, in fr. 153 K–A the glyconeus and maybe the paremiac could be used as well in fr. 152 K–A, although this is not sure, since

 51 For these passages of Platonios see Sommerstein 2009 and Zimmermann 2001, 724–725. For a bibliography until 1989 see Perusino 1989, 53–56, for the years later see Quaglia 1998, 32–33, Casolari 2003, 61–62. 52 For the homeric passages hinted to in the Odyssēs see the list of Tanner 1915, 176 n. 5: fr. 135 (= 146 K.–A.): ι 357–359 (ι 196 s., 208–211); fr. 138 (= 143 K.–A.): ε 303–305 (ι 142–145); fr. 139 (= 143 K.–A.): ε 315 (ι 270 s., Hom. h. III [Ap.] 418); fr. 140 (= 144 K.–A.): ε 273–277; fr. 141 (= 145 K.–A.): ι 347–364; fr. 144 (= 151 K.–A.): ι 502–505. See moreover Amado-Rodriguez 1994, Mastromarco 1998, Casolari 2003, 61–77, Ornaghi 2004, 199–217, Bakola 2010, 234–246, Zimmermann 2011, 725, Bianchi 2017, 121–125.

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the verse could be also the second half of an anapestic tetrameter catalectic. 53 As far as chronology (2) there is a clear mistake, since Cratinus died before the twenties of the fifth century; we don’t know when the comedy was staged, but it has been suggested that it happened in the years of Morichides’ decree, 440/439– 437/6 AD. 54 Platonios’ information therefore seems unrealiable and this could be true also for the third item above, the lack of political assault: “[Platonios’] statement that the play ‘has no censure of anyone’ is consistent with the surviving fragments, but the absence of personal satire from these fragments may be a mere accident of preservation; there are [...] other comedies of Kratinos from which we have substantial numbers of quotation fragments and in which none of them includes overt satirical reference to any contemporary individual, and we know that one of these [the Dionysalexandros] was readily interpreted, both by most of those who saw it and by Hellenistic scholars, as a sustained satire on Pericles”. 55 Although the lack of political features is confirmed at present by the fragments, it could just be a chance occurrence; otherwise some interpretations focus on possible political hints in the comedy, 56 and, as last, Zimmermann defined the Odyssēs as “eine unpolitische Spielart der Mythentravestie”, but makes an interesting remark about the use of the verb πειθαρχεῖν (fr. 143, v. 2 K–A): “man könnte allerdings [...] in dem verb πειθαρχεῖν [...], das zum oligarchischen Wortschatz gehört (vgl. z. B. Soph. Ant. 676, Xen. Cyr. 1,2,8), eine politische Anspielung aushören”. 57 As for the analogy between the cases of Dionysalexandros and Odyssēs, a hypothesis dating the II–III century A.D. is, of course, something very different from

 53 For the metre of these three fragments, see Bianchi 2017, 252. As for the absence of χορικά in the Aiolosikōn of Aristophanes, see Orth 2017, 15 and 66–81 (commentary on frr. 8–10 Kassel – Austin, respectively trochaic dimeters, aristophaneans and choriambs). 54 For the chronology of Cratinus and the Odyssēs, see respectively Bianchi 2017, 13–15 and 28–29. 55 Sommerstein 2009, 286. 56 E.g. an identification between Pericles and Polyphem was suggested by Mewaldt 1946, 276– 277 (“zweifellos hatte auch diese erste Travestie, wie sonst be- kanntermaßen bei dem genialdraufgängerischen Kratinos, eine politische Spitze, und gern möchte man wissen, ob mit Polyphemus nicht doch Perikles gemeint war, den Kratinos ständig angegriffen und verspottet hat”) and Dörrie 1968, 22 (“aller Wahrscheinlichkeit nach war darin der Kyklop zu verstehen als eine Schlüsselfigur, hinter der ein verhaßter Politiker (vielleicht Perikles) erkennbar wurde”); Casolari 2000, 77 n. 58 adds to this possibility that the greed (cfr. fr. 150 K–A) is a typical connotation of the tyrant, but also remarks the lacks of any evidence for this interpretation: “Sie findet aber keine Bestätigung in den überlieferten Fragmente”. 57 Zimmermann 2011, 725–726 n. 236. It is also may be possible to see a political allusion in the image of the ship in fr. 143 K–A, traditionally used as an allegory of the political life, see Gentili 2006, 292–316.

  Francesco Paolo Bianchi the utterances of an unknown and unreliable grammarian, and we have to remind this difference every time we relate these two sources to the rest of the evidence; however, the indirect tradition preserves in both cases fragments in which there is no hint of political issues. Nevertheless, we know from the hypothesis that the Dionysalexandros had also a political facet; and in the case of the Odyssēs, none of our fragments is about politics, but we can’t exclude that political themes were in fact explored, but were not preserved by the tradition.

 The last example is the Pytinē, 58 one of the most famous plays written by Cratinus and perhaps his last comedy: it was staged in 423 at the Dionysia, when Cratinus carried off the first prize against the Connos of Amipsias and the Clouds of Aristophanes. 59 A scholium to Aristophanes’ Knights preserves the plot summary; furthermore, the comedy survives in 25 fragments and is one of the best-documented plays of Cratinus. Thanks to the relationships existing between the summary and the fragments, we are able to reconstruct some scenes and to recognise, with a reasonable degree of certainty, that some of the surviving verses belong indeed to these scenes. παροξυνθεὶς ἐκεῖνος, καίτοι τοῦ ἀγωνίζεσθαι ἀποστὰς καὶ συγγράφειν, πάλιν γράφει δρᾶμα, τὴν Πυτίνην, εἰς αὑτόν τε καὶ τὴν μέθην (Μέθην), οἰκονομίᾳ τε κεχρημένον τοιαύτῃ. τὴν Κωμῳδίαν ὁ Κρατῖνος ἐπλάσατο αὑτοῦ εἶναι γυναῖκα καὶ ἀφίστασθαι τοῦ συνοικεσίου τοῦ σὺν αὐτῷ θέλειν, καὶ κακώσεως αὐτῷ δίκην λαγχάνειν, φίλους δὲ παρατυχόντας τοῦ Κρατίνου δεῖσθαι μηδὲν προπετὲς ποιῆσαι καὶ τῆς ἔχθρας ἀνερωτᾶν τὴν αἰτίαν, τὴν δὲ μέμφεσθαι αὐτῷ ὅτι μὴ κωμῳδοίη μηκέτι, σχολάζοι δὲ τῇ μέθῃ (Μέθῃ) (Cratin. Pytinē test. ii K–A [PCG IV, p. 219]= schol. vet. [VEΓ3ΘΜ] Ar. Eq. 400a (I) = Sud. κ 2216) It was in irritation at this, it seems, that even though he had retired from competition and writing, he wrote a play once again, the Wine Flask, about himself and drunkenness (or

 58 PCG IV, 219–232, testt. i–iii, frr. 193–217 K–A. 59 Cratin. PCG IV test. 7c K–A, arg. A 6 (VERs) Ar. Nub. 4 rr. 12–17 Holwerda = arg. V 134 rr. 1–6 Wilson 2007 αἱ πρῶται Νεφέλαι ἐδιδάχθησαν (post ἐν ἄστει V) ἐν ἄστει ἐπὶ ἄρχοντος Ἰσάρχου (424/3 BC), ὅτε Κρατῖνος μὲν ἐνίκα Πυτίνῃ, Ἀμειψίας δὲ Κόννῳ. διόπερ Ἀριστοφάνης ἀπορριφθεὶς (ἀπορριφεὶς E) παραλόγως ᾠήθη δεῖν ἀναδιδάξας (ἀναδιδάξαι V) τὰς Νεφέλας τὰς δευτέρας καταμέμφεσθαι (ἀπομεμφ- V) τὸ θέατρον. ἀτυχῶν δὲ πολὺ μᾶλλον καὶ ἐν τοῖς ἔπειτα οὐκέτι τὴν διασκευὴν εἰσήγαγεν (ἐπήγ- Rs). Cf. Bianchi 2017, 302–303.

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Drunkenness), which employed the following outline: Cratinus pretended that Comedy was his wife but wanted to get divorce from him, and she filed a lawsuit against him for mistreatment. But Cratinus’ friends happened by and begged her not to do anything rash, and they asked the reason for her hostility. She criticized the fact that he no longer wrote comedies but wasted time with drunkenness (or Drunkenness). (Translation by J. Henderson. With the addition of “or Drunkenness”, twice.)

The scholium is about the nexus Κρατίνου κῴδιον and explains that κῴδιον means ‘sheepskin’, which is treated together with the wool. Moreover, the scholiast states that this is an assault to Cratinus, who is described by Aristophanes as a drunkard suffering from enuresis; in fact, a few words later we are told that the κῴδιον is a sort of nappy. 60 Right after this explication, he reveals that Cratinus, who had already retired from the scene, got angry (παροξυνθείς) at the assault and wrote a new play called Pytinē; of course, the statement about Cratinus’ disengagement is incorrect and due to Aristophanes’ depiction of the rival. 61 Then there is the plot summary, which can be summed as it follows: 1) the play was about Cratinus himself and drunkenness (εἰς αὐτόν τε καὶ τὴν μέθην); drunkenness can be understood either as the abstract idea of being drunk or as a personification (Μέθη, Drunkenness), as already suggested by Meineke 62 and Kock (“Comoediam igitur et Ebrietatem fabulae personas esse voluit”); 63  60 Schol. vet. (VEΓ3ΘΜ) Ar. Eq. 400a (I) εἴ σε μὴ μισῶ, γενοίμην ἐν Κρατίνου κῴδιον = Sud. κ 2216 ~ Cratin. PCG IV, test. 14 K–A ~ Pytinē test. ii K–A. Κρατίνου κῴδιον: κῴδιόν ἐστι τὸ ἅμα τοῖς ἐρίοις δέρμα σκευαζόμενον. ὡς ἐνουρητὴν δὲ καὶ μέθυσον διαβάλλει τὸν Κρατῖνον. ὁ δὲ Κρατῖνος καὶ αὐτὸς ἀρχαίας κωμῳδίας ποιητής, πρεσβύτερος Ἀριστοφάνους, τῶν εὐδοκίμων ἄγαν (it follows the summary of the plot, see above. This section of the scholium corresponds with Cratin. test. 14 K–A, the summary of the plot with Pytinē test. ii K–A). The word ἐνουρητής describes normally old men, see Ar. Lys. 402 and 450, and possibly refers to the use of the verb ῥεύσας in the parabasis of the Acharnians of Aristophanes, v. 526, cf. Bianchi 2017, 311 ad Cratin. test. 9 K–A; ἐν Κρατίνου means generally “in Cratinus’ house” (cf. schol. Ar. Eq. 400a εἰς τὴν οἰκίαν τοῦ Κρατίνου, cf. Henderson 2011, 177, Storey 2011, 245), but maybe could be translated as “may I be Cratinus’ bed” (Edmonds 1957, 17), cf. Bianchi 2018, 239 n. 17. 61 This is clear from the fact that in the same year of the Knights (424 BC) Cratinus staged the Satyroi (Cratin. PCG IV, test. 7b K–A) and maybe after the Pytinē he produced the Seriphioi (Bakola 2010, 60 n. 139) and eventually also the Lakōnes (so Mastromarco 2002, 398‐403, cf. Bianchi 2017, 318–319 and n. 432). 62 Meineke FCG I, 48, II.1, 116. 63 Kock CAF I, 68. For the interpretation of Μέθη as a personification, see Luppe 2000, 17, Rosen 2000, 26, Ruffell 2002, 156 and compare the personifications of Πόλεμος, Εἰρήνη, Ὀπώρα e Θεωρία in the Peace of Aristophanes; see Bianchi 2018, 240 and Bakola 2010, 282–285 for the idea that μέθη/Μέθη could coexist and reflect the different points of view of the characters of the drama.

  Francesco Paolo Bianchi 2) the scholiast uses the words οἰκονομία τε κεχρημένον τοιαύτῃ to announce the plot summary. In literary criticism, the noun οἰκονομία points out the “structure”, the “internal arrangement” of a play (“of a literary work, arrangement”, LSJ s.v. 3; “rhet. distribution, disposition, of themes, of material”, DGE s.v.) as it is confirmed by some passages of other authors, in particular, Cicero 64 and Dionysius of Halicarnassus; 65 3) in the section from τὴν Κωμῳδίαν up to λαγχάνειν, the summary informs that Cratinus depicts Comedy as his wife; here, it is told that Comedy wants to leave her husband and charge him with abuse (κακώσεως δίκη). Particularly important is the expression ἀφίστασθαι τοῦ συνοικεσίου and his juridic value: one of the meanings of ἀφίστημι is the loss of a legal condition 66 and συνοικέσιον is cognate with συνοικεῖν “the accepted term for living together in legitimate union”, 67 so that with the expression ἀφίστασθαι τοῦ συνοικεσίου “the scholiast represents the matter as divorce and more particularly as apoleipsis, whereby the wife initiated the process. In this case, unlike when a husband took the initiative, the process entailed formalities including the wife’s appearance before an archon to register her change of status”. 68 The other expression κακώσεως αὐτῷ δίκην λαγχάνειν indicates to take a legal action 69 and as Biles stated “the scholiast’s detail conform to Athenian divorce procedures, and his description is too unified and its implications too extensive to be a product of his imagination”; 70 as Bakola 71 suggests, γραφὴ κακώσεως refers all but certainly to a ἐπικλήρου κάκωσις, 72 while far less certain is the possibility of a hint to the Solonian law τρὶς ἑκάστου μηνὸς ἐντυγχάνειν πάντως τῇ ἐπικλήρῳ τὸν λάβοντα, 73 and hence “it  64 Cic. Att. VI 1 Accepi tuas litteras a. d. V Terminalia Laodiceae; quas legi libentissime plenissimas amoris, humanitatis, offici, diligentiae. iis igitur respondebo, * * * (sic enim postulas), nec οἰκονομίαν meam instituam sed ordinem conservabo tuum. 65 Dion. Hal. Pomp. IV 2 (Ξενοφῶν) οὐ μόνον δὲ τῶν ὑποθέσεων χάριν ἄξιος ἐπαινεῖσθαι [ζηλωτὴς Ἡροδότου γενόμενος], ἀλλὰ καὶ τῆς οἰκονομίας. 66 LSJ s.v. ἀφίστημι Β.1 “ὧν εἷλεν ἀποστάς giving up all claim to what he had won (at law), D. 21, 181; τῶν αὑτῆς Id. 19, 147, cf. 35, 4; ἀφίστασθαι τῶν τοῦ ἀδελφοῦ ib. 44”; GE s.v. “to be deprived, lose”. 67 Harrison 1968, 2. 68 Biles 2011, 159–160. On the apoleipsis see Harrison 1968, 40–44, Cohn‐Haft 1995, 4–7, 11–13. 69 [Aristot.] Ath. Pol. 53, 1 δίκας λαγχάνουσιν, 56, 6 δίκαι λαγχάνονται, see V. LSJ s.v. and Rhodes 1981, 587 s., 2017, 381. 70 Biles 2011, 160. 71 Bakola 2010, 276–277. 72 Α γραφή κακώσις could refer only to parents, orphans, or heiresses, cf. Harrison 1968, 117– 119, Rhodes 1981, 630. 73 Sol. F 51a Ruschenbusch (p. 88) = 434 Martina (p. 217). The source for this law is Plut. Sol. 20, 4.

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seems, that, in the Pytine Comedy was presented as an ἐπίκληρος given in wedlock to Cratinus, who thus come under a legal obligation to consummate the marriage regularly [...] Making Comedy an heiress was a stroke of self‐eulogy on the poet’s part. The point is that she has inherited a rich poetic tradition which only he is entitled to access [...] Comedy thus sought to divorce the poet because of an alleged [...] neglect of his conjugal duties”. 74 We have, indeed, no evidence for the allusion to this law and it can not at all be demonstrated; the only thing we can say with an acceptable degree of plausibility is the presence in the scholium of 4th cent. BC legal terminology and the hint to a legal procedure, whose precise details cannot be detected. 4) in the next section, Cratinus’ friends enter the scene, try to discourage Cratinus’ wife from leaving her husband and ask Comedy about her hatred (ἔχθρα). According to Malcom Heath, 75 the expression φιλοὺς δὲ παρατυχόντας τοῦ Κρατίνου means the beginning of the parodos and consequently the chorus should be composed by Cratinus’ friends; this is certainly possible, however “one wonders what characters would be recognized as friends of Cratinus”; 76 5) Comedy explains to Cratinus’ friends, why she blames her husband (μέμφεσθαι): Cratinus composes no more comedy (μὴ κωμῳδοίη μήκετι). The utterance μὴ κωμῳδοίη μηκέτι, σχολάζοι δὲ τῇ μέθῃ (Μέθῃ) could have a double meaning, depending on taking μ(Μ)έθη as a personification or not: “‘he does not make comedies, but it is only concerned with drinking’ and ‘he does not sleep with me, but is constantly with her’”. 77 Thanks to the scholium, we can then suppose that the Pytinē included: a) a prologue in which Comedy, Cratinus’ wife, complains about the treatment that she suffers from the poet and announces her resolution to leave her husband; b) a parodos in which the chorus, composed by Cratinus’ friends, enters the scene with the aim to persuade Comedy not to leave Cratinus; c) after the parodos, a scene in which Comedy explains to Cratinus’ friends why she is so bitter. We can also ascribe to these scenes some of the fragments preserved by the indirect tradition; just two possible examples:

 74 Bakola 2010, 177. 75 Heath 1990, 150: “I take it that this is the entry of the Chorus”, cf. Bianchi 2018, 243. 76 Biles 2002, 181 n. 140. 77 Bakola 2010, 281.

  Francesco Paolo Bianchi 1) fr. 193 K–A ἀλλ’ † ἐπαναστρέψαι βούλομαι εις † τὸν λόγον. / πρότερον ἐκεῖνος πρὸς ἑτέραν γυναῖκ’ ἔχων / τὸν νοῦν, κακὰς εἴποι πρὸς ἑτέραν· ἀλλ’ / ἅμα μὲν τὸ γῆρας, ἅμα δέ μοι δοκεῖ kl / † οὐδέποτ’ αὐτοῦ πρότερον, “But I want to return to the story. Previously, when he was paying attention to another woman, he behaved badly † to another. † But now that he’s old, he seems to me ... † never of him previously †”; fr. 194 K–A γυνὴ δ’ ἐκείνου πρότερον ἦ, νῦν δ’ οὐκέτι, “previously I was his wife, but now no longer”. 78 In both of them, the speaker should be Comedy: 79 in fr. 193 she says that ἐκεῖνος, so Cratinus, cares for another woman (πρὸς ἐτέραν γυναῖκα), in fr. 194 Comedy remembers that, once upon a time, she was Cratinus’ wife (γυνή, but now no more, νῦν δ᾽ οὐκέτι) and he (designated by ἐκεῖνος again) used to care for her. Fr. 193 is recorded by the scholiast after the summary (see above), 80 and perhaps may have belonged to the scene of Comedy’s complaint, that comes after the parodos. Furthermore, the fragment seems to match the scholium, as the scholiast writes τὴν δὲ μέμφεσθαι αὐτῷ ὅτι μὴ κωμῳδοίη μηκέτι, σχολάζοι δὲ τῇ μέθῃ. Nevertheless, since the scholiast introduces the fragment with a generic statement τὰ ἐπιτήδεια τῶν ἰάμβων, we can’t exclude that frag. 193 could belong to the prologue, in which the blame-motif seems to appear too; 81 2) frr. *195 K–A νῦν δ’ ἢν ἴδῃ Μενδαῖον ἡβῶντ’ ἀρτίως / οἰνίσκον, ἕπεται κἀκολουθεῖ καὶ λέγει, /οἴμ’ ὡς ἁπαλὸς καὶ λευκός. ἆρ’ οἴσει τρία;, “But now, if he spies a barely adolescent little Mendaean wine, he follows it and dogs its tracks and says: ‘Damn! how soft and white it is! Is it strong enough for three?”; 82 and fr. 196 K–A τὸν δ’ ἴσον ἴσῳ φέροντ’· ἐγὼ δ’ ἐκτήκομαι, “... a wine that stands half and half. I am melting!”, 83 can be assigned to the scene after the parodos with a higher degree of certainty. In both of them Comedy blames her husband for spending his time with μέθη (σχολάζοι δὲ τῇ μέθῃ), and the first one is particularly interesting because “the imagery is explicitly sexual (‘Cratinus’ reacts to a fine wine in the way a devoted pederast reacts to a pretty boy)”. 84

 78 Both translations in Olson 2007, 423. 79 This is a likely communis opinio from Runkel 1827, 51 and Meineke FCG I 48 onwards. For fr. 193 K.A., cf. Bianchi 2018, 247–248. 80 For the problems of fr. 193, v. 1, which are sometimes considered not Cratinus’ ipsissima verba, but still words of the scholiast, see Bianchi 2018, 249–250 n. 63. 81 Olson 2007, 81 attributes both fragments to the prologue, while Beta 2009, 245, n. 211–212 considers equivalent the attribution to the prologue or to the scene after the parabasis. 82 Transl. Olson 2007, 423. 83 Transl. Henderson 2001, 205. 84 Olson 2007, 82.

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. Another topic concerns the function of the scene that follows the arrival of Cratinus’ friends, the last of the three scenes that can be reconstructed from the scholium. M. Heath suggested that it could be identified as the agōn; 85 since we are told by the scholiast that Comedy wanted to proceed against Cratinus under a κακώσεως δίκη, the agōn took perhaps the shape of a trial, and Comedy and Cratinus were the contenders. The theme would be certainly suitable for a comic agōn; furthermore, if we think about Aristophanes’ comedies, we notice that the agōn is generally placed after the parodos and before the parabasis and every time the agōn comes after the parabasis, there is a specific dramaturgical reason. 86 This suggestion, however, encounters some difficulties, since none of the fragments that seem to match the trial-motif are composed in iambic tetrameter catalectic or anapestic tetrameter catalectic, which are the usual recitative meters for the agōn; therefore, it has been proposed that the agōn was partly composed in iambic trimeters, in order to parody judicial speeches. This could be the case of fr. 197 K–A τὴν μὲν παρασκευὴν ἴσως γιγνώσκετε, “You are aware, perhaps, of the preparation . . .”. 87 Preserved at Clem. Alex. VI 20, 3, together with other quotations from the orators, as an example of plagiarism, 88 the citation context shows that παρασκευή should be understood in the meaning of “intrigue, cabal” (LSJ s.v. nr. 3, cf. GE s.v. “intrigue, plot, trick”) and that “οrators seem to have been taught to refer to their opponents’ παρασκευή [...] as a way of painting them as desperate and conniving”; hence, it seems then possible that the fragment was

 85 Ηeath 1990, 150: “there followed a debate in which Comedy set out her complaints and Cratinus defended himself”. 86 See Pickard‐Cambridge 19622, 200, Gelzer 1960, in part. 11–37, Dover 1972, 66. In Aristophanes the agon is before the parabasis in Wasps (526–724), Birds (451–638) and Lysistrata (476– 613), after in Knights (756–940), Clouds (950–1104) and Frogs (858–1098); in the Knights there is also a shorter agon before the parabasis (303–460). There is no agon in Acharnians, Peace and Thesmophoriazusae; it is attested, indeed, in Ecclesiazusae (571–709) and Pluto (487–726), which, however, do not have a parabasis and therefore do not allow a comparison. 87 Transl. Olson 2007, 423. 88 Clem. Alex. VI 20, 3 Κρατίνου ἐν Πυτίνῃ εἰπόντος· τὴν μὲν παρασκευὴν ἴσως γινώσκετε, Ἀνδοκίδης ὁ ῥήτωρ λέγει (1, 1)· «τὴν μὲν παρασκευήν, ὦ ἄνδρες δικασταί, καὶ τὴν προθυμίαν τῶν ἐχθρῶν τῶν ἐμῶν σχεδόν τι πάντες εἴσεσθε». Ὁμοίως καὶ Λυσίας ἐν τῷ πρὸς Νικίαν ὑπὲρ καταθήκης (fr. 190 Sauppe) «τὴν μὲν παρασκευὴν καὶ τὴν προθυμίαν τῶν ἀντιδίκων ὁρᾶτε, ὦ ἄνδρες δικασταί,» φησίν, καὶ μετὰ τοῦτον Αἰσχίνης λέγει (3, 19)· «τὴν μὲν παρασκευὴν ὁρᾶτε, ὦ ἄνδρες Ἀθηναῖοι, καὶ τὴν παράταξιν».

  Francesco Paolo Bianchi “the beginning of a speech most likely made by ‘Cratinus’ in response to an attack on him by Comedy, and addressed to his friends”. 89 It makes any problem the fact that the agōn in Cratinus could have been structurally different from Aristophanes, as the case of fr. 6 K–A (Archilochoi) eventually suggest; 90 there is, indeed, no other evidence for such an agon with parodical judicial speeches in the Pytinē than the interpretation of the lines of the scholium and that of fr. 197 K–A. On the other hand, we have two fragments, 208 and 209 K–A, whose content allows attribution to the agōn and both of them are catalectic iambic tetrameters, the metre this section has normally in Aristophanes (along with the catalectic anapaestic tetrameters). 91 This possibility contrasts, however, with the previous one (parody of judicial speeches in iambic trimeter), unless we think that both the themes and both the metrical forms coexisted in a way we can not reconstruct.

. Finally, a group of fragments can't be assigned to the scenes that are reported in the scholium, so it has to belong to other scenes that are not mentioned by the scholiast. Just two examples show the case. The first one is fr. 199 K–A πῶς τις αὐτόν, πῶς τις ἂν† / ἀπὸ τοῦ πότου παύσειε, τοῦ λίαν πότου;/ ἐγᾦδα. συντρίψω γὰρ αὐτοῦ τοὺς χόας, / καὶ τοὺς καδίσκους συγκεραυνώσω σποδῶν, / καὶ τἄλλα πάντ’ ἀγγεῖα τὰ περὶ τὸν πότον, /κοὐδ' ὀξύβαφον οἰνηρὸν ἔτι κεκτήσεται, “how, how could someone put a stop to his drinking, his excessive drinking? I know — I’ll crush his pitchers, and smash his wine-buckets and all the other vessels he uses for drinking to bits; he won’t even own a vinegar-dish that holds wine any longer!”, 92 in which the speaker, surely a male (v. 3 σποδῶν) “wonders how to stop Cratinus’s excessive drinking, and has the idea of smashing all his wine  89 Both quotations from Olson 2007, 83. 90 Cratin. fr. 6 K–A: εἶδες τὴν Θασίαν ἅλμην, οἱ ̓ ἄττα βαΰζει; / ὡς εὖ καὶ ταχέως ἀπετείσατο καὶ παραχρῆμα. / οὐ μέντοι παρὰ κωφὸν ὁ τυφλὸς ἔοικε λαλῆσαι. These three hexameters are likely intepreted as the sphragis of the agon from Pretagostini 1982, 45–47 and in this case it follows that all the agon was in hexameter, cf. Bianchi 2016, 66–67. 91 Cratin. fr. 208 K–A: ληρεῖς ἔχων· γράφ ̓ αὐτόν / ἐν ἐπεισοδίῳ· γελοῖος ἔσται Κλεισθένης κυβεύων / † ἐν τῇ τῇ κάλλους ἀκμῇ; Cratin. fr. 209 K–A: Ὑπέρβολον δ ̓ ἀποσβέσας ἐν τοῖς λύχνοισι γράψον. For the former see Zieliński 1931, 87: “aut poeta lagaena orbatus inutilis ostendebatur ad comoediam scribendam aut lagaena recuperata egregiam scribens fabulam inducebatur”, cf. Gelzer 1960, 182; for the latter see Crusius 1889, 39: “Comoediam audimus in agone nova quaedam poetae inventa corripientem atque veras τοῦ κωμῳδεῖν vias monstrans”. 92 Transl. Olson 2007, 423.

What we Do (Not) Know about Lost Comedies: Fragments and Testimonia  

jars”. 93 The consequences of smashing Cratinus’ wine jars could be showed in fr. 202 K–A ἆρ’ ἀραχνίων μεστὴν ἔχεις τὴν γαστέρα, “do you have a belly full of cobwebs?”, 94 in which someone, perhaps the character Cratinus himself, is complaining about an empty vessel. The second example is fr. 200 K–A ἀτὰρ ἐννοοῦμαι δῆτα τῆς μοχθηρίας / τῆς † ἠλιθιότητος τῆς ἐμῆς, “but I do indeed recognize the depravity of my folly”, 95 in which the speaker regrets his mistakes (μοχθηρίας) and admits (ἐννοοῦμαι) that his faults have to be attributed only to his foolishness (ἡλιθιότητος); “The speaker might be either ‘Cratinus’, who at last sees the error of his ways, or Comedy recognizing that she has treated her husband worse than he deserves”. 96

 In conclusion. The four cases discussed serve as examples of the different issues that can arise from the interaction between testimonies and fragments. The Dionysalexandros shows that testimony can provide us of data that are not attested in the fragments, for example, the political connotation of the drama; on the other hand, although we can rely on a detailed summary, none of the fragments can be assigned with certainty to any section of the dramatic action. The Nemesis attests that it is possible to know the mythical variant which had been chosen by the poet and that some fragments can be related to that particular narrative. The Odyssēs make clear that testimony can be contested thanks to the information provided by the fragments. Consequently, although the testimony asserts the absence of political engagement, and the fragments confirm this absence, we feel legitimate to doubt that the comedy lacked political references, and we are tempted to attribute this lack to an accident of preservation. Finally, the Pytinē confirms that sometimes testimonies and fragments together allow us to reconstruct some scenes, but we have also to consider individual problems that can’t be answered with certainty. This is the case of the agōn and of the fragments that could be hypothetically ascribed to it. More than thirty years ago, M. Heath stated in his work “Aristophanes and his rivals” that “the greatest wisdom in the study of lost plays is the knowledge  93 Heath 1990, 151. 94 Transl. Henderson 2011, 206. 95 Transl. Olson 2007, 424. 96 Olson 2007, 85. For other fragments of the Pytinē which can be assigned to scenes not summarized in the scholium, see Bianchi 2018, 252–257.

  Francesco Paolo Bianchi of when to fall silent”; 97 the four cases examined confirm, I think, one more time the validity of his view. Dealing with fragments certainly requires a skillfully use of the so called ars nesciendi; or, surely better, as Wilamowitz wrote in 1928 “du sollst freilich suchen und darin nicht müde werden, aber dich bescheiden, wo uns das wissen versagt ist, sonst gerätst du ins Schwindeln”. 98

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What we Do (Not) Know about Lost Comedies: Fragments and Testimonia  

Gentili, B. (2006), Poesia e pubblico nella Grecia antica. Da Omero al V secolo. Quarta edizione aggiornata, Milano (19831). Grenfell, B.P./Hunt, A.S. (1904), “Argumentum of Cratinus’ ∆ιονυσαλέξανδρος”, in: P.Oxy. IV, 69–72. Harrison, A.R.W. (1968), The Law of Athens: the Family and Property, vol. I, Oxford 1968. Heath, M. (1990), “Aristophanes and His Rivals”, G&R 37.2, 143–157. Henderson, J. (2011), “Cratinus”, in: J. Rusten (ed.), The Birth of Comedy. Texts, Documents, and Art from Athenian Comic Competitions, 486–20, Baltimore, 173–220 (ch. 5). Henderson, J. (2012), “Pursuing Nemesis: Cratinus and Mythological Comedy”, in: C.W. Marshall/G. Kovacs (eds), No Laughing Matter: Studies in Athenian Comedy, London, 1–12. Kassel, R./Austin, C. (1983–2001), Poetae Comici Graeci, Berolini/Novi Eboraci, I: Comoedia dorica–Mimi–Phlyaces, 2001; II: Agathenor–Aristonymus, 1991; III.2: Aristophanes. Testimonia et fragmenta, 1984; IV: Aristophon–Crobylus, 1983; V: Damoxenus–Magnes, 1986; VI.2: Menander. Testimonia et fragmenta apud scriptores servata, 1998; VII: Menecrates– Xenophon, 1989; VIII: Adespota, 1995. Kaibel, G. (1898), Die Prolegomena περὶ κωμῳδίας, Berlin (Abhandlungen der königlichen Gesellschaft der Wissenschaften zu Göttingen, Philologisch-historische Klasse, n. F. Bd. 2, Nr. 4). Kock, Th. (1884–1888), Comicorum Atticorum Fragmenta, Lipsiae, I (Antiquae comoediae fragmenta): 1880; II (Novae comoediae fragmenta. Pars I): 1884; III (Novae comoediae fragmenta. Pars II. Comicorum incertae aetatis fragmenta. Fragmenta incertorum poetarum. Indices. Supplementa): 1888. Koerte, A. (1904), “Die Hypothesis zu Kratinos’ Dionysalexandros”, Hermes 39, 481–498. Luppe, W. (1974a), “Die Nemesis des Kratinos. Mythos und politischer Hintergrund”, WZHalle 23, 49–60. Luppe, W. (1974b), “Zeus und Nemesis in den Kyprien. Die Verwandlungssage nach pseudoApollodor und Philodem”, Philologus 118, 193–202. Luppe, W. (2000), “The Rivalry between Aristophanes and Kratinos”, in: D. Harvey/J. Wilkins (eds), The Rivals of Aristophanes. Studies in Athenian Old Comedy, London/Swansea, 15–21. Mastromarco, G. (1998), “La degradazione del mostro. La maschera del Ciclope nella commedia e nel dramma satiresco del quinto secolo a.C.”, in: A.M. Belardinelli/O. Imperio/G. Mastromarco/M. Pellegrino/P. Totaro (eds), Tessere. Frammenti della comedia greca: studi e commenti, Bari, 9–42. Mastromarco, G. (2002), “L’invasione dei Laconi e la morte di Cratino (Ar. Pax 700–703)”, in: L. Torraca (ed.), Scritti in onore di Italo Gallo, Napoli, 395–403. von Mewaldt, J. (1946), “Antike Poliphemgedichte”, AAWW 20, 265–286. Moessner, O. (1907), Die Mythologie in der dorischen und altattischen Komödie, Diss. Erlangen Meineke, A. (1839–1957), Fragmenta comicorum Graecorum. Collegit et disposuit A. M., Berolini, vol. I (Historia critica comicorum Graecorum) 1839; vol. II.1 (Fragmenta poetarum comoediae antiquae) 1839; vol. II.2 (Fragmenta poetarum comoediae antiquae) 1840; vol. III (Fragmenta poetarum comoediae mediae) 1840; vol. IV (Fragmenta poetarum comoediae novae) 1841; vol. V.1–2 (Comicae dictionis index et supplementa), 1857. Nesselrath, H.-G. (2000), “Eupolis and the Periodization of Athenian Comedy”, in: D. Harvey/ J. Wilkins (eds), The Rivals of Aristophanes: Studies in Athenian Old Comedy, London/ Swansea, 233–246.

  Francesco Paolo Bianchi Norden, E. (1927), Die römische Literatur. Anhang: die lateinische Literatur im Übergang von Altertum zum Mittelalter, hrs. von B. Kyzler (=Siebente Auflage. Ergänzter Neudruck der dritten Auflage 1927, Stuttgart/Leipzig 1998). Olson, S.D. (2002), Aristophanes. Acharnians, Oxford. Olson, S.D. (2007), Broken Laughter. Select Fragments of Greek Comedy, Oxford. Olson, S.D. (2015), “On the Fragments of Eupolis’ Taxiarchoi”, in: M. Taufer (ed.), Studi sulla commedia attica, Freiburg/Berlin/Wien, 201–213. Olson, S.D. (2017), Eupolis. Einleitung, Testimonia und Aiges–Demoi, Fragmenta Comica 8.1, Heidelberg. Ornaghi, Μ. (2004), “Omero sulla scena. Spunti per una ricostruzione degli Odissei e degli Archilochi di Cratino”, in: G. Zanetto/D. Canavere/A. Capra/A. Sgobbi (eds), Momenti della ricezione omerica: poesia arcaica e teatro, Milano, 197–228. Orth, Ch. (2017), Aristophanes: Aiolosikon-Babylonioi. Übersetzung und Kommentar, Fragmenta Comica 10.3, Heidelberg. Perusino, F. (1968), Il tetrametro giambico catalettico nella commedia greca, Roma. Perusino, F. (1989), Platonio. La commedia greca. Edizione critica, traduzione e commento, Urbino. Pickard‐Cambridge, A.W. (1962), Dithyramb, Tragedy and Comedy, Oxford (19271). Pretagostini, R. (1982), “Archiloco ‘salsa di Taso’ negli Archilochi di Cratino”, QUCC n.s. 11, 43– 52. Quaglia, R. (1998), “Elementi strutturali nelle commedie di Cratino”, ACME 51.3, 23–71. Reinhardt, U. (2011), Der antike Mythos. Ein systematisches Handbuch, Freiburg. Rhodes, P.J. (1981), A Commentary on the Aristotelian Athenaion Politeia, Oxford (19932 cum add.). Rhodes, P.J. (2017), The Athenian Constitution Written in the School of Aristotle, Liverpool. Rosen, R. (2000), “Cratinus’ Pytine and the Construction of the Comic Self”, in: D. Harvey/ J. Wilkins (eds), The Rivals of Aristophanes. Studies in Athenian Old Comedy, London/ Swansea, 23–39. Ruffell, I. (2002), “A Total Write‐Off. Aristophanes, Cratinus, and the Rhetoric of Comic Competitions”, CQ 52, 138–163. Runkel, M. (1827), Cratini veteris comici Graeci fragmenta, Lipsiae. Sommerstein, A.H. (2009), “Platonios Diff. Com. 29–31 and 46–52 Koster: Aristophanes’ Aiolosikon, Kratinos’ Odyssēs, and Middle Comedy”, in: A. Sommerstein (ed.), Talking about Laughter, and other Studies in Greek Comedy, Oxford, 272–288. van Rossum-Steenbeek, M. (1998), Greek Readers’ Digests? Studies on a Selection of Subliterary Papyri, Leiden/New York/Köln. Sommerstein, A.H. (2005), “A lover of his art: the art-form as wife and mistress in Greek poetic imagery”, in: J. Emma/J. Herrin (eds), Personification in the Greek world: from antiquity to Byzantium Aldershot (Publications of the Center for Hellenic Studies / King’s College London, 7), 161–171. Sonnino, M. (2003), “Insulto scommatico e teoria del comico in un simposio alessandrino del 203 a.C. (Polibio 15.25.31–33)”, in: R. Nicolai (ed.), Rhysmos. Studi di poesia, metrica e musica greca offerti dagli allievi a Luigi Enrico Rossi per i suoi settant’anni, Rome, 283– 302. Storey, I.C. (2003), Eupolis Poet of Old Comedy, Oxford/New York. Telò, M. (2007), Eupolidis Demi, Firenze.

What we Do (Not) Know about Lost Comedies: Fragments and Testimonia  

Valckenaer, L.C. (1824), Euripidis Tragoedia Phoenissae, interpretationem addidit H. Grotii, graeca castigavit e mstis, atque adnotationibus instruxit, scholia subiecit L. C. V., Lipsiae. Zieliński, Th. (1931), Iresione I. Dissertationes ad comoediam et tragoediam spectantes continens, Leopoli. Zimmermann, B. (2011), Die Attische Komödie, in: B. Zimmermann (ed.), Handbuch der Griechischen Literatur der Antike, I: Die Literatur der archaischen und klassischen Zeit, München 2011 (Handbuch der Altertumswissenschaft 7.1), 671–800. Zimmermann, B. (2015), Eine Dichterfehde in Altathen (Aristophanes und Kratinos), in: Ch. Kugelmeier (ed.), Translatio humanitatis: Festschrift zum 60. Geburtstag von Peter Riemerm St. Ingbert, 133–145.

S. Douglas Olson

The Fragments of Aristophanes’ Gerytades: Methodological Considerations The nominal topic of this paper is Aristophanes’ fragmentary Gerytades, and in particular Matthew Farmer’s recent treatment of the play in his well-received OUP book, Tragedy on the Comic Stage. 1 I argue not so much that Farmer’s analysis of what remains of Gerytades is wrong as that it is misguided; the problem has less to do with facts than with methodology, with how we handle such material, how we argue and what we as scholars can be expected to believe. Gerytades is an intriguing comedy, and I will have a fair amount to say about fr. 156 in particular. But my real interests are larger than this and have to do with the pitfalls of fragmentary material; with how modern readings of such material come to be established and perpetuated; and with the ways such readings ought to be evaluated and the extent to which they should be taken seriously. Put another way, my real goal in this paper is to ask a series of hard questions about what we can reasonably say about fragmentary comedies, and by extension fragmentary tragedies as well, and about some of the basic methodological rules we rely on — or ought to rely on — when we think and write about them. The discussion has three main parts: a survey of the fragments of Gerytades and Farmer’s handling of them; a critique of his hypotheses and an attempt to trace their sources; and some conclusions. These are academic rather than personal issues; I assume that readers will be capable of distinguishing the two.

Section I: Farmer on Gerytades Gerytades is usually dated to 408/7 BC, putting it just two years before Frogs, a point to which I will return in various ways later on. Farmer is concerned with the comedy because he sees it reflecting his own larger interests in his book, which

 1 Farmer 2017. Cf. Rothwell 2017: “There are, to my mind, no missteps in Tragedy on the Comic Stage. Farmer is respectful of the evidence, especially of the fragments, yet imaginative in teasing out ideas. Speculation is labeled as such … Many of the issues have been discussed for decades, but Tragedy on the Comic Stage is more than a synthesis; it offers a systematic new perspective on how the two genres interacted”. I thank Matthew Farmer for sharing an advance copy of his book with me, as well as for his friendship over the last few years.

  S. Douglas Olson have to do with how Aristophanic comedy situates itself in relationship to tragedy, on the one hand, and to dithyramb, on the other. Ultimately, on his reading of the fragments of the play, the author shows that his own work belongs in a space beyond such pedestrian boundaries: “Aristophanes positions himself not as one comic poet speaking on behalf of comedy as a whole, but as a poet beyond all generic categorization who can comment on tragedy, dithyramb, and comedy alike. Aristophanes does not elect himself the representative of the trugic choruses; he positions himself in a sublime role beyond genre itself”. 2 35 fragments of Gerytades survive, including a total of 38 lines or partial lines, as well as a number of scattered words and allusions. The question is what one can reasonably do with such material. Like all modern readers of Gerytades, Farmer not unreasonably begins with fr. 156, which is preserved by Athenaeus and is far and away the most substantial bit of evidence we have for the contents of Aristophanes’ play. Athenaeus — drawing on what source we do not know, although there is no positive reason to believe that he had access to a complete copy of the text — tells us: καὶ Ἀριστοφάνης δ’ ἐν Γηρυτάδῃ λεπτοὺς τούσδε καταλέγει, οὓς καὶ πρέσβεις ὑπὸ τῶν ποιητῶν φησινεἰς Ἅιδου πέμπεσθαι πρὸς τοὺς ἐκεῖ ποιητάς (Ath. 12.551a) Aristophanes in Gerytades as well offers the following list of thin men, who he says were sent to Hades as ambassadors to the poets there.

Some of this information could have been deduced from the text of the fragment itself, but not all of it, and in such circumstances we have little choice but to accept what the ancient source tells us, even though we know that Athenaeus sometimes gets such matters wrong. This is the information we have, and we cannot improve on it, even if we know we cannot trust it implicitly. The fragment itself reads: (Α.) καὶ τίς νεκρῶν κευθμῶνα καὶ σκότου πύλας ἔτλη κατελθεῖν; (Β.) ἕνα † δ’ ἀφ’ ἑκάστης τῆς τέχνης εἱλόμεθα κοινῇ γενομένης ἐκκλησίας, οὓς ᾖσμεν ὄντας ᾁδοφοίτας καὶ θαμὰ ἐκεῖσε φιλοχωροῦντας. (Α.) εἰσὶ γάρ τινες ἄνδρες παρ’ ὑμῖν ᾁδοφοῖται; (Β.) νὴ Δία μάλιστά γ’. (Α.) ὥσπερ Θρᾳκοφοῖται; (Β.) πάντ’ ἔχεις. (Α.) καὶ τίνες ἂν εἶεν; (Β.) πρῶτα μὲν Σαννυρίων

 2 Farmer 2017, 212.


The Fragments of Aristophanes’ Gerytades: Methodological Considerations  

ἀπὸ τῶν τρυγῳδῶν, ἀπὸ δὲ τῶν τραγικῶν χορῶν Μέλητος, ἀπὸ δὲ τῶν κυκλίων Κινησίας. (Α.) ὡς σφόδρ’ ἐπὶ λεπτῶν ἐλπίδων ὠχεῖσθ’ ἄρα. τούτους γάρ, ἢν πολλῷ ξυνέλθῃ, ξυλλαβὼν ὁ τῆς διαρροίας ποταμὸς οἰχήσεται


(Ar. fr. 156 K–A) (A.) And who dared descend to the vault of the dead and the gates of darkness? (B.) There was an assembly, and we chose one man from each art, those we knew were frequenters of Hades and often enjoyed going there. (A.) Because there are frequenters of Hades among you? (B.) By Zeus, absolutely! (A.) Like frequenters of Thrace? (B.) You’ve got it. (A.) And who would they be? (B.) First of all Sannyrion from the trugic 3 choruses; and from the tragic choruses Meletus; and from the cyclic choruses Cinesias. (A.) On slender hopes you are borne indeed! For if it comes in a flood, the Diarrhea River will scoop these men up and carry them off. 4



(Translation by M. Farmer)

“This conversation”, Farmer notes, “provides the essential details of the play: an assembly of poets was held in Athens, and a representative from each of the three major genres performed at the City Dionysia was chosen to serve on a mission to Hades”. Indeed, Farmer suggests that, given a seeming echo of the opening of Euripides’ Hecuba 5 in 1, “this passage could even represent the opening lines of Gerytades”. 6 He also argues that we can roughly establish the identities of the two speakers: “The first character (A.) is a denizen of the underworld, a gatekeeper or other blocking figure like Aeacus in Frogs. The second (B.) is either one of the chosen poets, who then speaks of himself somewhat oddly in the third person, or, rather more probably, an escort appointed from among the poets’ assembly, perhaps the eponymous Gerytades himself”. 7 The next question is why Sannyrion, Meletus and Cinesias in particular have been chosen as ambassadors,

 3 I.e. “comic”. 4 Translation after Farmer 2017, 198–199; particularly significant departures from Farmer’s interpretation of individual words in vv. 1 and 11. 5 Eur. Hec. 1–2 ἥκω νεκρῶν κευθμῶνα καὶ σκότου πύλας / λιπών. 6 Farmer 2017, 199. 7 Farmer 2017, 199.

  S. Douglas Olson and Farmer’s answer allows him to squeeze a bit more information about the identity of character (B.) out of the text. (B.) describes the poet-ambassadors as haidophoitai, “frequenters of Hades”, which (A.) compares not very helpfully — from our perspective, at least — to Thraikophoitai, “frequenters of Thrace”, but which Hesychius glosses “thin and shriveled and close to death”. 8 Where Hesychius has got this information is an open question, although it is possible that he — that is to say, his source — is referring to this very fragment of Aristophanes and simply guessing on the basis of its overall content. Be that as it may, Farmer maintains: “It seems clear that the three poets are being mocked according to the familiar trope that depicts bad poets as unable to earn their living and therefore, hungry, cold, dying, or even dead”; and the fact “That they are discussed in pejorative terms” — i.e. as bad poets “and therefore, hungry, cold, dying, or even dead” — “by Character B strongly supports the notion that he is a fourth poet who has been selected to escort the ambassadors to Hades, rather than one of the three poets thus described; the three poets themselves may even have been played by mutes, like the three goddesses in Cratinus’ Dionysalexandros”. 9 Not much is known about Sannyrion (the comic ambassador), Meletus (the tragic ambassador), or Cinesias (the dithyrambic ambassador). But Farmer collects most of what little information there is, in an attempt to show that it is consistent with all three men being characterized elsewhere more or less as they seem to be in Gerytades. Sannyrion is known to have staged a Danae and an Io, suggesting an interest in mythological parody and thus presumably in tragedy, but he also wrote a Gelôs (“Laughter”) and is supposed to have made fun at some point of Aristophanes (fr. 5). Perhaps more important, Strattis (fr. 21) called Sannyrion a kanabos or “framework”, seemingly referring to his thinness, and Farmer suggests “perhaps directly as a result of his portrayal in Gerytades, [he] is made fun of elsewhere for being unable to feed himself by his art”. 10 Much less is known about Meletus, but Sannyrion (fr. 2) referred to him as “the corpse from the Lenaion”, which Farmer suggests might be another reference to the inability of bad poets to support themselves. 11 Cinesias, finally, is made fun of again and again in what survives of late 5th-century comedy, including by Plato Comicus (fr. 200) for being a “skeleton”.

 8 Hsch. α 1793 ἁιδοφοῖται· οἱ λεπτοὶ καὶ ἰσχνοὶ καὶ ἐγγὺς θανάτου ὄντες. 9 Farmer 2017, 200. The question of how the Judgement-scene in Dionysalexandros was staged is in fact more complicated than this; see in general Bianchi 2016, 232–234. 10 Farmer 2017, 201. 11 Farmer 2017, 202.

The Fragments of Aristophanes’ Gerytades: Methodological Considerations  

“Three hungry poets”, then, on Farmer’s reading of Gerytades, “led by a fourth person, perhaps Gerytades himself, descend to the underworld” 12 — and the point of their hunger is, on the one hand, that they are unsuccessful poets, and on the other hand, that their inability to feed themselves makes them haidophoitai, men who already have one foot in the grave and are thus a logical choice to serve as ambassadors to the dead. Implicit in all this is the notion that Gerytades was fundamentally an underworld play, and Farmer goes on to fit as many of the remaining fragments as he can into the dramatic framework he has established on the basis of fr. 156. Thus fr. 163 τὴν μάλθαν ἐκ τῶν γραμματείων ἤσθιον (“they were eating the wax off their writing tablets”) describes how ravenous the three poet-ambassadors were, 13 while fr. 159 ἆρ’ ἔνδον ἀνδρῶν κεστρέων ἀποικία; / ὡς μὲν γάρ ἐστε νήστιδες γιγνώσκετε (“Is there a colony of mullet men inside? Because they’re like starvelings, you know”) is “probably the poets again”, “as seems likely”. 14 That a number of fragments refer to a symposium or feast, 15 while others describe food, 16 makes it “likely … that the ambassadors’ meeting with the poets of the underworld took the form of a banquet”; 17 and since other fragments describe a meal off-stage, 18 “This staging would make all the more sense if … the three poet delegates were played by mutes”, 19 confirming part of Farmer’s analysis of fr. 156. As for what was discussed at this great offstage banquet in Gerytades, attended by the poet-ambassadors and their dead  12 Farmer 2017, 204. 13 Farmer 2017, 204: “they literally consume the tools of their trade in their hunger”. 14 Farmer 2017, 204, 205. 15 Gerytades frr. 157 τότε μὲν † σου κατεκοττάβιζον τὸ / νυνὶ δὲ καὶ κατεμοῦσι, τάχα δ’ εὖ οἶδ’ ὅτι / καὶ καταχέσονται (“Then † they poured kottabos on you the † / but now they vomit on you, and perhaps, I think, they’ll even shit on you”); 161 ἐν τοῖσι συνδείπνοις ἐπαινῶν Αἰσχύλον (“praising Aeschylus among his dinner companions”); 167 αὐτοὶ θύομεν (“We ourselves are making sacrifice”). 16 Gerytades frr. 164 ἀκροκώλι’, ἄρτοι, κάραβοι, βολβοί, φακῆ (“trotters, loaves of bread, crayfish, bulbs, pea-soup”; nom.); 165 πτισάνην διδάσκεις αὐτὸν ἕψειν ἢ φακῆν; (“Are you teaching him to cook pea-soup or lentil-soup?”); 172 ψίθυρός τ᾿ ἐκαλοῦ καὶ ψωμοκόλαξ (“You were called a slanderer and a morsel-flatterer”); 173 ἄλλος † δ᾿ εἰσέφερε πλεκτῷ κανισκίῳ / ἄρτων περίλοιπα θρύμματα (“Another man † was bringing in the remaining bits of bread in a woven basket”); 174 ἦν δὲ / τὸ πρᾶγμ’ ἑορτή. περιέφερε † δὲ κύκλῳ λεπαστὴν ἡμῖν / ταχὺ προσφέρων παῖς † ἐνέχει τε † σφόδρα κυανοβενθῆ (“The occasion was a party; a slave was bringing around † a limpet-cup in a circle to us † quickly offering (it) † and was pouring in † very dark blue”); 183 καρπεῖα (“fruit”); 189 σκόμβρος (“mackerel”). 17 Farmer 2017, 204. 18 Frr. 158 (quoted above); 161 (quoted above and in n. 15); 173 (quoted in n. 16); 174 (quoted in n. 16). 19 Farmer 2017, 204.

  S. Douglas Olson underworld counterparts, five of the smaller fragments seem to suggest that the topic was tragic poetry in particular: fr. 161 ἐν τοῖσι συνδείπνοις ἐπαινῶν Αἰσχύλον (“praising Aeschylus among his dinner companions”), which “likely involved … a comparison, implicitly or explicitly”, 20 meaning that the poetry of someone else was criticized as worse than Aeschylus’; fr. 158 (Α.) καὶ πῶς ἐγὼ Σθενέλου φάγοιμ’ ἂν ῥήματα; / (Β.) εἰς ὄξος ἐμβαπτόμενος ἢ ξηροὺς ἅλας (“(A.) How could I consume Sthenelus’ words? (B.) By dipping them into vinegar or a bit of dry salt”), accompanied in the scholion that quotes the lines by a claim that Sthenelus was such a bad poet that he was forced to sell his theatrical equipment, a story “that is certain to derive from comedy and that may well come from this very play”; 21 fr. 162 θεράπευε καὶ χόρταζε τῶν μονῳδιῶν (“Treat her and feed her on your monodies!”), which Farmer compares to the comment about Euripides nourishing tragedy on monodies at Frogs 944, and which he takes to be advice to the poet-ambassadors about how to improve their plays; fr. 160 περιάγειν ἐχρῆν / τὸν μηχανοποιὸν ὡς τάχιστα τὴν κράδην (“The operator should have brought the crane/branch about as rapidly as possible”), referring to the mêchanê and to “what should happen in certain circumstances in an ideal tragedy”; 22 and fr. 178 Ἀγαθώνειον αὔλησιν (“Agathonian piping”), in which “Agathon was singled out for criticism of his effeminate style”. 23 Farmer concludes: “Tragic culture thus extended in Gerytades even into the underworld, with poets living and dead engaged in a debate over specific, technical aspects of tragic poetry. Dionysus discovers a similar world in Frogs” 24 — which is surely not a coincidence. And why does comedy descend to the underworld repeatedly in the first place? Because “If tragedy … is the genre with the established right to advise the city on affairs of state, comedy can claim the same right by journeying directly into the tragic realm of the underworld … Comic poets … send their characters to the underworld to seek advice because the underworld can be presented as tragic.” 25 Gerytades was thus a play that claimed tragic authority for itself but simultaneously insisted that comedy — in particular Aristophanic comedy — was king of all, the genre capable of criticizing every other type of poetry and rising above them. The echoes of Frogs are again unmistakable.

 20 Farmer 2017, 205. 21 Farmer 2017, 205. 22 Farmer 2017, 206. 23 Farmer 2017, 207. 24 Farmer 2017, 207. 25 Farmer 2017, 210.

The Fragments of Aristophanes’ Gerytades: Methodological Considerations  

Section II: Back to the Fragments Farmer’s argument regarding the structure, contents and implications of Gerytades is richer and more complex than the summary offered above, but the main points are as stated: an underworld play, in some ways strikingly reminiscent of Frogs a few years later, with an embassy of incompetent ambassador-poets eventually instructed in their craft by their dead counterparts; and all of this as part of an elaborate effort to situate comedy as the dominant genre at the City Dionysia, and Aristophanes himself as the dominant poet within that genre. I argue in what follows that the evidence does not support these conclusions and, more important, that this reading of the fragments of Gerytades serves to raise larger and methodological questions about what we can and cannot do with the scattered bits and pieces of “lost” Athenian comedies and tragedies (and by extension of other fragmentary texts). I begin with the date of the play, which Usener (seemingly followed by Farmer) puts in 407 BC, while Kuiper and Geissler have it in 408 BC. 26 In fact, these are merely guesses made on the basis of limited and dubious evidence and cannot be used as support for any larger conclusions. Fr. 178 mentions the pipemusic of Agathon, who was active from the mid-410s BC on and went off to Macedon before 405 BC. This does not show, however, that Gerytades itself was staged before 405 BC, as Usener claimed, since surely Agathon’s music could be mentioned even after he himself was not around. Beyond that, Gerytades can be dated only on the basis of references to Sannyrion, Meletus, Cinesias (all in fr. 156), Sthenelus (in fr. 158), the baker Thearion (in fr. 177) and the courtesan Nais (in fr. 179) — for none of whom do we have information more precise than that they would be at home generally in the final decade of the century — combined with absence from the fragments of any mention of Euripides, which (once again despite Usener) shows nothing at all, since we have at most 2–3% of the text of the play. The generally accepted date of Gerytades is thus an example of scholarly “common knowledge” that is in fact merely a modern academic tradition passed on from one publication to the next; we do not know that Aristophanes’ play dates just a few years before his preserved Frogs, even if the supposed connection has come to shape how the fragments of Gerytades are interpreted (as argued below). This observation in turn leads direct to fr. 156.

 26 References and further discussion in Kassel–Austin’s introduction to the play.

  S. Douglas Olson Farmer — again following in a long tradition of scholarship that begins at least with Norwood 27 — describes fr. 156 as preserving “the essential details of [Aristophanes’] play” 28 and in fact suggests that these may be its opening lines. καί in verse 1 makes it very unlikely that this is the opening of the action, since “and who?” patently follows up on some previously made point. The more significant question is why should we assume that fr. 156 is central to making sense of Gerytades. In other words: What reason is there to believe that random philological sorting of the kind we know brought all this fragmentary material to us has fortuitously preserved a set of lines that offer deep and essential insight into the plot of an otherwise vanished comedy? This is an extremely useful assumption, if our goal is to reconstruct as much as we can of the action of the play. But “useful” does not mean “compelling” or even, ultimately, “helpful”. Some character at some point in Gerytades discussed an embassy of poets supposedly sent down to the underworld. That does not mean that this is “what the comedy was about”; perhaps these lines are from an exemplary scene in the second half of the action, for example, and bear only a glancing relationship to the plot as a whole. And if the argument is made that “this is the best we can do, given the evidence we have, so we must forge ahead regardless”, it might be better to concede that there are some things we cannot know, the outline of the plot of Aristophanes’ Gerytades being among them, and that we would do better to concentrate on questions that can be answered more convincingly. So what can be said about fr. 156? In particular, who are (A.) and (B.)?; where is the action set?; and why have these particular poets been sent down to the underworld? As noted earlier, Farmer argues that (A.) is a resident of the underworld, “a gatekeeper or other blocking figure like Aeacus in Frogs”; that (B.) is most likely an escort appointed by the poets’ assembly to accompany Sannyrion, Meletus and Cinesias, and perhaps to be identified with Gerytades himself; that the dialogue in the fragment is spoken in the underworld, and indeed that the play as a whole is seemingly set there; that Sannyrion, Meletus and Cinesias were chosen because of their professional incompetence, meaning their inability to keep themselves fed from their art; and that they were most likely mutes. Once again, however, there is no reason to believe that any of this is true. (A.) uses paratragic language in 1–2 and 11, but nothing he says hints that he plays the part of a blocking figure or gatekeeper. Instead, he simply asks for information about the ambassadors and how they were chosen, and then offers a cynical follow-up

 27 Norwood 1931, 289–292. 28 Farmer 2017, 199.

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remark in 11–13. (A.)’s questions and (B.)’s responses refer to two groups: the assembly that selected the poet-ambassadors, called “we” by (B.) (in 3, 4) and “you” by (A.) (in 6, 11), and the ambassadors themselves, whom (A.) and (B.) both refer to in the third person. (B.) is thus treated as speaking for the assembly of poets, who chose and dispatched the ambassadors. But there is no hint in the passage that he is himself a fourth ambassador, and certainly no positive reason to believe that he is the mysterious Gerytades. Nor does anything in the text suggest that the dialogue takes place in the underworld; all (A.) asks in 1–2 is “who dared to descend” there, which is not the same as asking “who has dared come down (here)”; 29 and the dialogue makes at least as much sense set in our world as in the one below. Whether Sannyrion, Meletus and Cinesias were represented elsewhere in the action by mutes, is impossible to say. But the fact that they are referred to in the third person in fr. 156 offers no ground either for believing or disbelieving the thesis, which is to say that there is no support for it in what little is preserved of the play. Farmer’s reading of fr. 156 thus appears to have been decisively shaped by Frogs, which did take place in the underworld, and which included an Aeacus/doorkeeper figure, as well as an ambassador from the upper world (Dionysus) who was not himself one of the poets whose work was at the center of the action. But all these details come from somewhere other than the text of the fragment. As for why Sannyrion, Meletus and Cinesias were chosen as ambassadors, (B.) claims in 4 “we knew that they were haidophoitai”, a word which, as Farmer notes, is attested only here and in Hesychius. 30 But (B.) does not leave it at that and instead adds by way of clarification (4–5) “and they frequently enjoy spending time there”. This is an odd thing to say — Sannyrion, Meletus and Cinesias were obvious choices to go to Hades as ambassadors because they went there all the time in any case — but it seems to be what (B.) means, because in 7 he adds “just like Thraittophoitai”, i.e. people who habitually travel back and forth to Thrace. One obvious interpretation would seem to be that all three poets were known for writing plays or poems set in the underworld — and Sannyrion, despite being a comic poet, was (as noted in Section I) interested in mythological parody, which makes sense in this connection. But what the text does not say is that these men are qualified for ambassadorships to Hades because “their failure as poets means they are unable to keep themselves well fed … they’re already halfway there”. 31 Nor are such charges registered elsewhere against Sannyrion, Meletus  29 Farmer 2017, 198. 30 Farmer 2017, 199–200. 31 Farmer 2017, 203.

  S. Douglas Olson and Cinesias. There are two jokes about them in fr. 156, the first of which is that they are haidophoitai, while the second is that they are very thin (which is something Strattis also said about Sannyrion, and that Aristophanes and Plato Comicus both said about Cinesias). That these jokes are connected — that is, that being skinny is supposedly characteristic of haidophoitai — is unclear. But whether the jokes are connected or not, nothing in the text of the fragment says that Sannyrion, Meletus and Cinesias are skinny because they are bad poets, nor is this asserted elsewhere. 32 Instead, this is another idea imported from another source and foreign to fr. 156 itself. Why Sannyrion, Meletus and Cinesias are the poets chosen as ambassadors in fr. 156 is thus uncertain. Perhaps they are supposed to be bad poets and starving as a consequence. But there is no positive reason to believe that, just as there is no positive reason to believe that the action of the play is set primarily in the underworld, or that (B.) is Gerytades, who is accompanying the ambassadors on their mission. Nor does guessing about who or what is referred to in other fragments help to build the case, a point that raises another issue. That someone is said to “eat the wax off their writing tablets” in fr. 163 does not mean that this is the poet-ambassadors — the subject of the verb is obscure — and cannot be used to confirm the hypothesis that the ambassadors are desperately hungry. So too in the case of the “colony of mullet men inside” in fr. 159: perhaps this is again the poet-ambassadors, but perhaps it is not, and there is no ground for asserting that this is “probable” or “likely”; this is a circular argument. As for the rest of the action in the play: The existence of a number of references to eating, drinking, banquets and symposia in the fragments of Gerytades does not allow us to reconstruct a banquet scene, or even more adventurously to claim that the existence of a supposed offstage banquet scene confirms the hypothesis — for which there is no other support — that “the three poet delegates were played by mutes”. The fragments in question do not obviously add up to such a scene in any case. But the real difficulty is that every Aristophanic comedy contains numerous references to eating, drinking, banquets and symposia scattered throughout the text; that our sources (Athenaeus in particular) are particularly interested in mining what we now think of as “lost comedies” for references of this sort; and that it is methodologically misguided to take the presence of such material in the fragments of an individual play to imply that that play included a single banquet or symposium scene, from which all the material is borrowed, as opposed to referring at various, more or less random points, to eating and drinking. Perhaps there was a banquet or symposium scene in Gerytades; it is impossible to prove that  32 Despite Farmer 2017, 201, in reference to Sannyrion.

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there was not. But there is also no reason to believe that there was one, for this is merely a guess with nothing behind it. So too as regards poetry. What little survives of Gerytades makes it clear that dramatic poetry, and tragedy in particular, was mentioned a number of times in the play — as it is, once again, in virtually every surviving Aristophanic comedy. In fr. 161, someone (or something masculine) is described as “praising Aeschylus among his fellow-banqueters”, although whether this is one of the characters or a person one of the characters mentions, and whether the action is set in the onstage present or in the past or the future, is impossible to say; in fr. 158 someone considers “eating Sthenelus’ words”, which apparently need salt (metaphorically speaking “wit”?); 33 and in fr. 162 someone say “Feed her on your monodies!”, which might be a reference to tragedy. This last fragment and fr. 160 (referring to the stage-engineer and the “fig-tree”, however, are the only evidence that anyone offered or received advice in Gerytades about how to write tragic poetry, and fr. 160 might easily be placed in many other contexts. Nor does a reference to “Agathonian piping” in fr. 178 show that “Agathon was singled out for criticism of his effeminate style”; the text itself does not say so much, and it does us no good to run aggressively beyond the evidence.

Section III: Methodological observations To sum up in regard to Gerytades, first of all: Despite the modern authorities, we do not know the date of Aristophanes’ play, although we can place it roughly in the final decade of the 5th century BC or so; we certainly do not know whether it belongs before or after Frogs, although the magnetic effect the plot of the latter play has exercised on modern attempts to make sense of what little survives of the former is obvious. We do not know that fr. 156 gives us the basic plot of Gerytades, nor, even if we assume that it does, do we know that any of the action was set in the underworld. The identities of Speakers (A.) and (B.) in fr. 156 remain obscure, except that (B.) seems to speak for poets generally; there is no reason to think that he is Gerytades or that (A.) is an Aeacus-figure. The three poet-ambassadors are preternaturally skinny, but nothing suggests that this is because they are professional failures or that those supposed failures were central to the story. There is no compelling evidence that the comedy included one or more banquet

 33 There is no reason to believe that the story the scholion passes on about Sthenelus being forced to sell his theatrical equipment came from Gerytades, as Farmer 2017, 205 suggests.

  S. Douglas Olson scenes or a debate about how to write good dramatic poetry. And nothing obviously supports the notion that Aristophanes used Gerytades to make an elaborate argument about the relationship between comedy, tragedy and dithyramb, the point of which was that he himself was the super-generic master of the theater. All of this is fabrication, a fragile scholarly house of cards that does not stand up to even moderately skeptical consideration. But this is far from the first attempt at such a reconstruction, and my real interest is in the issues this reading of the fragments of Gerytades raises. There are at least two fundamental problems with working with the fragments of lost comedies — and mutatis mutandis, everything that follows applies to tragedy as well. 34 The first involves the nature of the evidence. Even in the case of late 5th-century plays by Aristophanes and Eupolis, we generally have 2–3% of the original text at most. Nor can we assume that what we have is representative of the play as a whole, since (as already noted above) our sources have distinct interests, mostly involving rare words, cultural realia and historical persons, or nominally fine or profound sentiments; they are not attempting to give us a “fair sample” of the original, and there is no reason to expect that the fragments they pass on to us can be put together to yield a reliable image of it. Perhaps more important, we cannot reconstruct such texts, not only because the task is difficult but because the undertaking is intellectually incoherent. The fragments of a lost play are not like the fragments of a pot that can be put back together when it is broken. A so-called lost text is both unique and gone; it has disappeared from our realm and no longer exists. As a consequence, we can never prove or disprove any hypotheses offered about it. More concretely put, we do not and cannot know what happened in Aristophanes’ Gerytades, because there is no evidence except for the handful of problematic bits and pieces of the text that survive. They are not enough to answer the question, and this is all we have. Likewise, we do not and cannot know who (A.) and (B.) in fr. 156 are, because the only evidence is the fragment itself, and it does not tell us. We can attempt to squeeze as much information as possible out of the texts themselves, and we can guess. But whatever guesses we generate are part of a self-referential and occasionally circular process in which our “reconstructions” of lost plays are actually creative amalgams of a more or less careful reading of the scrappy remainders of the original with

 34 The title often appears to give us some basic generic sense of what went on in a fragmentary tragedy. Beyond that, however, we are inevitably once again in the realm of free speculation, i.e. guesswork that is occasionally repeated often enough to take on the character of nominal scholarly truth.

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opinions taken over from other modern scholars (in this case Norwood’s carelessly inventive reading of fr. 156), “echoes” of other texts we happen to know better (in the case of Gerytades, the dramatic template provided by Aristophanes’ Frogs), and our own contemporary concerns and preoccupations, be they personal or societal (here an argument having to do with poetic genre and authority). 35 This is our first problem. Our second problem, closely connected to it, is that we lack explicit, widely acknowledged rules for handling our evidence. Perhaps there was a banquet-scene in Gerytades, for example, despite the objections I have raised against this on methodological grounds; for who can know? But if Scholar A can make whatever assertions he likes about the contents of a lost play, and Scholar B can make whatever assertions she likes, there is very little basis for a conversation, for anytime B attempts to disagree with A, A can reply “That’s how it looks to me”, at which point further discussion becomes impossible. Put another way, fragment studies are a substantially under-theorized area of academic inquiry, and it is worth asking: What kinds of arguments are we willing to accept in regard to “lost” dramatic texts? What sort of approaches and methodologies are we willing to rule out? And where do we need more discussion? In that spirit, and building on the arguments put forward above, I offer six partial and preliminary suggestions: 1. Reconstructions of the missing portions of lost texts, and thus of those texts as wholes, can be powerful and revealing acts of imagination. But those acts are rooted almost entirely in the modern world and only by reference in the ancient one, and they must be understood as such; as far as we can know, they get us no closer to what the original author wrote. 36 Put another way, reconstructions of

 35 For a more extensive discussion of these points and their implications, see Olson/Balthussen 2017. 36 Those disinclined to believe the point on its face need simply compare e.g. the reconstructions of Eupolis’ Demes by Ian Storey (2003, 111–174) and Mario Telò (2007), both working with the same primary evidence but arriving at strikingly different conclusions. The problem has nothing to do with the “scientific character” of either study or with obvious methodological differences. Instead, the difficulty is that, to the extent the question is posed in a naively positivistic fashion (“What can we know about this lost text?”), it has no chance of producing a useful answer. Both Storey and Telò construct an elaborate house of cards out of a series of arbitrary hypotheses, tentative conclusions and ideas borrowed from other scholars. Neither reconstruction tells us anything “true” about Eupolis’ play — although they potentially tell us a good deal about the times and academic and social environments in which they were produced, the interests of the individual scholars who produced them, the interpretative schools from they come, and the like. This is an intellectual dead end, and the vigor with which its practitioners try to defend it

  S. Douglas Olson lost texts are best interpreted as the products of a process of creative story-telling fundamentally shaped by the interests, assumptions and prejudices of the individuals who produce them. Some reconstructions take more evidence into account or handle the evidence they acknowledge in more consistent ways or in a manner the larger community of scholars may at some point recognize as superior. But none of them tell us anything demonstrably right or wrong about the ancient object of interest, which remains eternally inaccessible. If reconstruction is an activity worth engaging in, it is so only because fragments “are good to think with”; such reconstructions offer us no access to anything “real” or “true”, because they cannot do so. 37 2. Since assertions regarding fragments inevitably involve some degree of guesswork, we ought to ask what sort of guesswork and in particular how many mutually dependent hypotheses we are willing to tolerate in discussions of them. The obvious danger is elaborate “house of cards” arguments, for the perverse nature of such constructions is that every additional “card” added to the house reduces the likelihood that the thesis as a whole is correct rather than increasing it. If a thesis depends on two proposals, for example, each of which has a 50% chance of being correct, the thesis as a whole has only a 25% chance of being right, and every additional such proposal added to the structure lowers the odds even further. “House of cards” arguments tend to be recognizable by their elaborate and ingenious character, with one arbitrary intuition or conjecture succeeding another until the grand conclusion is drawn. They also tend to be marked by phrases such as “if we assume”, on the one hand, and by the use of words such as “clearly”, which elicit the reader’s assent without arguing the point, on the other. Without offering any specific quantitative criteria (since opinions may dif-

 merely illustrates a lack of appreciation for the real dynamics of the process and traditions in which they are involved. 37 Paradoxically, this applies even in cases where a modern interpretation misrepresents or ignores individual items of evidence, because we cannot know whether all the evidence we believe we have is reliable. That a fragment is attributed to Aristophanes, for example, does not mean that it is actually by Aristophanes, and even if it is by Aristophanes, we cannot know that he wrote the words as we have them. In all these cases, we are reduced to arguing probabilities, on the one hand, and to ignoring alternative possibilities, on the other. This means, for example, that a fragment omitted from a reconstruction nominally in error might actually not deserve to be considered, and that a crucial linguistic point of interpretation in another might in fact be an ancient editor’s attempt to correct an ambiguous text or alter a controversial one. We can thus quite properly and appropriately judge that certain reconstructions meet those methodological or technical standards we choose to impose upon them, but we cannot say that they are “right” or “wrong” in the way those terms are generally (and unhelpfully) understood.

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fer on the point), I suggest that any hypothesis regarding a lost text that can reasonably be described as a “house of cards” should be rejected a priori; this is a bad way to argue, except once again to the extent that such arguments contribute to other — contemporary — ends that have nothing specifically to do with ancient texts, even if ancient texts serve as a means of discussing them. 3. Arbitrary guessing at the context of individual fragments, the identities of speakers or the topics to which they refer is misguided, since it makes us no wiser and has no basis in the ancient evidence. Such guesses are a common element in “house of cards” arguments, and particularly flimsy and damaging ones at that; a guess that has a 10% chance of being right in such a structure reduces the possibility that the entire construction is accurate by 90%. 4. In the absence of positive evidence of some sort (for example, use of a rare meter), no attempt should be made to combined scattered fragments into conjectural scenes. This is particularly so when the theme in question is a commonplace or when the words or lines preserved do not fall neatly together in terms of syntax or potential narrative structure. But even when one fragment of dialogue might be taken to respond to another, assuming that it does and then building on that conclusion is merely a specific type of “house of cards” argument, and is thus open to the same objections spelled out above. 5. The length or interest of a fragment is not to be confused with its importance in a lost play. Ancient scholarship was not produced for our benefit and cannot be expected to serve our ends in any direct or obvious fashion. 38 What we have of Athenian comedy in particular appears to be a scatter of material chosen for excerption because it used words or referred to persons, objects, customs or sentiments that interested Hellenistic and Roman-era scholars. Their concern was not to preserve enough information to allow us to understand the plots or larger political or poetic significance of the texts they were consulting, but to satisfy the needs or desires of their original readers, who appear to have been concerned primarily with lexicographic, historical and moral matters. What we have are thus, from our perspective, more or less randomly chosen bits and pieces of the text, some probably central to the action as a whole, others quite peripheral, with no indication of which category is which. When we are lucky, the fragments we have allow us to see brief snippets of dramatic action, and we can use arguments from analogy — another methodologically tricky tool — to try to understand that action on the basis of comparison with other, more substantially preserved texts. Even those conclusions, however, fall into the category of  38 For discussion of this point, taking as an example the quotations of Aristophanes in Athenaeus (our most significant source of fragmentary poetic material of all sorts), see Olson 2015.

  S. Douglas Olson guesswork, and everything beyond them certainly does; that fr. 156 of Gerytades can be made to recall the plot of Frogs does not tell us anything substantial about Gerytades, even if it is tempting to imagine that it might. 6. Citation of an authority, above all else a modern authority, is not an argument. In particular, this means that further hypotheses ought not to be built on the conjectures of others even if those conjectures have ossified into scholarly doctrine; this is merely to assist in the construction of a multi-generational “house of cards”, which looks secure because every individual scholar adds only one or two more hypotheses to the construction. These are mostly negative points, intended to suggest that some — in several cases quite popular — modern approaches to comic fragments in particular are misguided. More positive arguments could be offered about what we can reasonably do with this material and about the possibilities it opens up for careful, responsible, creative philology. This includes work on the lexicographic and historical levels, as well as attempts to make sense of the ancient scholarship that preserves most literary fragments, and of other creative re-uses of what seems already by the Hellenistic and Roman eras to have been regarded as obscure but deeply significant material. But that is a topic for another paper.

Bibliography Bianchi, F.P. (2016), Cratino. Archilochoi — Empipramenoi (frr. 1–68). Introduzione, Traduzione, Commento. Fragmenta Comica 3.2, Heidelberg. Farmer, M.C. (2017), Tragedy on the Comic Stage, Oxford. Norwood, G. (1931), Greek Comedy, London. Olson, S.D. (2015), “Athenaeus’ Aristophanes, and the Problem of Reconstructing Lost Comedies,” in: S. Chronopoulos/C. Orth (eds), A Fragmentary History of Greek Comedy (Studia Comica), Heidelberg, 35–65. Olson, S.D./H. Baltussen (2017), “Epilogue: A Conversation on Fragments”, in: J. Kwapisz (ed.), Fragments, Holes and Wholes: Reconstructing the Ancient World in Theory and Practice (Journal of Juristic Papyrology Supplement), 393–406. Rothwell, K.S. (2017), Review of Farmer 2017, BMCR 2017.08.14 Storey, I. (2003), Eupolis: Poet of Old Comedy, Oxford. Telò, M. (2007), Eupolidis Demi, Biblioteca Nazionale, Serie dei Classici Greci e Latini XIV, Florence.

Oliver Taplin

Fragments of Aeschylus and the Number of Actors The direct and dogmatic sentences of Aristotle’s Poetics 1449a8–23 remain to this day the orthodox account of the early history of tragedy. 1 (I am taking “early tragedy” to mean earlier than 472, the date of our earliest surviving complete play, Persai.) Aristotle’s authority has, however, come increasingly under question, especially the teleological template underlying his alleged gradual development from crude beginnings until it eventually reached its proper nature (τὴν αὑτῆς φύσιν) in the work of Sophocles. 2 This looks suspiciously schematic. While the Poetics has completely dominated accounts of early tragedy, there is another significant body of evidence, and that is the corpus of fragments of Aeschylus, as I shall try to show. According to Aristotle it was a gradual and long-drawn-out process (πολλὰς μεταβολὰς μεταβαλοῦσα…) before tragedy changed from “slight plots and laughable diction” (ἐκ μικρῶν μύθων καὶ λέξεως γελοίας) to achieve its full solemnity (ὀψὲ ἀπεσεμνύνθη). Presumably that development had been completed before the earliest securely dateable tragedy known to us, namely Phrynichus’ play about the sack of Miletus in 492 (plus or minus a year), 3 as reported by Herodotus 6.21.2. And the well-known “Basle Dancers” vase, dated to the 490s, also seems a long way from any slight and ludicrous beginnings. 4 So Aristotle is positing a gradual, multifarious development from long before 500. It is very unlikely that any texts of tragedy survived from before then, since we would surely have heard about them if they had. So we are bound to have doubts about whether he had any secure evidence for this, or whether, rather, he was making conjectures to fit his teleological model. Another questionable assertion — despite its appeal for those who like to imagine tragedy as rooted in primal dionysiac rites — is that tragedy originated (ἀπ’ ἀρχῆς) with improvisations from “the leaders of the dithyramb” (ἀπὸ τῶν ἐξαρχόντων τὸν διθύραμβον). This is suspect because of its symmetry with the  1 This paper is a much-revised version of the lecture I gave at the conference in Thessaloniki in May 2018. It remains, however, in the form of a lecture rather than an academic article (which would display fuller bibliography and more decorous diction). I am most grateful to those who contributed to discussion, especially to Anna Lamari. 2 Cogent arguments in, for example, Scullion, 2002. 3 All dates are BC. 4 Recent description and discussion in Hart 2010, 29.

  Oliver Taplin much more plausible claim that comedy originated from the leaders of the phallic songs. Secondly, it does not account for the actors using stichic spoken metres instead of sung lyric. And, thirdly and most importantly, the dithyramb claim fails to account for the crucial and, so far as we know, unprecedented leap into embodiment and impersonation instead of occasion-bound narrative. This calls for both the actors and the chorus to shed their temporal identities and become people who are other in time and place. This does not look like a gradual development; it is far more likely that “tragedy was a deliberate invention, a brilliant idea”. 5 There is yet another claim in Aristotle’s account which has not been subjected to so much scepticism, but which I shall also query. Illustrating the changes which tragedy went through, he says that “Aeschylus innovated by raising the number of actors from one to two….” (καὶ τό τε τῶν ὑποκριτῶν πλῆθος ἐξ ἑνὸς εἰς δύο πρῶτος Αἰσχύλος ἤγαγε). We can discount the claim that a particular playwright, as opposed to the civic organisation, was able to change the conventional “rules” of the tragic competition. But regardless of that, Aristotle clearly implies that there were one-actor tragedies down into the time of Aeschylus; and that at some stage of his career a second actor became permissible, just as a third actor seems to have become allowable at some time in between his earlier surviving plays and the Oresteia (meaning probably between 463 and 458). Scholars tend to associate these supposed one-actor tragedies with the originary leader of the dithyramb (although Aristotle actually uses the plural), and they take it for granted that Aristotle must have known of some such tragedies. We are bound to ask, however, whether it is inherently plausible that this kind of story-telling could ever have existed with only one actor. Arguably the very nature of the drama calls for interaction and potential conflict between individuals, not just between an individual and a group. The close relation of tragic narrative to epic precedent points the same way. Epic makes much of debates, quarrels, persuasions, insults, advice; and scenes of this kind are surely fundamental to the new genre of tragedy as well. All such scenarios call for two participant actors on stage. It might be countered that some at least of these kinds of scenes can be conducted between a single actor and the chorus; and this does indeed occur throughout fifth-century tragedy, especially in Aeschylus. But this raises a neglected question about what is meant by “the chorus” when in iambic dialogue  5 Scodel 2010, 37. Herington 1985 was an important pioneer of this innovative model. I argue (in Taplin 2018) that the mask was also invented at the same time to enable this new kind of enactment.

Fragments of Aeschylus and the Number of Actors  

as opposed to lyric. It is the convention in the manuscripts and editions to put the same marginal attribution, viz. “XO.”, against both the lyric and iambic contributions, but that does not entail that they were in practice delivered in the same way. It is, indeed, unlikely that they were. While the lyric parts were mainly sung by the whole chorus in unison, it seems implausible (although not unthinkable) that the spoken lines were delivered in unison. Apart from the challenges of audible coordination in speech (harder than in song), problems in the organisation of rehearsals are also likely to have arisen. It would have been far more practicable for a single member to have delivered the spoken lines, namely the chorusleader (who may have been known as the koryphaios). There is an interesting and neglected item of evidence suggesting that the chorus-leader had a role intermediary between chorus and actor. Figure 25 on the Pronomos Vase 6 is holding his satyr mask, which shows he is a member of the chorus, but, unlike all the others who have their ithyphallic satyr-shorts exposed, he wears a rather fancily decorated short chiton. This allies him with the actors above with Dionysus; also like them, and unlike all but one or the other choreutai, he is not allocated a name. I conclude that spoken dialogue between an actor and “the chorus” was actually between the actor and an actor-like representative of the chorus. It is now time to turn to that other significant body of evidence, the corpus of fragments of Aeschylus. Unfortunately there are none that we can date with complete confidence, but it is surely unlikely that all of them come from later than Persai, i.e. from the last 16 years of his more than 40-year career. Two-actor scenes were evidently common practice by the time of Persai: there are three brief exchanges between the Queen and the Messenger, and a protracted and intense dialogue between the Queen and the ghost of her husband Darius (lines 703– 758). It is impossible, of course, to assert on the evidence of the fragments that any particular play definitely used only one actor; but there is a good handful where we can be sure that two individual roles were called for on stage together. The remainder of this brief essay will be devoted to scrutinizing those fragments for traces of the number of actors. I might as well play the best card, or rather set of three cards, first. Aeschylus composed an Achilles- trilogy, which is universally agreed to have been made up of Myrmidones, Nereides and Phryges, and which very probably tracked the same narrative sequence as Iliad (i) books 9 and 16; (ii) 18–19; and (iii) 24. This trilogy appears to have been Aeschylus’ best-known work after the Oresteia; and it may well be that it was this ambitious composition, declaring tragedy’s claim to rival and even surpass epic, that first established him as a major figure.  6 This is the numeration on the pull-out key at the start of Taplin/Wyles 2010.

  Oliver Taplin We cannot date the trilogy with confidence, however. Alan Sommerstein proposes 484, said to be the year of Aeschylus’ first victory; 7 but the Athenian judges seem to have been almost as bad as the Oscar nominators for spotting long-term winners! There is, however, one possibly important pointer to an even earlier date. We know from several passages in Aristophanes’ Frogs that Myrmidones opened with the alienated Achilles silent on stage, his head and face veiled. This departed radically the Iliad where he responds volubly to the embassy in book 9. And it so happens that between about 490 and 470 there is also a whole cluster of Athenian vase-paintings which show various Achaean leaders pleading with a veiled and uncommunicative Achilles. It is tempting to conclude that the painters were inspired to this iconography by Aeschylus’ revolutionary portrayal, in which case the trilogy dates for very early in his career. 8 On the other hand, there is no indication in the pictures of any theatrical connection, and it may well be that Aeschylus followed a new iconography rather than the other way round. 9 But whichever was the case, the Homer-challenging Achilles-trilogy was probably an early work from the 490s or 480s. And it indisputably included extensive and crucial scenes involving two actors. In Myrmidones, as we know from Frogs, Achilles sat there with his head covered, refusing to respond, first to the chorus (see frr. 131–132), and then to other leaders who urged him to re-join the battle. As Aristophanes’ Euripides rightly observes in jest, Aeschylus would make the audience wait in suspense for his silent character to speak (Frogs 919–920). While the chances of the survival of papyri are so often frustrating, in the case of fr. 132b there was an extraordinary stroke of good luck and good scholarship by which an Oxyrynchus fragment in Oxford was joined with one in Florence which had been transcribed before being destroyed by a bomb in 1944. Together they read: [ [ [ [

]τι.α.ωγε.|...[ ]. ἐπῳδὴν |ο|ὐκ ἔχω̣ σο[ ]π̣εσεισαπ|α|σαν̣ ἡνίαν̣ [ ].. δ’, Ἀχιλ̣λ̣εῦ, |π|ρᾶσσ’ ὅπῃ [

Φοῖ]νιξ γεραιέ, τῶν | ἐμῶν φρε[νῶν πολ]λ̣ῶν ἀκούων |δ|υσ̣τ̣ όμων λ[

 7 Sommerstein 2008, 135. The fragments shall be cited from this very useful edition. 8 Most authoritatively Döhle 1983; cf. Taplin 1972, 62–74 (rather overconfident forays from nearly 50 years ago!). 9 As strongly argued by Giuliani 2013, 197–205 (with further bibliography).

Fragments of Aeschylus and the Number of Actors  

πάλ]αι σιωπῶ κο̣ ὐ̣δ|εν̣ [.]σ̣τ̣ .μ[ [ ] ἀντέλεξα. σὲ δε.|[..]α̣ξιωτ̣ [

(Aesch. fr. 123b Radt)

It is beyond reasonable dispute that the first four lines are spoken by Phoenix and the second four by Achilles, and that this preserves the very moment when Achilles at last broke his silence in dialogue response. Later in the play there must surely also have been dialogue between Achilles and Patroclus before he went off to battle. And then in fr. 138 we have Achilles in dialogue with Antilochus who has broken the news of Patroclus’ death. So there was a lot of two-player interaction in Mymidones, which was evidently a long and eventful play 10 — and most definitely a far cry from “slight plots and laughable diction”! Not much can be reconstructed of the second play, Nereides, beyond the bringing of Achilles, new armour by his mother accompanied by the chorus of her sisters; but it can hardly be doubted that there was dialogue between Achilles and Thetis. Similarly in the third play, Phryges (which had the alternative title of Hectoros Lytra) there must surely have been dialogue between Achilles and Priam. Also it so happens that the ancient Life of Aeschylus tells us that Achilles sat silent and veiled in this play as well except for a brief dialogue with Hermes at the very start. 11 Fragment 266, which seems to be spoken by a god (ἡμῶν γε μέντοι νέμεσις ἐσθ’ ὑπερτέρα) may well come from that dialogue. Taken all together, then, the Achilles-trilogy, which was certainly a highly important work within Aeschylus’ oeuvre, and which may well have dated from early in his career, indisputably included several extensive and crucial scenes involving two actors. This is far the most significant evidence, and the other plays may be surveyed relatively cursorily, and in alphabetical order of title. I shall not look at further less secure examples; and, since the question here is specifically about tragedy, I shall not survey the satyr plays, even though some of them indisputably employed two actors, even without counting the role of Silenus in dialogue.

 10 It is generally supposed that, in addition to all the previous incidents, Mymidones also included the scene of Achilles’ lament over the dead body of Patroclus, known from fragments 135–137 to have been explicitly homoerotic. This is based entirely on the allocation of fr. 135 to Mymidones by Athenaeus 602e. I wonder whether that title might have been used to indicate the whole trilogy, in which case the lamentations would find a better place, along with fr. 153, in the second play, Nereides. 11 ἐν δὲ τοῖς Ἕκτορος λύτροις Ἀχιλλεὺς ὁμοίως ἐγκεκαλυμμένος οὐ φθέγγεται πλὴν ἐν ἀρχαῖς ὀλίγα πρὸς Ἑρμῆν ἀμοιβαῖα. See p. 365 of Radt 1985.

  Oliver Taplin Edonoi fr. 61, extrapolated from Aristophanes’ Thesmophoriazousai 134ff., has Lycurgus taunting Dionysus. It is quite possible that Dionysus responded for much of the scene with reserved and enigmatic silence, but it is highly unlikely that he did not speak at all. And even if he did not, we still have two named actors on stage together. Next Niobe: Niobe, sitting in silence on the tomb of her children, is paired closely with Achilles in Frogs 911ff. As in Myrmidones the audience had to wait a long time for the silent figure to speak eventually. Whoever is the speaker of fr. 154a predicts to the chorus that Tantalus will be coming to plead with his daughter; and it is very likely that it was he who, like Phoenix in Myrmidones, managed to break her silence. And surely there was dialogue between them. In Hoplon Krisis fr. 175, Aias insulted Odysseus to his face in the second person. So they are both on stage, and Odysseus, of all people, will not have taken this abuse without riposte. From Prometheus Lyomenos, which so far as I can see shows every sign of being by Aeschylus, 12 we have no fewer than three fragments (195, 196 and 199) in which Prometheus is giving Heracles instructions about his future adventures (as he does to Io in Desmotes). Clearly both are on stage. For Philoctetes we rely on the comparative discussion in Dio Chrysostom 52, which makes it amply clear that the Aeschylean version included extensive scenes between Philoctetes and Odysseus. And in Psychagogoi fr. 275 Teiresias tells Odysseus about his eventual death, presumably directly to his face. Finally, fr. 318, from an unknown play, has someone individual (not the chorus) address a herald (τοσαῦτα, κῆρυξ, ἐξ ἐμοῦ διάρτασον). So there were a good few tragedies of Aeschylus that made use of two actors. Before returning finally to Aristotle’s claim that he increased the number from one to two, we have to ask what kind of definite evidence for early tragedy was available to Aristotle. So far as dramatic texts were concerned there is no reason to think that any from before 500 survived. Indeed very little, so far as we can tell, survived of any tragedies from before 472 apart from those of Aeschylus. It is unlikely that any genuine words of Thespis or Choirilos were preserved; and, to judge from the limited quotations, there was probably only a little of Phrynichus. The most likely explanation for the exceptional survival of so many of Aeschylus’ plays is that an archive was kept by his theatrical dynasty.

 12 Contrary to the standard view, I do not believe that the authorship and authenticity of Prometheus Desmotes and Prometheus Lyomenos stand or fall together. While it is now generally and rightly believed that Desmotes is largely or entirely the work of a follower of Aeschylus, I see nothing among the extensive fragments of Lyomenos that militates against its being entirely the work of Aeschylus himself.

Fragments of Aeschylus and the Number of Actors  

I hope that I have made the case for considering it to be a serious possibility that all the plays of Aeschylus right from the start called for at least two actors, and none could be played with only one. Suppose, then, that this is what Aristotle observed when he scrutinised the plays, why should he claim that Aeschylus invented the second actor? The most plausible answer has to be that he had already on other grounds arrived at the firm teleological belief that tragedy had developed from a choral origin and from the emergence of a single “leader”. To reconcile this theory with Aeschylus’ practice, he concluded that the playwright himself must have introduced the second actor. If this train of argument has been at all along the right lines, then Aristotle’s account of the early history of tragedy collapses with a kind of domino effect. Aeschylus did not innovate the second actor because there had never been singleactor tragedy; this was because the spoken element of tragedy did not develop from the leader of the dithyramb; this was because tragedy did not grow from a purely choral root. In turn this means that its development was not gradual, and that it had never been through a simple or laughable or primitive stage. Contrary to the teleological model it was a fully-fledged art-form from the start. To conclude, some big claims mesh with these small details about the fragments of Aeschylus. The revolutionary invention of theatre brought together speaking actors with choral lyric: it was an exogamous union, not a parthenogenesis from the chorus. And, fundamentally, it surplanted previous forms of narration with enactment, embodiment, total impersonation. The performance-space, masks, costumes and props and a whole complex of further performative resources all came into being together — and a new art-form was born. Obviously, this radical theory has to be pieced together as a great mosaic, and its ramifications extend far beyond my present scope. What I hope to have brought into focus is just one segment of this mosaic: the claim that the fragments of Aeschylus are a revealing source for the early development of tragedy. And that they point towards tragedy as complex, serious, and in every sense dramatic, right from the very beginning.

Bibliography Döhle, B. (1983), “Die ‘Achilleis’ des Aischylos: Eine Theaterinszenierung im Spiegel der Darstellungen der bildenden Kunst”, in: H. Kuch (ed.) (1983), Die griechische Tragödie in ihre gesellschaftlichen Funktion, Berlin, 161–172. Giuliani, L. (2013), Image and Myth, revised translation of Bild und Mythos, Chicago. Hart, M.L. (2010), The Art of Ancient Greek Theater, Getty Museum, Malibu.

  Oliver Taplin Herington, C.J. (1985), Poetry into Drama: Early Tragedy and the Greek Poetic Tradition, California. Radt, S. (1985), Tragicorum Graecorum Fragmenta, vol. 3, Aeschylus, Göttingen. Scodel, R. (2010), An Introduction to Greek Tragedy, Cambridge. Scullion, S. (2002), “‘Nothing to do with Dionysus’: tragedy misconceived as ritual”, CQ 52, 102–137. Sommerstein, A. (2008), Aeschylus III, Fragments, Cambridge MA. Taplin, O. (1972), “Aeschylean Silences and Silences in Aeschylus”, HSCPh 76, 57–97. Taplin, O. (2018), “The Tragic Mask and the Invention of Theatre”, Scienze dell’Antichità 24.3, 1–9. Taplin, O./Wyles, R. (2010), The Pronomos Vase and its Context, Oxford.

Part II: Fragmented Tragedy

Alan H. Sommerstein

Revisiting the Danaid Trilogy In this paper I will be discussing two fragmentary plays, but I will have little to say about actual fragments. For this I apologize. It was under the auspices of Bernhard Zimmermann, in Düsseldorf, back in 1994, that I first presented my ideas about the structure of Aeschylus’ Danaid trilogy – though my basic thesis had already been put forward by Wolfgang Rösler (1993). This thesis – actually a revival of a proposal made first by August von Schlegel (1809/1923; i 75) – was that the surviving play, Suppliants, was not the first, as is usually supposed, but the second part of the trilogy, being preceded, rather than followed, by Egyptians; and that Egyptians was set in Egypt rather than at Argos, and dealt with the dispute between Danaus and his brother Aegyptus which eventually resulted in Danaus and his daughters fleeing to Greece. Rösler and I, following Martin Sicherl (1986) and half a dozen ancient accounts of the Danaid story, held that a crucial determinant of the trilogy’s action had been an oracle given to Danaus whose exact terms are variously reported, 1 but from which it followed that if his daughters married the sons of Aegyptus, one of them would kill him. I reproduce and translate the half-dozen sources in the Appendix. This thesis, to say the least, has not been well received. Every editor of the play (except myself, of course) has rejected it (Sandin 2005, 9–12; Bowen 2013, 7– 10; more hesitantly, Citti/Miralles 2019), as have the majority of others who have discussed the issue such as Garvie (2006, xviii–xx), Kyriakou (2011, 65–76), Papadopoulou (2011, 18–19) and Beriotto (2016, 48–52). A few such as Conacher (1996, 109–111) and Collard (2008, xxxvii) have taken a neutral line, and a handful more (e.g. Turner 2001, 28–29 n. 9; Föllinger 2003, 201–204, 2009, 102–105) have adopted my proposal or a modified version of it; but the preponderance of opinion is unmistakable. 2 With my own edition of Suppliants (Sommerstein 2019)

 1 This variability in itself suggests that the oracle story had a wide currency. One poet or mythographer had it tell Danaus that he would be killed by a son of Aegyptus (a, c, f in Appendix); another said, by his son-in-law (e); while a third imagined Danaus encouraging his daughters to use lethal force, if necessary, against “anyone attempting to rob them of their virginity” (b), as if any man who became the husband, lover, or rapist of one of the Danaids might afterwards become Danaus’ murderer. 2 However, a team led by director Ramin Gray is planning a production of a reconstructed version of the trilogy in which Egyptians is placed first.

  Alan H. Sommerstein appearing, it seems a good time to review this issue and respond to the main specific arguments 3 that have been raised by critics of my view of the trilogy. 4 Rösler and I certainly got one thing badly wrong. Following Sicherl, we relied heavily on six words in a scholion on the words ὧν θέμις εἴργει “from which Right debars them” in Supp. 37. The scholion, in full, reads ὧν τὸ δίκαιον ἡμᾶς εἴργει διὰ τὸ μὴ θανατωθῆναι τὸν πατέρα. The first five words are a straightforward attempt to paraphrase the poetic text. The last six words mean “because of the non– killing of our father”, and we took this to be equivalent to “in order that our father should not be killed”. As Garvie (2006, xviii–xix) in particular has pointed out, these words are at least as likely to mean “because our father is still alive”. In any case the scholion is wrong: the Danaids are not saying that justice forbids them to do anything, they are saying that justice forbids their cousins to take them in marriage (λέκτρων ... ἐπιβῆναι, “to mount our beds”) against their will and that of their father (37–39). There is still, though, one thing that we can infer from it. The scholiast didn’t write μὴ τεθνηκέναι or ἔτι ζῆν; he wrote μὴ θανατωθῆναι, “not being put to death”. And that implies that he, or his source, knew that later in the trilogy Danaus was put to death – which rules out some dénouements that have been popular in the past, such as Pindar’s story (Pyth. 9.112–116) of Danaus putting up his daughters as prizes in a foot-race. The main evidence for placing Suppliants second in the trilogy comes from Danaus’ last speech, in particular its second half, 996–1013, where he displays an almost desperate anxiety that his daughters shall at all costs preserve their virginity and value it “more than life itself” (1013). To be sure, any Greek father would feel some anxiety on this score until his daughters were safely married; but no other father, in any surviving text, makes such a song and dance about it, and Danaus’ tirade is all the more remarkable because his daughters have not given the slightest indication of any tendency to go astray.

 3 As opposed to the argument of general principle, strongly voiced by Doug Olson at the Thessaloniki conference, that we simply do not have adequate evidence on which to found even the most skeletal reconstruction of the trilogy. I made the case for a less negative approach in my 2007 Gaisford lecture (see Sommerstein 2010). 4 In my edition itself – appearing in a series (Cambridge Greek and Latin Classics) which describes itself as “aimed primarily at undergraduate and graduate students” – I discuss the structure of the trilogy from a neutral point of view, presenting the main arguments on each side of the question but not committing myself to either (Sommerstein 2019, 12–20). In the same way Griffith (1982, 31–35), editing Prometheus Bound in the same series, discussed the question of its authenticity in a neutral manner, even though a few years earlier (Griffith 1977) he had done more than anyone to convince scholarly opinion that the play was not Aeschylus’ work.

Revisiting the Danaid Trilogy  

Now Danaus had an option, well known to every father in Aeschylus’ audience, which would have provided considerable protection both against the danger of illicit liaisons, of which he is apparently so afraid, and against the sons of Aegyptus. This was to get his daughters married, as soon as possible, to suitable young men, thereby giving his new sons-in-law an intense personal interest in protecting the Danaids against all other men, and also making it impossible for the Aegyptiads to take their cousins as virgin brides. And most conveniently, a group of such potential bridegrooms is actually on hand, probably equal in number to the Danaids, committed if necessary to defend them and their father with their own lives, and described by Pelasgus as their φίλοι ὀπάονες “friendly escort” (954), in every respect the polar opposite of the Aegyptiads. Danaus could not hope to find better matches for his daughters, to guard them both against their enemies and against their own supposed frailties. Of course he does nothing of the sort. What is more, he says in effect (1006– 1007) that if his daughters succumb to sexual temptation, they and he will suffer precisely what they have endured much toil and a long sea voyage to avoid; 5 in other words, his aim was never just to help them escape marriage to the sons of Aegyptus; there is no risk of that happening now that they have been accepted by the Argives. Putting together what he says and what he does not do, it is as if he is determined that they shall remain permanently virgin. This is normally thought of as a most grievous wrong, and it is rare even in myth. The only two other parents I can think of who do this, Acrisius and Clytaemestra, both do it because they are afraid for their own lives. And the only story we know of that gives Danaus that kind of motive to avoid any marriage for his daughters (not just a marriage to their cousins) is the oracle story, or rather one particular version of it, according to which Danaus was told that he would be killed by his son-in-law (Lactantius on Stat. Theb. 2.222 = e in Appendix) or by the bedfellow of his daughter (implied by schol. Il. 4.171 = b which says he had told his daughters to strike back at anyone attempting to take away their virginity). Yet in Suppliants itself there is no reference, direct or indirect, to any such oracle; nor can we assume that Aeschylus took knowledge of it for granted as a regular part of the myth, for we know that in one recent version of the story (that of Pindar) Danaus not only survived but himself arranged new marriages for his daughters. Has Aeschylus, then, deliberately left his audience mystified on this important issue, to be enlightened only much later in the trilogy? This was Sicherl’s view, and Hose (2006) finds it acceptable, citing several occasions in epic and tragedy when an oracle is  5 μὴ πάθωμεν ὧν πολὺς πόνος, πολὺς δὲ πόντος οὕνεκ’ ἠρόθη δορί, “let us not suffer that on account of which much toil and much sea has been ploughed [n.b. zeugma] by our craft”.

  Alan H. Sommerstein mentioned for the first time only after it has been fulfilled; but in none of these cases is the audience left mystified for a long period about the explanation of actions or attitudes crucial to the plot. If that possibility is ruled out, then the audience must have been informed about the oracle in a preceding play, which can only have been Egyptians. Only Danaus himself would know of the oracle, and he would not be able to mention it in public, so he would have had to do so in a prologue. The hypothesis may be supported by some allusions in Supp. to earlier events which become decidedly cryptic if we suppose that no play preceded Supp. The Danaids say to their father (741–742) that the Aegyptiads are “insatiate of battle” (μάχης ... ἄπληστον) and add “I speak to one who knows” (λέγω πρὸς εἰδότα). This implies that Danaus has waged war against them in Egypt ─ and this is the only reference in Suppliants to this war. Why was it not mentioned at the start of the play? Because ─ it may be argued ─ the audience already knew about the war from the preceding play, and further reference to it at that stage was unnecessary. Again, two passages imply that under Egyptian law the sons of Aegyptus have the right to claim possession of their cousins regardless of the latter’s own wishes or of their father’s ─ but this emerges in a strangely indirect way. First Pelasgus asks whether such a law exists (387–391) and receives an evasive answer; later the Egyptian herald speaks of the Danaids as items of lost property (916–920), and asks (932–933) “who shall I say took away from me this group of cousin women?” as if, again, they belonged to him by right. Such a right was utterly alien to Greek society and requires far clearer explanation than it ever receives in this play; again, such explanation could have featured in Egyptians. There is also another consideration. If Egyptians was the second play, coming between Suppliants and Danaids, what was its content? We can fill in with fair confidence the events that it could have covered – the fabula, to use a convenient narratological term: a battle (which must have gone badly for the Argives, probably with the death of King Pelasgus), the assumption of power in Argos by Danaus (whether by election or by coup d’état), negotiations for a peace treaty including the acceptance of the Aegyptiad–Danaid marriages, the hatching of the murder plot by Danaus and his daughters, and the actual celebration of the multiple wedding. In view of the title, the chorus would have been formed not by the Danaids, as in the other two plays, but by their enemies, most likely the sons of Aegyptus themselves (who did not appear in Suppliants, and could not have appeared in Danaids). Now if Egyptians included the plotting of the murders, that would have to take place in the absence of the Aegyptiads and therefore, almost certainly, before the entrance of the chorus; the imaginary location of the action would have

Revisiting the Danaid Trilogy  

to be Argos (where Danaus’ family are living), and the main part of the play would have to be devoted to the negotiations leading up to the marriages. This could be seen as parallel to the negotiations and debate in Suppliants leading to the Argive decision to grant asylum; but there is a big difference. The Argives were being asked to make a decision that was likely to involve them in a dangerous war, and they have to be virtually forced into it by threats of a sacrilegious suicide and of the wrath of Zeus Hikesios. In Egyptians, as we are at present imagining it, the Aegyptiads would have been offered precisely what they had been demanding all along, and there would really have been nothing needing to be negotiated about. I very much doubt whether there is enough meat in this action, so to speak, to make a drama, even an Aeschylean one. That, essentially, is the case for the Schlegel sequence. I will now try to address the most important arguments against it. 6 The strongest of these, to my mind, derive from two features of the elaborate choral parodos with which Suppliants begins. The extensive self-presentation of the Danaids, their thoughts and their feelings, all but guarantees that we are meeting them for the first time. The parodos also has much to say about Io and Epaphus (40–67), a story to which the chorus will return in two later passages (291–324, 538–589), altogether covering the subject at such length and in so much detail that it is hard to suppose that anything substantial could have been said about it in a preceding play. Yet these considerations do not in themselves prove that there was no play preceding Suppliants. What they do, I think, prove is that if there was such a play, the Danaids did not appear in it, and very little was said about them (except as the potential objects of a marriage transaction between their father and their uncle) or about Io and Epaphus. This may seem surprising, but is quite possible. In Agamemnon, for example, there is no mention of any daughter of Agamemnon except the dead Iphigeneia, though in the first half of the next play Electra will be a major focus of interest (and Iphigeneia will be faded out almost completely); and the butchery of the children of Thyestes, which in the middle part of the

 6 One much adduced argument was disposed of long ago. It is often pointed out (e.g. Conacher 1996, 109–110; Sandin 2005, 11; Kyriakou 2011, 68 calls it “virtually damning for the case of Sicherl and the rest”) that nothing is said in the surviving play about any oracle given to Danaus; I had already explained this by the assumption that Danaus had not divulged the oracle even to his daughters, instead bringing them up to be fanatically devoted to the preservation of their virginity (Sommerstein 1994, 119–122, 128).

  Alan H. Sommerstein Oresteia – from the Cassandra scene to the end of Choephoroi – is repeatedly referenced 7 as the ἀρχὴ κακῶν for the Atreid family, is completely absent from the first thousand lines of the opening play. Again, Athena, who will dominate Eumenides, is not mentioned at all in Agamemnon or Choephoroi, not even in connection with the capture of Troy for which according to tradition (and indeed according to Eum. 457–458) she was largely responsible. Another argument that has won wide approval is the one briefly stated half a century ago by Alex Garvie (1969, 126): “At the end of the Supplices we are still in the early stages of the action. It is impossible to see how the situation could be resolved in a single following play”. More recent critics (Sandin 2005, 9–10; Kyriakou 2011, 73) have expressed the same idea rather differently: the Schlegel sequence would require an altogether excessive proportion of the plot of the trilogy to be crammed into the third play, whether directly as part of the action or by way of retrospective report. It would certainly be excessive by comparison with the Oresteia; in that trilogy the situation at the beginning of each play after the first is essentially identical to that at the end of the preceding play except that Orestes has changed his location. There is, however, another possible comparandum: the Theban trilogy. 8 We have seen what happens, in fabula terms, between the end of Suppliants and the beginning of Danaids. What happened between the end of Oedipus and the beginning of Seven against Thebes? At an absolute minimum, the arrival of Polyneices at Argos; his marriage to Adrastus’ daughter; the persuasion of Adrastus by his two sons-in-law to attack Thebes; the mustering and march of the Seven; and a siege of significant duration (cf. Sept. 22–23). In Seven Aeschylus seems for the most part to have assumed that his audience knew about these things (cf. Garvie 1969, 185) and indeed about some less essential ones such as how Amphiaraus was forced to join the expedition, an episode alluded to in Seven only in the vaguest of terms (βίαι φρενῶν 612). But it would have been equally possible to inform the audience more directly, say in a prologue, about the events that had not been dramatized.  7 Ag. 1094–1096, 1215–1222; Cho. 1065–1076, cf. 578 on the Erinys drinking her “third draught” of blood. Once and once only (Ag. 1186–1193) the crimes and sufferings of the Atreid house are traced one step further back, to the adultery of Atreus’ wife with Thyestes. 8 A further suggestive case is furnished by the trilogy based on the Odyssey. The first play, Psychagogoi, set at an entrance to the underworld, corresponded to book 11 of the Homeric poem; the second, Penelope, set within Odysseus’ palace in Ithaca town, must have corresponded to all or part of books 17–23, leaving the events of nine books (in the order of the fabula, books 12, 5– 8 and 13–16) to be treated by retrospect or not at all. We have, however, no evidence as to how Aeschylus did in fact present these events (if he did), except that it was not through direct stage action.

Revisiting the Danaid Trilogy  

This indeed is what I think happened at the beginning of Danaids. The shorter of the two book fragments (fr. 43), though partly corrupt, seems to refer to the ceremonial “waking” of the bridal couples as something that has not yet taken place; the chorus of Danaids, therefore, are not yet on stage, and the fragment must come from a prologue, perhaps spoken by Danaus, perhaps by a servant; It would only take about half a dozen lines in that prologue to narrate briefly what had happened since we last saw the Danaids and their father. Sandin (2005, 10) objects that if this was done the audience would “feel cheated” because “one expects the conflict between the Aegyptiads and the Danaids to appear on-stage”. It is not clear to me that this would be so. We have already had a confrontation, not indeed with the Aegyptiads, but with their brutal henchmen, which has come as close to actual violence as the genre allows; there can be no further meeting between the cousins until the war is over, and any meeting at that stage would necessarily be, on the surface, friendly, since the Danaids must conceal their true intentions. Again we may compare what happened, or did not happen, in other Aeschylean trilogies. The beginnings of the quarrel between Eteocles and Polyneices may or may not have formed part of Oedipus; but certainly after that their conflict never “appears on-stage” until both are dead. Something similar seems to have happened in Penelope: fr. 187 9 indicates that the action of that play was set in Penelope’s private chamber, so that the conflict in the great hall between Odysseus and Penelope's suitors does not “appear on-stage” at all, and the suitors are never seen until they are dead; their gross hybris towards the supposed beggar has to be narrated rather than enacted, and it was apparently narrated not in Penelope but in the following play, Ostologoi (see frr. 179 and 180). In the Iliadic trilogy, likewise, the second most important person in the fabula, Hector, never appeared on stage except as a corpse. Evidently what “one expects” today – “one” being a spectator of contemporary drama in one or another medium – is not necessarily what audiences expected in Aeschylus’ day. Likewise it cannot always be the case, as Kyriakou (2011, 73) claims, that Aeschylus “would need to dramatize [and not merely present through narrative] events that were crucial in his own treatment of the myth”. At any rate, those who reject the Schlegel sequence, and reject the oracle story, must explain why Danaus is made to speak as he does in 996–1013: why he is made so desperately anxious that his daughters shall preserve their virginity,

 9 ἐγὼ γένος μέν εἰμι Κρὴς ἀρχέστατον ‘I am a Cretan of most kingly lineage’. In the false tales he tells while unrecognized on Ithaca, Odysseus always makes himself out to be a Cretan, but it is only in his meeting with Penelope in her private quarters that he claims to be a member of the Cretan royal house (Od. 19.178–184).

  Alan H. Sommerstein and so terribly apprehensive that they may not (despite everything they have said); why he says in 1006–1007 that in the latter event, the family will suffer precisely what it left Egypt to avoid; and why he is not made to adopt the simple solution (and the only one consistent with his recognized duty as a father) of offering them in marriage. And in the last twenty-five years I have still not heard or read any such explanation. 10

Appendix: Sources for the Oracle Story (a) Σ Il. 1.42: Δαναὸς τoὺς τοῦ Αἰγύπτου παῖδας, πλὴν ἑνὸς ἢ δυοῖν, διὰ τῶν θυγατέρων ἀνεῖλε δεδοικώς, καθότι καὶ ἐκ χρησμοῦ ἠκηκόει ὅτι φονευθήσεται ὑφ’ ἑνὸς αὐτῶν. Danaus, through the agency of his daughters, destroyed all but one or two of the sons of Aegyptus, in accordance with what he had heard from an oracle that he would be murdered by one of them.

(b) Σ Il. 4.171: παραγενομένων δὲ τῶν Αἰγυπτίων ἐπὶ τὸν τῶν Δαναοῦ θυγατέρων γάμον, αἱ Δαναΐδες κατὰ τὰς τοῦ πατρὸς ὑποθήκας ἐδολοφόνησαν αὐτούς· ἐκεῖνος γὰρ αὐταῖς συνεβούλευσε τοὺς τὴν παρθενίαν ἀφαιρουμένους ἀμύνασθαι. When the Egyptians came to marry the daughters of Danaus, the Danaids treacherously killed them, according to their father’s advice; for he had advised them to resist anyone attempting to rob them of their virginity.

(c) Σ [Aesch.] Prom. 453: φοβηθεὶς ὁ Δαναὸς μήπως ἀναιρεθήσεται ὑπὸ τῶν υἱῶν Αἰγύπτου (ἦν γὰρ χρησμὸς αὐτῷ δοθεὶς πάλαι περὶ τούτου) ναῦν κατεσκεύασε τὴν κληθεῖσαν πεντηκόντορον ὡς ἀπὸ τοῦ ἀριθμοῦ ὧν ἐγέννησε θυγατέρων.

 10 This paper, which I was to have presented at the Thessaloniki conference, was very kindly presented for me by Patrick Finglass when I was obliged to withdraw from the conference for health reasons. I am most grateful to him, and also to Bernhard and the two Annas for their further cooperation in making, and supplying to me, video recordings of the discussion, and not least to those who took part in that discussion – Poulheria Kyriakou, Doug Olson, Oliver Taplin and an unidentified postgraduate student – whose criticisms have contributed very materially to the improvement of the paper.

Revisiting the Danaid Trilogy  

Danaus, afraid that he might be done away with by the sons of Aegyptus (for he had long ago been) given an oracle about this), prepared a ship, what is called a fifty-oarer (penteconter) from the number of daughters he had begotten.

(d) Σ Eur. Or. 872: οὗτος ἀπῆλθεν εἰς τὸ μαντεῖον, χρησόμενος εἰ ἄρα καλῶς ἔγημαν αἱ θυγατέρες. ὁ δὲ θεὸς ἔχρησεν αὐτὸν ἐκ τούτου κινδυνεύσειν. ὁ δὲ ἔπεισε τὰς θυγατέρας ἀνελεῖν τοὺς υἱοὺς Αἰγύπτου. He went off to the oracular sanctuary to inquire whether his daughters had made good marriages, and the god responded that their marriages would bring him into personal danger. He then persuaded his daughters to make away with the sons of Aegyptus.

(e) Lactantius on Stat. Theb. 2.222: Danaus responso comperit quod generi sui manibus interiret; Argos profectus est et primum dicitur navem fecisse ... Danaus learned from an oracular response that he would perish at the hands of his son-inlaw; he set out for Argos, and is said to have been the first to build a ship …

(f) Lactantius on Stat. Theb. 6.290–291: Danaus deprehendit oraculo se ab uno Aegypti fratris filio occidendum; itaque simulavit se fratris filiis natas in matrimonii consortium traditurum armavitque occulte filias... Danaus came to know by means of an oracle that he was destined to be killed by one of the sons of his brother Aegyptus; he therefore fraudulently gave his own daughters into the bond of marriage with his nephews, and secretly gave them weapons ...

Bibliography Beriotto, M.P. (2016), Le Danaidi: storia di un mito nella letteratura greca, Alessandria. Bowen, A.J. (2013), Aeschylus: Suppliant Women, Oxford. Citti, V./†Miralles, C. (2019), Eschilo: Supplici, Rome. Collard, C. (2008), Aeschylus: Persians and other plays, Oxford. Conacher, D.J. (1996), Aeschylus: the earlier plays and related studies, Toronto. Föllinger, S. (2003), Genosdependenzen: Studien zur Arbeit am Mythos bei Aischylos, Göttingen. Föllinger, S. (2009), Aischylos, Meister der griechischen Tragödie, Munich. Garvie, A.F. (1969), Aeschylus’ Supplices: play and trilogy, Cambridge. Garvie, A.F. (20062), Aeschylus’ Supplices: play and trilogy, London. Griffith, M. (1977), The authenticity of Prometheus Bound, Cambridge.

  Alan H. Sommerstein Griffith, M. (1982), Aeschylus: Prometheus Bound, Cambridge. Hose, M. (2006), “Vaticinium post eventum and the position of the Supplices in the Danaid Trilogy”, in: D.L. Cairns/V. Liapis (eds), Dionysalexandros: Essays on Aeschylus and his fellow tragedians in honour of Alexander F. Garvie, Swansea, 91–102. Kyriakou, P. (2011), The past in Aeschylus and Sophocles, Berlin. Papadopoulou, Th. (2011), Aeschylus: Suppliants, Companions to Greek and Roman Tragedy, London. Rösler, W. (1993), “Der Schluß der ‘Hiketiden’ und die Danaiden–Trilogie des Aischylos”, RhM 136, 1–22. Sandin, P. (2005), Aeschylus’ Supplices: introduction and commentary on vv.1–523, corrected ed., Lund. Schlegel, A.W. von (1809/1923), Vorlesungen über dramatische Kunst und Literatur, ed. G.V. Amoretti, Bonn/Leipzig. Sicherl, M. (1986), “Die Tragik der Danaiden”, MusHelv 43, 81–110. Sommerstein, A.H. (1994), “The beginning and the end of Aeschylus’ Danaid trilogy”, in: B. Zimmermann (ed.), Griechisch-römische Komödie und Tragödie, Stuttgart, 111–134 (reprinted with addenda in: A.H. Sommerstein, The Tangled Ways of Zeus, Oxford, 2010, 89– 117). Sommerstein, A.H. (2010), “Sherlockismus and the study of fragmentary tragedies”, in: A.H. Sommerstein, The Tangled Ways of Zeus, Oxford, 61–81. Sommerstein, A.H. (2019), Aeschylus: Suppliants, Cambridge. Turner, C. (2001), “Perverted supplication and other inversions in Aeschylus’ Danaid trilogy”, CJ 97, 27–50.

Patrick J. Finglass

Tragicorum Graecorum Fragmenta Volume II: Old Texts, New Opportunities Tragicorum Graecorum fragmenta is one of the great monuments of modern scholarship on ancient Greek drama. Published between 1971 and 2004, its five volumes (the last in two parts) contain the fragments of Greek tragedy (and satyrplay) from classical Greece down to the Roman period. Its editors, Bruno Snell, Richard Kannicht, and the late Stefan Radt, are rightly considered giants in our field; other scholars can hope to equal their achievement in these volumes, but no-one is likely to surpass it. Three of the volumes are dedicated to one of the “big three” tragedians, Aeschylus (volume three, edited by Radt in 1985), Sophocles (volume four, also edited by Radt, first in 1977, then updated in 1999), and Euripides (volume five, in two separate parts, edited by Kannicht in 2004). Each of these books contains not just the fragments and testimonia to each play, but also the testimonia to each author — extremely useful collections of text on the life and artistic production of these playwrights, which anyone interested in these authors must consult whether or not they are concerned with the fragments themselves. Another, the first, contains fragments by other named authors, together with the testimonia to tragedy as a genre, including the vital inscriptional evidence which sheds such light on tragedy in antiquity. That leaves the second: of the five volumes, I would venture, by some distance the least studied. The contents of the second volume have had the misfortune to be preserved not just as fragments, but as anonymous fragments, shorn not just of immediate context but even of the names of their author, and in such a way that it is not now possible to determine who wrote the text in question. (That last qualification is vital — many fragments, especially those preserved on papyrus, do not have a name attached to them, but through study of their style and vocabulary, or through the overlap with a quotation fragment which has an authorial ascription, scholars can assign them to their author with certainty or with a high degree of confidence). In some cases, it is not even possible to

 I am most grateful to Drs Anna Lamari and Anna Novokhatko for the kind invitation to a wonderful conference; and to audiences in Frankfurt and Dublin who heard versions of this paper. For the issues treated in this chapter see also Finglass forthcoming, a companion piece which takes a different perspective on the subject and examines different passages.

  Patrick J. Finglass determine which century the text in question came from. No wonder, one might think, such texts are neglected. This neglect is particularly manifest in the absence of translations and commentaries on these texts — a point all the more apparent because recent years have been good, in publication terms, for most tragic fragments. As well as, indeed stimulated by, Tragicorum Graecorum fragmenta, there have been Loeb volumes for the fragments of Aeschylus (by Alan Sommerstein, 2008), Sophocles (by Hugh Lloyd-Jones, 1996, revised 2003), and Euripides (by Christopher Collard and Martin Cropp, 2008, in two volumes). Aris and Phillip commentaries on groups of fragmentary plays have also come out, for both Sophocles (Sommerstein, Fitzpatrick, and Talboy 2006, Sommerstein and Talboy 2012) and Euripides (Collard/Cropp/Lee 1995; Collard/Cropp/Gibert 2004), offering exemplary commentaries on a range of dramas. These have recently been added to by a volume containing commentaries on some minor tragedians, Cropp 2019; more are promised. And there have been detailed commentaries on some individual fragmentary dramas: Sophocles’ Tereus (Milo 2008), Euripides’ Phaethon (Diggle 1970), Hypsipyle (Cockle 1987), Telephus (Preiser 2000), Philoctetes (Müller 2000), Cretans (Cozzoli 2001), Alexandros (Karamanou 2017), Melanippe Wise, and Melanippe Captured (Domouzi 2020), to name just a few. The fragments of the other named tragedians, which make up volume one of Tragicorum Graecorum fragmenta, have received much less attention, but Matthew Wright’s monograph The Lost Plays of Greek Tragedy. Volume I: Neglected Authors (2016) does much to bring them to the attention of a wider audience. These fragments at least belong to writers with a name — they may be “neglected”, in Wright’s terminology, but at least they are “authors”. 1 By contrast, the anonymous fragments in Tragicorum Graecorum fragmenta volume II are neglected in a more profound way, never having received a systematic analysis of any kind. True, some individual texts have received attention. The third-century papyrus P. Köln 245, which appears as fr. 672a at the back of TrGF vol. V part 2 (pp. 1142–1144) and contains dialogue from a play about Odysseus in Troy, has been the subject of a monograph (Parca 1991). And the Gyges fragment, P.Oxy. 2382 from the second or third century, now fr. 664 in TrGF volume II, has received quite a bit of attention since its publication in 1949, but the date of the work that it contains remains stubbornly unclear — whether it came before or after Herodotus’ account of the Lydian king Gyges is still a  1 See also Zouganeli 2017 and Sims 2018, doctoral theses which contain commentaries on some of these authors. Wright 2019, the second of two volumes in his study, is devoted to the fragments of Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides.

Tragicorum Graecorum Fragmenta Volume II: Old Texts, New Opportunities  

mystery. 2 These texts, however, are the exceptions rather than the rule; and even they have not been integrated into discussions of tragedy more generally. Most of the texts are completely unknown even to specialists in Greek tragedy. Some tragic texts are even more unlucky than the ones found in Tragicorum Graecorum fragmenta volume II. These are the anonymous tragic fragments published after that volume appeared in 1981, or which (in a few cases) had been published before that date, but were only subsequently recognised as coming from tragedy or satyr-play. Those which had appeared by 2004 were then included in the Addenda to Tragicorum Graecorum fragmenta volume II, which can be found in Tragicorum Graecorum fragmenta volume V part 2, at the very end of the book, after even the index (pp. 1117–1158, “Addenda et corrigenda in vol. 2”). There is a good deal of material here, but who ever looks at it? Anonymous texts which do not even make it into the volume devoted to those anonymous texts — it hardly seems very accessible or approachable. Moreover, any papyrus that came out after 2004 does not appear even there, or indeed in any volume of Tragicorum Graecorum fragmenta: for instance, P.Oxy. 5184, a tragic papyrus that cannot be assigned to any author (which was published by W.B. Henry in 2014). We could really do with a new edition, which gathers all this material together and preferably furnishes it with a translation and commentary too — because most of this material has never received even that rather basic level of scrutiny, and if it is to reach a wider audience such assistance will be vital. Such a book would become out of date over time in its turn, as is the fate of most classical editions: but in terms of present need, the current arrangement is clearly unsatisfactory. One might be forgiven for thinking that, as far as Greek tragedy was concerned, the editor’s task was done — rather, the to-do list sometimes seems greater than ever. As a result the title of this chapter is somewhat misleading, because the texts of anonymous tragedy are scattered about beyond even that little-consulted volume. Yet what they have in common is that they are largely unknown, and many must have secrets to reveal. No secrets are revealed in this chapter, in which I look at three different anonymous tragic fragments (one a quotation, one written on a potsherd, one from a papyrus), and briefly discuss certain points that makes them, to my mind, worth studying. But I hope that just by pointing to the neglect of these fascinating texts I may persuade other scholars, perhaps especially doctoral students, to take some of them seriously and apply to them the investigation that they deserve.  2 For recent discussion and bibliography of those earlier pieces see Kotlińska-Toma 2015, 178– 185, Hornblower 2019, 103–106.

  Patrick J. Finglass

 Tr. Adesp. fr. 110 TrGF ἀλλ’ οὐδὲ Αἴας σιωπᾷ, μέλλων δὲ ἑαυτὸν ἀποσφάττειν κέκραγεν οὐκ ἦν ἄρ’ οὐδὲν πῆμ’ ἐλευθέρου δάκνον ψυχὴν ὁμοίως ἀνδρὸς ὡς ἀτιμία. οὑγὼ πέπονθα καί με †συμφοροῦσα† βαθεῖα κηλὶς ἐκ βυθῶν ἀναστρέφει λύσσης πικροῖς κέντροισιν ἠρεθισμένον. (Tr. Adesp. fr. 110 TrGF) But not even Ajax is silent, but when he is about to slaughter himself he cries out “So after all there is no suffering that bites the soul of a free man like dishonour does. That is what I have suffered and ... me the deep stain from the depths turns me upside down, as I am incited by the bitter goads of madness”.

This passage comes from the Stromateis of Clement of Alexandria (c. 150–215), in which the bishop discusses how sinful action is the result of deliberate abandonment to one’s passions and cites tragic characters who explicitly so abandon themselves. Beginning by citing a speech delivered by Oedipus’ father Laius, a passage which other evidence indicates comes from Euripides’ Chrysippus, he goes on to cite a speech delivered by Medea from Euripides’ homonymous play. Finally, he gives us the citation from Ajax above. But Clement’s introduction does not explicitly tell us the drama, or the author, from which the quotation comes, and unlike the previous two quotations which he gives us, we have no other evidence which could shed light on the matter; as a result, the actual source of this tragic quotation eludes us. Perhaps it comes from Aeschylus’ Thracian Women, in which Ajax’s suicide did not take place on stage as in Sophocles but was related by a Messenger. But Aeschylus’ was not the only such play available, and any assumption that the fragment was by him would be unsafe. Theodectas, one of the great tragic playwrights of the fourth century, wrote an Ajax, for example, and there will have been other such plays too which today leave no trace. 3 We will never know whether this play came from the fifth century, the fourth, or even later; no linguistic features impose a later date, but this might simply be because the quotation is so short. The quotation is therefore correctly included among the anonymous fragments of tragedy. Yet Clement does at least tell us that this comes from Ajax’s suicide speech. Just that bit of context makes this fragment so much more useful and encourages

 3 For tragic treatments of the Ajax myth see Finglass 2011, 33–36.

Tragicorum Graecorum Fragmenta Volume II: Old Texts, New Opportunities  

a comparison with another speech from an Ajax just before he kills himself – from Sophocles’ Ajax. (That speech contains some anonymous fragments of its own – interpolated passages, probably from actors wishing to make it even more of a bravura performance piece. I omit them from the text below and would refer readers interested in why I believe these passages not to be by Sophocles to my 2011 commentary). ΑΙ. ὁ μὲν σφαγεὺς ἕστηκεν ᾗ τομώτατος γένοιτ’ ἄν, εἴ τῳ καὶ λογίζεσθαι σχολή, δῶρον μὲν ἀνδρὸς Ἕκτορος ξένων ἐμοὶ μάλιστα μισηθέντος, ἐχθίστου θ’ ὁρᾶν. πέπηγε δ’ ἐν γῇ πολεμίᾳ τῇ Τρῳάδι, σιδηροβρῶτι θηγάνῃ νεηκονής· ἔπηξα δ’ αὐτὸν εὖ περιστείλας ἐγώ, εὐνούστατον τῷδ’ ἀνδρὶ διὰ τάχους θανεῖν. οὕτω μὲν εὐσκευοῦμεν· ἐκ δὲ τῶνδέ μοι σὺ πρῶτος, ὦ Ζεῦ, καὶ γὰρ εἰκός, ἄρκεσον. αἰτήσομαι δέ σ’ οὐ μακρὸν γέρας λαβεῖν. πέμψον τιν’ ἡμῖν ἄγγελον, κακὴν φάτιν Τεύκρῳ φέροντα, πρῶτος ὥς με βαστάσῃ πεπτῶτα τῷδε περὶ νεορράντῳ ξίφει, καὶ μὴ πρὸς ἐχθρῶν του κατοπτευθεὶς πάρος ῥιφθῶ κυσὶν πρόβλητος οἰωνοῖς θ’ ἕλωρ. τοσαῦτά σ’, ὦ Ζεῦ, προστρέπω· καλῶ δ’ ἅμα πομπαῖον Ἑρμῆν χθόνιον εὖ με κοιμίσαι, ξὺν ἀσφαδᾴστῳ καὶ ταχεῖ πηδήματι πλευρὰν διαρρήξαντα τῷδε φασγάνῳ. καλῶ δ’ ἀρωγοὺς τὰς ἀεί τε παρθένους ἀεί θ’ ὁρώσας πάντα τἀν βροτοῖς πάθη, σεμνὰς Ἐρινῦς τανύποδας, μαθεῖν ἐμὲ πρὸς τῶν Ἀτρειδῶν ὡς διόλλυμαι τάλας. ἴτ’, ὦ ταχεῖαι ποίνιμοί τ’ Ἐρινύες, γεύεσθε, μὴ φείδεσθε πανδήμου στρατοῦ. σὺ δ’, ὦ τὸν αἰπὺν οὐρανὸν διφρηλατῶν Ἥλιε, πατρῴαν τὴν ἐμὴν ὅταν χθόνα ἴδῃς, ἐπισχὼν χρυσόνωτον ἡνίαν ἄγγειλον ἄτας τὰς ἐμὰς μόρον τ’ ἐμὸν γέροντι πατρὶ τῇ τε δυστήνῳ τροφῷ. ἦ που τάλαινα, τήνδ’ ὅταν κλύῃ φάτιν, ἥσει μέγαν κωκυτὸν ἐν πάσῃ πόλῃ. ἀλλ’ οὐδὲν ἔργον ταῦτα θρηνεῖσθαι μάτην· ἀλλ’ ἀρκτέον τὸ πρᾶγμα σὺν τάχει τινί. ὦ φέγγος, ὦ γῆς ἱερὸν οἰκείας πέδον Σαλαμῖνος, ὦ πατρῷον ἑστίας βάθρον, κλειναί τ’ Ἀθῆναι, καὶ τὸ σύντροφον γένος,






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  Patrick J. Finglass κρῆναί τε ποταμοί θ’ οἵδε, καὶ τὰ Τρωικὰ πεδία προσαυδῶ, χαίρετ’, ὦ τροφῆς ἐμοί· τοῦθ’ ὗμιν Αἴας τοὔπος ὕστατον θροεῖ, τὰ δ’ ἄλλ’ ἐν Ἅιδου τοῖς κάτω μυθήσομαι.


(Soph. Aj. 815–865) AJ. The slaughterman stands where it will be sharpest — if a man has leisure to make calculations — the gift of Hector, the man most hateful of foreigners to me, and most detestable to see. It stands fixed in the hostile land of the Troad, newly sharpened on an iron-gnawing whetstone. I planted it, securing it well all round, so that it should prove most kind to this man in providing a speedy death. Thus I am well prepared. After this you, o Zeus, as is fitting, be the first to help me. I shall ask to obtain no great favour from you. Send a messenger for me, bearing the grim tidings to Teucer, so that he may be the first to raise me as I lie fallen on this freshly-dripping sword, and I shall not be noticed beforehand by some enemy and thrown out as prey to dogs and birds. Such is my supplication of you, o Zeus. At the same time I call on Hermes of the earth below, escort of souls, to lull me fast to sleep, as with a swift and spasmless leap I break through my ribs with this sword. And I call as my helpers the perpetual virgins, the perpetual overseers of all the sufferings of men, the dread, far-striding Erinyes, to learn how I am destroyed by the Atridae in my wretchedness. Come, o swift and punishing Erinyes: taste the entire army, do not spare them. And you, who drive your chariot through the lofty heaven, the Sun, when you catch sight of my ancestral land, check your golden rein and announce my ruin and my death to my aged father and the wretched woman who nursed me. Wretched woman, I suppose that when she hears this message, she will raise a great lamentation in the whole city. But there is no point in vainly lamenting thus: no, the deed must be begun with speed. O light, o holy ground of my native land of Salamis, o ancestral foundation of my hearth, and famous Athens, and your race kindred to mine, and springs and rivers here, and the Trojan plains I address: farewell, you who have nourished me. This is the last word that Ajax pronounces to you; the rest I shall speak to those below in Hades.

This imposing speech is on quite another scale than the little anonymous fragment. Yet for all its length, what is relevant here is not what it contains but rather what it does not. In the words of Karl Reinhardt, the suicide speech of Sophocles’ Ajax offers “no lament, reproach, world-weariness, aversion, no hint of melancholy”. 4 Sophocles’ Ajax utters plenty of laments and reproaches earlier in the play; but in his final speech he is focused on making due preparations for the task in hand and a series of requests to the gods, before he finally says farewell to both his homeland and the land of Troy and kills himself. Ajax’s passionate hatred for the army which dishonoured him is still there – but there is no explicit reflecting on that dishonour in its own right. Earlier in the drama he had told Athena that he  4 Reinhardt 1947, 36 = 1979, 28.

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had so turned his hand against Agamemnon and Menelaus, “that never again shall they refuse honour to Ajax” (ὥστ’ οὔποτ’ Αἴανθ’ οἵδ’ ἀτιμάσουσ’ ἔτι, 98); later he notes how he is perishing dishonoured by the Argives (ἄτιμος Ἀργείοισιν ὧδ’ ἀπόλλυμαι, 440). But any such reflection at this later point in the play, or any reference to the Judgment of the Arms or any other slight which he has received from the army, or any mention of his recent humiliation at the hands of Athena, who diverted his vengeful purpose away from the sleeping army towards animals, would only detract from the grandeur of Ajax’s final moments, making more difficult the transition to the remaining part of the play in which the rehabilitation of that warrior will be such a prominent theme. The plays diverge in other ways. The anonymous fragment uses the language of realisation: the particle ἄρ’ in the first line implies that Ajax in that play has only just understood (or is presenting himself as having only just understood) the point about dishonour that goes on to make. But this idea of learning is absent from Sophocles’ speech, where Ajax knows just as much as he wants to, and acts and gives instructions to heavenly powers accordingly. A statement of realisation would make him appear less confident and in control — the time for realisation was earlier, whereas now he is acting on the basis of a settled view of his place in the world. So too the reference in the fragment to Ajax as a “free man” and as such particularly bitten by dishonour presupposes a very different figure from the warrior described by Sophocles. The concern that Sophocles’ Ajax shows for his status has nothing to do with his membership of any group, let alone one as capacious as that of all free men, but rather with his belief in his own unique, surpassing excellence: the fragment suggests someone with a more moderate picture of his position in the world. A further potential difference lies in the reference to madness in the fragment (line 5); although the precise referent is unclear, a strong possibility is that it denotes the attack of madness that Ajax experiences during his attempt on the army. That episode, which so dominates the first part of Sophocles’ play, is not mentioned at all by that playwright’s Ajax before he kills himself: such a humiliating episode is not something that would suit the grander tone of that suicide speech. Comparison with the anonymous fragment brings out particular characteristics of the speech in Sophocles. A tiny quotation, with almost no context, turns out to be illuminating for the literary and dramatic critic, and meaning can be elicited from the juxtaposition. For while we do not know when this fragment was written or who wrote it, the one thing that we can be certain about is that someone wrote it as part of a dramatic treatment of Ajax’s suicide. Almost nothing of that treatment has survived: but the little that has, while telling us almost nothing about that vanished play, at least invites us to ponder some of

  Patrick J. Finglass the choices that Sophocles made in his account of the myth, and to observe some of the points that he was so careful to avoid. The bishop deserves our thanks for preserving it.

 Tr. Adesp. fr. 701a TrGF The second text is one of the fragments tucked away at the back of Tragicorum Graecorum fragmenta volume V part 2 (p. 1148). This text was written on an ostrakon, dated on the basis of its script to the first or second century BC, and discovered at Mons Claudianus, a Roman quarry in the eastern desert of Egypt administered by the Roman army. It consists of twelve tragic trimeters. They were published by Cuvigny and Wagner in 1986, and the following year Eric Handley made a vital contribution to their interpretation; yet apart from their republication in Kannicht’s edition, and a reference to them by Wolfgang Luppe 1991, no-one appears to have referred to them since. They read as follows (my translation takes many phrases from Handley’s article; I am unaware of a continuous translation of the piece in any language): σίγησο]ν, ὦ παῖ, καὶ τὸ γενναῖον φρόνει· θανεῖ]ν γὰρ αὐτῇ ἐκπάλαι πεπρωμένον, θέλει]ς κομίσσαι θάνατον ὡς πατροκτό[νος· νῦν γὰρ σὲ κλῄζω· εἰ δ’ ἔβης πρὸς Ἀΐ[δ]α̣ν πρὸς καιρόν, ὀλιγον ἦ[ν] με κηδεύειν, τέκνον· ἐν ταῖς γὰρ ἀρχαῖς νέκυσι πληροῦνται τάφοι{ς} στεφάνοις, μύροισιν, οἰκετῶν κηδεύμασι· ὅσῳ γάρ ἐστι νεαρὰ τὰ κακὰ, συμφλέγει· ὅταν δ’ ἀποστῇ, ἐν ὀλίγῳ χρόν τὸ πῦρ εὐμετάθετον τίθησιν εἰς ἄλλον τρόπον τὸν νοῦν τὸν ἐσθλὸν καὶ μα[ραί]ν̣ ει τ̣ ὴ̣ν̣ φλ̣[όγα. μὴ γὰρ σε[ ]ειν θέλω (Tr. Adesp. fr. 701a TrGF) Be silent, child, and ponder what is noble! For it being long fated for her to die, you wish to bring death back as if you were the killer of your father. For now I ?appeal to you? ? call you? If you had gone to Hades at the due time, it would have been right for me to grieve little for you, my child. For at the first, funerals for the dead are full of garlands, myrrh, and the

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mourning of household members; the more recent the sad event is, the more it conflagrates. 5 When the event is distant, in a short time the fire makes the mind that is good easily transferable to another mode, and diminishes the flame ... For not ... I wish ...

Handley seems to have rightly identified this as from a speech delivered by Pheres to his son Admetus; they have come into conflict, as in Euripides’ Alcestis, because the aged Pheres is unwilling to give up his own life to preserve that of his son, leaving Admetus’ young wife Alcestis to undertake the sacrifice herself. Yet this text seems to have been passed over in discussions of the Alcestis myth, whether in studies of Euripides’ Alcestis; or of the Alcestis rehearsal papyrus (P.Oxy. 4546), which contains a section of stichomythia but only offers the lines spoken by one character, omitting the ones spoken by the other, and thus apparently used by an actor to learn his part; or of the Barcelona Alcestis, a mythological poem of at least 124 Latin hexameters published not long before our ostrakon. This reflects in part the status of the ostrakon as a new text, which for more than two decades was not available in any edition and would be familiar only to readers who happened to have looked at either of the two relevant volumes of the Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik. But even after it was published in an edition, it had the bad fortune to appear in an appendix to a book on a quite different topic. When we add that the text is anonymous, that there is no prospect of ever discovering the name of that author, and that the Greek in the short piece is difficult to understand, it is perhaps not hard to see why the scholarly world appears to have passed it by. While many questions about this piece remain unanswered, there is nevertheless much of interest here. First, the fragment is quite possibly an extract from a larger play, not as a self-contained unit. For while we can infer the myth from the speech, it requires more thought to unravel than we would expect if it were intended as a self-contained speech, as if it were some rhetorical exercise depicting Pheres addressing his son. 6 If this is true, it is a testimony to another Alcestis play, or at least to an episode from that myth turned into dramatic verse, which has left no other trace: an addition to the reception history of this myth. Second, certain linguistic usages mean that this play is post-classical (e.g. ἐκπάλαι and εὐμετάθετον are found no earlier than Imperial Greek, and the instances of hiatus — if not signs of textual corruption, a possibility raised by Handley — also  5 Or, emending to ὅτῳ with Handley, “the sad event burns like the pyre inside the person for whom it is recent”. 6 Similarly, Luppe 1991, 90 argues that lines 1–3 are taken from some wider context and are not simply an amateur’s metrical composition. Luppe seems not to know Handley’s piece, however, since he does not discuss the possibility that the text comes from a version of an Alcestis myth.

  Patrick J. Finglass imply a post-classical text); so if this is from a play of some kind, it is testimony to the continuing productivity of tragic drama as a genre during the Roman period. Third, just as the Ajax fragment came to life when set alongside a comparable passage from a play that survived complete, so too this fragment permits a productive comparison with another drama on the same subject which has survived in full. In particular, the tone that we find here is quite different from anything in Euripides’ play. There Pheres begins: ἥκω κακοῖσι σοῖσι συγκάμνων, τέκνον· ἐσθλῆς γάρ, οὐδεὶς ἀντερεῖ, καὶ σώφρονος γυναικὸς ἡμάρτηκας. ἀλλὰ ταῦτα μὲν φέρειν ἀνάγκη καίπερ ὄντα δύσφορα. δέχου δὲ κόσμον τόνδε καὶ κατὰ χθονὸς ἴτω. τὸ ταύτης σῶμα τιμᾶσθαι χρεών, ἥτις γε τῆς σῆς προύθανε ψυχῆς, τέκνον, καί μ᾿ οὐκ ἄπαιδ᾿ ἔθηκεν οὐδ᾿ εἴασε σοῦ στερέντα γήρᾳ πενθίμῳ καταφθίνειν, πάσαις δ᾿ ἔθηκεν εὐκλεέστερον βίον γυναιξίν, ἔργον τλᾶσα γενναῖον τόδε.




(Eur. Alc. 615–625) I come to share in your trouble, my son. For you have lost, as no one will deny, a noble and virtuous wife. Yet you must bear these things though they are hard to bear. Now take this finery, and let it be buried with her. We must show honour to her corpse seeing that she died to save your life, my son, and did not leave me childless or let me waste away in a stricken old age bereft of you. She has given the lives of all women a fairer repute by daring to do this noble deed. (Translation by D. Kovacs, slightly adapted)

After Admetus angrily rejects his consolation, however, Pheres’ tone changes. In the words of Andreas Markantonatos, “Pheres, fuming with indignation, tears away all Admetus’ protective screens and leaves him with his self-respect in tatters”; 7 the same scholar refers additionally to his “unashamed cynicism, brazen self-centredness, and lack of moral fibre”. 8 Neither this new emotional register, not his original one, however, matches what we find on the ostrakon. There we encounter a Pheres who actively consoles his son in a more direct way than we find in Euripides. The speech is not the opening to their encounter, if the

 7 Markantonatos 2013, 113. 8 Markantonatos 2013, 19.

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supplemented word “be silent” is correct — Pheres is taking control of the exchange, but not in the angry and contemptuous way that he does in Euripides. He still address him “my child”; he urges him to consider what is noble; he seems to appeal to the consoling power of time. It implies a different kind of relationship between the two men compared to anything in the classical tragedy. The process of the thought is still difficult, though it is not clear whether this is the result of textual corruption (i.e. the writer of the ostrakon, for whatever reason, has slightly garbled some earlier, better version of this text) or because the text was always like this (which implies a carelessly written text, perhaps never intended for performance at all). While much here is still uncertain, the contents and the provenance of this tragic text are so strikingly unusual that it should scarcely be ignored by anyone concerned with the Alcestis myth.

 Tr. Adesp. fr. 665 TrGF The last of my examples is a piece of anonymous tragedy that has seen an unusual level of engagement compared to many of these texts, but which could still do with being better known. Here it is, with a translation from Denys Page’s Loeb edition:

ο̣ ὐ̣κ̣ ἀντερῶ̣ σοι· τ[ήνδε τὴ]ν ψ[υ]χὴν ἅπαξ σοί, φιλτάτη τεκοῦσα, παρ[ε]θέμην μολ̣[ών· αἰτῶ· παρ’ αὑτῆι τὸ ξίφος φύλασ̣[σ]έ μοι·

μάλιστα· λέξον “ἐμμενῶ μητρὸς κρίσει”·

ἦ̣ μ̣ὴ̣ν φανεὶς πονηρὸς οὐδὲ ζῆν θέλω· ἀλλ’, Ἑτεόκλες, πίστευσον, οὐ φανήσομαι· σὲ δ’ ἐξελέγξω πάντοτ’ ἠδικηκότα.

Ἐτεοκλέης {δι}δοὺς σκῆπτρα συγγόνωι φ[έρει]ν δειλὸς παρὰ βροτοῖς, εἰπέ μοι, νομίζεται;

σὺ γὰρ οὐκ ἂν ἐδίδους μὴ στρατοὺς ἄγοντί μο̣ [ι·

τὸ μὴ θέλειν σόν ἐστι, τὸ δὲ δοῦναι τύχης·

ἐμοὶ προσάπτεις ὧν σὺ δρᾶις τὰς αἰτίας· σὺ φέρειν γὰρ ἡμᾶς πολεμίου ἠ[ν]άγκασας· εἰ γὰρ ἐμέρ[ι]ζες τὸ διάδημ’ ἄτερ μάχης,



  Patrick J. Finglass τίς ἦν {ἂν} ἀνάγκη τ̣ ο̣ ῦ̣ φέρειν στράτευμ’ ἐμέ;

κοινῆι πέφυκεν· ὥ[στ]ε μὴ κέλευέ μοι·

ἄλλοις τύραννος τ̣ υ̣γ̣χάνεις, οὐ συγγόνωι·

π̣α̣λ̣ε ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ στ ̣ ̣ ̣ρουν γενήσομαι.

τὸ πρᾶιον ἡμῶν, μ[ῆ]τερ, οὐκ ἐνετράπη· ὅθεν ἐξ ἀνάγκης ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ λοιπὸν φράσω· γ̣α̣ί̣ ας γὰρ αὐτὸς ἀκλε̣ ῶ̣ς μ’ ἀπήλασεν Ἄ[ργ]ο̣ υ̣ς̣ τ̣ ε γῆ μοι συμμάχους παρέσχετο καὶ πλείον’ αὐτ̣ ὸ̣ ς̣ στρατὸν ἔχων ἐλήλυ[θα σ̣υ̣ν̣ αν[ τ̣ οιγ̣ὰρ[ προσφ̣ε̣ρ̣[ ὃ παρεθέμην σοι, [μῆτερ

οὐδ’ εἰ Κύκλωπος εἶχον [ ψυχὴν ἄθελκτον ̣ ̣ [ τί γὰρ τυραννεῖς, τί λι[ ἡλίκον ἐφ’ ὑμῖν̣ π[

.... I shall be....

Mother, he took no heed of my gentle spirit, so I must speak henceforth [in anger]. It was he who drove me without honour from the land and the land of Argos provided me with comrades in arms, and I have come myself with a greater army ... therefore ... which I entrusted to you ...

Not even if I had the implacable soul of Cyclops.... For why are you monarch, why ...

Despite the name of brother, [you are] not ... this utterance ... different

Though I am his brother, I must ... (Translation by D. Page)

Here we have what is clearly a scene from a drama, which must be from after the fifth century on the basis of its language, and which corresponds to a scene from Euripides’ Phoenissae of 408. But this is no unthinking adaptation of Euripides’ play. In the words of Edith Hall, “the author of the derivative version has made efforts to make the relationship between Jocasta and her sons more intense and perhaps more believable”. 9 Polynices here hands over his sword to his mother — “a spectacular innovation”, according to Page, who goes on to note: “A new and striking element: Jocasta bids Polynices swear that after the ensuing debate he will abide by her verdict”. 10 In Euripides Polynices swears oaths to Jocasta to guarantee the truth of what he is saying, but there is nothing here or elsewhere in tragedy to match the oath that Polynices swears in this fragment. Hall points to the “maternal authority” (p. 280) that these shifts create, and the (p. 280) “snappy, vituperative

 9 Hall 2007, 280. 10 Page 1942, 174.

  Patrick J. Finglass stichomythia, a more informal way to open their debate scene than the symbouleutic orations with which the equivalent dialogue commences in the Euripidean Phoenician Women”. 11 Can we date this text? Denys Page called it “part of an original Greek Tragedy written in (or not much later than) the 4th century B.C.”, noting that there are no linguistic borrowings from Phoenissae, “not even a linguistic coincidence worthy of the name” ... “it is not a schoolmaster’s or schoolboy’s exercise; it is a piece of an ancient Tragedy, based on one of Eur’ most popular plays, but going beyond its model in content, and avoiding imitation of it in style”. 12 There may be an implication here, though, that a later poet would have leant on Euripides much more, when in fact independence of phraseology is perfectly possible in a poet from centuries after Euripides’ day. According to Hall, the piece “deploys new vocabulary in order to enliven the language, for example the term merizein to diadema, ‘to share the tiara’ ..., in the sense of ‘to split up the Theban kingdom’. The author could have been a contemporary of Xenophon, who refers to the Persian king’s tiara as to diadema in his Cyropaedia (e.g. 8.3.13), a work usually dated to c. 380 BC”. 13 For Vayos Liapis on the other hand, “the above fragment has all the trappings of a school exercise, a rather maladroit remaniement-cumcondensation of the agōn between the sons of Oedipus in Eur. Phoen. 446–637 ... This anonymous piece is likely to be a rhetorical exercise in ēthopoiia, or impersonation, whereby the apprentice orator stages a forensic dispute between the warring sons of Oedipus”. 14 Advocating a later date for the piece on linguistic grounds, Liapis cites a discussion by Raffaella Cribiore which refers to it as “an ēthopoiia centered on Polyneikes ... The student — or, less likely, the teacher — who engaged in this exercise and ended it abruptly, leaving a large unwritten space, introduced the bold innovation of Polyneikes handing his sword to his mother. This mini-agōn, with its concentration of so much into so little and its numerous errors due to phonetic spelling, was not a felicitous attempt to vie with Euripides”. 15 Liapis makes a strong linguistic case that the text is post-classical and probably from the imperial period, indeed perhaps contemporary with the third 11 Cf. Stesichorus fr. 97 F., which also shows the Theban queen mediates between Eteocles and Polynices (cf. Swift 2015, 132–143). My edition makes no reference to Tr. Adesp. fr. 665 TrGF, despite the possibilities for productive comparison. 12 Page 1942, 173; 178–179. 13 Hall 2007, 280–281. Cf. the discussion in Page 1942, 177, which concludes “there are stranger things in our scanty fragments of 4th-century Tragedy”. 14 Liapis 2014, 360, 363. 15 Cribiore 2001a, 230. For papyri in the context of education more generally see Cribiore 2009.

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century papyrus on which it is written. Yet that should not lead us to condemn the piece. A significant achievement in recent scholarship is the understanding that tragedy remained a significant and productive genre long after the deaths of Sophocles and Euripides towards the end of the fifth century BC: that in the fourth century, in the Hellenistic period, and under the Roman empire, Greek tragedy remained an important genre that continued to see significant new works. 16 In this light a whole scene written by an anonymous hand centuries after the composition of the classic play which it reworks is of considerable interest: for it offers a glimpse of a period of the genre that is now almost completely lost. Debate on this substantial fragment up until now has been based on a polarity between “early/good”and “late/bad”, with the quality of the piece a function of its date; but such a schematic approach is itself well out of date. Even if this is a school exercise rather than an extract from a longer drama, that hardly rules out the possibility of creative engagement with the works of the past. This text has lost its author and its context, and is probably a late example of a genre that would not have much longer to run — but it is none the worse for that, demonstrating as it does the continuing vitality of the genre, which centuries after Euripides was still striving after mythological innovation even in a work destined perhaps for page rather than for stage. Here too, then, is one more way that appreciation of anonymous fragments can give us a better appreciation of Greek tragedy as a whole.

Bibliography Cockle, W.E.H. (1987), Euripides. Hypsipyle. Text and Annotation based on a Re-examination of the Papyri, Testi e Commenti 7, Rome. Cropp, M.J. (2019), Minor Greek Tragedians, Volume 1: The Fifth Century. Fragments from the Tragedies with Selected Testimonia, Oxford. Collard, C./Cropp, M.J. (2008), Euripides. Fragments, 2 vols, Loeb Classical Library 504, 506, Cambridge, MA/London. Collard, C./Cropp, M.J./Lee, K.H. (1995), Euripides. Selected Fragmentary Plays, Volume Ι: Telephus, Cretans, Stheneboea, Bellerophon, Cresphontes, Erectheus, Phaethon, Wise Melanippe, Captive Melanippe, Warminster.

 16 For fourth-century tragedy see Csapo et al. 2014; for Hellenistic tragedy see Kotlińska-Toma 2015 with Coo 2017 (a detailed review); for the longue durée of tragedy from c. 400 BC to AD 400 see Liapis/Petridis 2019.

  Patrick J. Finglass Collard, C./Cropp, M.J./Gibert, J. (2004), Euripides. Selected Fragmentary Plays, Volume ΙΙ: Alexandros (together with Palamedes and Sisyphus), Oedipus, Andromeda, Antiope, Hypsipyle, Archelaus, Warminster. Coo, L. (2017), Review of Kotlińska-Toma 2015, Gnomon 89, 167–170. Cozzoli, A.-T. (2001), Euripide. Cretesi, Test e Commenti 15, Pisa/Rome. Cribiore, R. (2001a), Gymnastics of the Mind. Greek Education in Hellenistic and Roman Egypt, Princeton. Cribiore, R. (2001b), “The grammarian’s choice: the popularity of Euripides’ Phoenissae in Hellenistic and Roman education”, in: Y.L. Too (ed.), Education in Greek and Roman Antiquity, Leiden/Boston/Cologne, 241–259. Cribiore, R. (2009), “Education in the papyri”, in: R.S. Bagnall (ed.), The Oxford Handbook of Papyrology, Oxford/New York, 320–337. Csapo, E./Goette, H.R./Green, J.R./Wilson, P. (eds) (2014), Greek Theatre in the Fourth Century B.C., Berlin/Boston. Cuvigny, H./Wagner, G. (1986) “Ostraca grecs du Mons Claudianus”, ZPE 62, 63–73. Davies, M./Finglass, P.J. (2014), Stesichorus. The Poems, Cambridge Classical Texts and Commentaries 54, Cambridge. Diggle, J. (1970), Euripides. Phaethon, Cambridge Classical Texts and Commentaries 12, Cambridge. Domouzi, A. (2020), Euripides: Melanippe Wise and Melanippe Captured, Texte und Kommentare 63, Berlin/Boston. Finglass, P.J. (2011), Sophocles. Ajax, Cambridge Classical Texts and Commentaries 48, Cambridge. Finglass, P.J. (2014a), “Thebais?”, in: M. Davies/P.J. Finglass, Stesichorus. The Poems, Cambridge Classical Texts and Commentaries 54, Cambridge, 356–392. Finglass, P.J. (forthcoming), “Editing anonymous ancient Greek tragedy”. Hall, E. (2007), “Greek tragedy 430–380 BC”, in: R. Osborne (ed.), Debating the Athenian Cultural Revolution. Art, Literature, Philosophy, and Politics 430–380 BC, Cambridge, 264– 287. Handley, E.W. (1987), “O.Mons Claudianus 13 (ZPE 62, 1986, 71ff.)”, ZPE 68, 11–13. Henry, W.B. (2014), “5184. Tragedy”, The Oxyrhynchus Papyri 79, 6–9. Hornblower, S. (2019), “Hellenistic tragedy and satyr-drama; Lycophron’s Alexandra”, in: V. Liapis/A.K. Petrides (eds), Greek Tragedy after the Fifth Century. A Survey from ca. 400 BC to ca. AD 400, Cambridge, 90–124. Karamanou, I. (2017), Euripides. Alexandros, Text und Kommentare 57, Berlin/Boston. Kotlińska-Toma, A. (2015), Hellenistic Tragedy. Texts, Translations and a Critical Survey, London/New Delhi/New York/Sydney. Kovacs, D. (1994), Euripides. Cyclops. Alcestis. Medea, Loeb Classical Library 12, Cambridge, MA/London. Kyriakou, P./Rengakos, A. (eds) (2016), Wisdom and Folly in Euripides, Trends in Classics supplement 31, Berlin/Boston. Liapis, V. (2014), “The fragments of Euripides’ Oedipus: a reconsideration”, TAPA 144, 307– 370. Lloyd-Jones, H. (2003), Sophocles. Fragments, Loeb Classical Library 483, Cambridge, MA/ London. [Corrected version of 1996 impression] Luppe, W. (1991), “Literarische Texte”, APF 37, 77–91.

Tragicorum Graecorum Fragmenta Volume II: Old Texts, New Opportunities  

Markantonatos, A. (2013), Euripides’ Alcestis. Narrative, Myth, and Religion, Untersuchungen zur antiken Literatur und Geschichte 112, Berlin/Boston. Milo, D. (2008), Il Tereo di Sofocle, Bibliotheca Antiqua 2, Naples. Müller, C.W. (2000), Euripides. Philoktet, Texte und Kommentare 21, Berlin/New York. Page, D.L. (1942), Select Papyri. III. Literary Papyri. Poetry, London/Cambridge, MA. [Revised impression of 1941 printing] Parca, M.G. (1991), Ptocheia or Odysseus in Disguise at Troy (P. Köln VI 245), American Studies in Papyrology 31, Atlanta. Preiser, C. (2000), Euripides. Telephos, Spudasmata 78, Hildesheim/Zürich/New York. Reinhardt, K. (1947), Sophokles, Dritte Auflage, Frankfurt am Main. Reinhardt, K. (1979), Sophocles, translated by H. and D. Harvey, Oxford. Sims, T. (2018), A Commentary on the Fragments of Fourth-century Tragedy, Diss. Nottingham. Sommerstein, A.H. (2008) Aeschylus. Fragments, Loeb Classical Library 505, Cambridge, MA/ London. Sommerstein, A.H./Talboy, T.H. (2012), Sophocles. Selected Fragmentary Plays, Volume II: The Epigoni, Oenomaus, Palamedes, The Arrival of Nauplius, Nauplius and the Beacon, The Shepherds, Triptolemus, Oxford. Sommerstein, A.H./Fitzpatrick, D./Talboy, T. (2006), Sophocles. Selected Fragmentary Plays, Volume I: Hermione, Polyxene, The Diners, Tereus, Troilus, Phaedra, Oxford. Swift, L. (2015), “Stesichorus on stage”, in: P.J. Finglass/A. Kelly (eds), Stesichorus in Context, Cambridge, 125–144. Tragicorum Graecorum Fragmenta. Vol. 1 Didascaliae Tragicae, Catalogi Tragicorum et Tragoediarum, Testimonia et Fragmenta Tragicorum Minorum, ed. B. Snell, 2nd ed. rev. R. Kannicht. Göttingen 19711, 19862. Vol. 2 Fragmenta Adespota, ed. R. Kannicht and B. Snell. 1981. Vol. 3 Aeschylus, ed. S.L. Radt. 1985. Vol. 4 Sophocles, ed. S.L. Radt. 19771, 19992. Vol. 5 Euripides, 2 parts, ed. R. Kannicht. 2004. Wright, M. (2016), The Lost Plays of Greek Tragedy, Volume 1: Neglected Authors, London/New York. Wright, M. (2019), The Lost Plays of Greek Tragedy, Volume 2: Aeschylus, Sophocles and Euripides, London/New York. Zouganeli, A. (2017), Les fragments des poètes tragiques grecs du quatrième siècle avant notre ère: édition, traduction et commentaire, Diss. Paris.

Kyriakos Tsantsanoglou

παῖς μάργος

The passage I intend to treat comes from P.Oxy. 2256 fr. 9 (a) and (b), a most important Aeschylus papyrus that consists of at least 89 fragments. 1 The text is reproduced from the edition of Stefan Radt in TrGF III (Aeschylus), inc. fab. F 281a and 281b. E. Lobel, the first editor, The Oxyrhynchus Papyri 20, London 1952, 36 ff., ascribed the two fragments to a satyr-play, a view, however, that did not meet general acceptance. So, the usual reference to the play where the fragments belonged was “Dike play” or “Dike-Drama” from the character speaking. I do not plan to discuss here the nature of the play, but, preliminarily to a comprehensive account of my views, I shall confidently contend that it is a satyr-play and, in particular, the satyr-play of Aeschylus’ Argonautic trilogy (TrGF III, TRI B XII). My aim here is confined to identifying the παῖς μάργος who is mentioned in line 31 and described thereafter till the end of the column (and the fragment) in line 41:




]ν[ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣]ο ἐπισπέ ̣ ̣ ̣[ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣] ̣ ̣[ ̣] πό]λ̣ις τ̣ ι ς οὔτε δῆμος οὔτ᾽ ἔτη̣ς ἀνὴρ τ̣ οιάνδε μοῖραν π[αρ]ὰ̣ θεῶν καρπουμένη[ τ̣ έ̣ κμαρ δὲ λέξ̣ω τῶ̣ι ̣ τόδ᾽ εὐδερ̣κὲ[ς] φερε[ ̣ ̣] ̣[ ἔθρε[ψ ̣ ] παῖδα μάργον ὃν τί̣κ̣τ̣ε̣ι [ Ἥρα μιγε̣ ῖσα Ζηνὶ θυμοιδ[ δ]ύ̣σα̣ρ̣κτ[ο]ν, αἰδὼς δ᾽ οὐκ ἐνῆ[ν] φ̣ρ̣[ον]ήματι· ] ̣υκτα τῶν ὁδοιπόρων βέλη ] ̣δως ἀγκύλαισιν ἀρταμων· ] ῀ ̣ν ἔχ̣[αι]ρ̣ε κἀγέλα κακὸν ]ν ῎̣ζοι φόνος· ]μ̣ουμένη ] ι̣ πρ[ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣]γον χέρα ]οῦν ἐνδίκως κ̣ικλήσκεται ]νιν ἔνδικ̣[ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣] ̣ος·


Before proceeding to a detailed examination of the text, it would be useful to note the attempts made for identifying the παῖς μάργος. He is mentioned by the goddess Dike to an unidentified addressee, but clearly the chorus-leader, as evidence of her power. He is a son of Zeus and Hera, whose rearing they entrusted to Dike.

 1 Or 90 fragments, if P. Gen. inv. 98 (Funghi/Martinelli 1996–1997 [1998], 7–17) comes from the same hand.

  Kyriakos Tsantsanoglou He was a violent, irritable, disobedient, and shameless boy. He used to take delight in shooting and hacking the passers-by. The description ends with the etymology of his name, which, however, did not survive. The only legitimate male offspring of Zeus and Hera was Ares. Hephaistos was a son of Hera alone, and was certainly quite improbable to have displayed such a violent behaviour. Lobel thought of Ares, but did not find the arrows that are mentioned at line 34 as the most likely description of the god’s arms. Also the behaviour of the παῖς μάργος did not remind him anything of Ares’ activity. He suspected that a highway robber was in question, someone like Sinis, and he attempted several supplements and emendations of the text with this identification in mind, although he explicitly states that Sinis could not have been the character spoken of, since his parents were not Zeus and Hera but, in most versions of the myth, Poseidon and Sylea. D.S. Robertson 2 insisted on Ares reminding the god’s trial before the court of Areopagus for murdering Halirrhothios. H. Lloyd-Jones 3 objected that “in the usual version of this story, Ares was not an aggressor, but was defending the virtue of his daughter Alcippe”. And, certainly, the killing was not made during the god’s boyhood, as the papyrus text clearly suggests. Yet, Lloyd-Jones considers Ares as surely the subject of lines 31 ff. But he associates the story with Cycnus, son of Ares, who persecuted visitors to Delphi and was killed by Heracles. He reminds that, according to Aristophanes, Ran. 963, a Cycnus appeared in an Aeschylean play. 4 But, even if we set aside the question whether the Cycnus referred to by Aristophanes was the son of Ares or the king of Kolonai in the southern Troad, 5 the παῖς μάργος is specifically defined in the text as son, not grandson, of Zeus. F. C. Görschen 6 returned to Sinis, connecting the story with Aeschylus’ satyr-play Theoroi or Isthmiastai, both the identification of the boy and the ascription to the play being impossible. An entirely different approach to the question of identifying the παῖς μάργος, no doubt the most thorough one, was made by Ph. J. Kakridis. 7 His candidate was Heracles, who, though in conventional genealogies was considered a son of Zeus and Alkmene, in some versions of the myth was referred to as son of Hera. A Theban hymn is quoted by Ptolemaeus Chennus, 3.14, p. 24 Chatzis, describing the hero as Διὸς καὶ Ἥρας υἱός. On several Etruscan mirrors Hera is represented as  2 Robertson 1953. 3 Lloyd-Jones 1957, 577. 4 First proposed by F. G. Welcker; see references at TrGF III p. 230, under **ΚΥΚΝΟΣ?. 5 Tenedians are mentioned in fr. 451o.53, which Lobel associated with Tenes, son of Cycnus and king of Tenedos, and Mette ascribed to an unattested Aeschylean play Ten(n)es. 6 Görschen 1955, 139ff. 7 Kakridis 1962.

παῖς μάργος  

suckling the baby hero, in one of them in particular an inscription in Etruscan identifies him as “Heracles, son of Juno”. Heracles is also referred to by Diodorus Siculus, 4.39.2, as Hera’s adopted son. Finally, in a poetic inscription of the second century CE found at Rome (Kaibel, Epigr. Gr. 831), the hero is mentioned as adopted son of Dike. As for the boy’s bloodthirsty feelings, Ph. Kakridis reminds of the story of the mutilation of the heralds of Erginos, as well as of some other appearances of Heracles as a primitive and savage person. 8 He therefore supplemented exempli gratia the etymologizing lines 40–41 of the papyrus as follows: [Ἡρακλέης] οὖν ἐνδίκως κικλήσκεται [Ἥρας γὰρ ἔσχεν ἶ]νιν ἔνδικ[ον κλ]έος.

The legend about Hera suckling Heracles, illustrated on a mid-4th century Apulian vase BM F107, must go back to the Theban tradition mentioned by Pausanias, 9.25.2, that Zeus deceived his wife so as to suckle the newborn baby: δείκνυται δέ τι χωρίον ἔνθα Ἥραν Θηβαῖοί φασιν Ἡρακλεῖ παιδὶ ἔτι ἐπισχεῖν γάλα κατὰ δή τινα ἀπάτην ἐκ Διός. It is also narrated by Diodorus Siculus: Ἀλκμήνη δὲ τεκοῦσα καὶ φοβηθεῖσα τὴν τῆς Ἥρας ζηλοτυπίαν, ἐξέθηκε τὸ βρέφος εἰς τὸν τόπον ὃς νῦν ἀπ᾽ ἐκείνου καλεῖται πεδίον Ἡράκλειον. καθ᾽ ὃν δὴ χρόνον Ἀθηνᾶ μετὰ τῆς Ἥρας προσιοῦσα, καὶ θαυμάσασα τοῦ παιδίου τὴν φύσιν, συνέπεισε τὴν Ἥραν ὑποσχεῖν τὴν θηλήν. τοῦ δὲ παιδὸς ὑπὲρ τὴν ἡλικίαν βιαιότερον ἐπισπασαμένου τὴν θηλήν, ἡ μὲν Ἥρα διαλγήσασα τὸ βρέφος ἔρριψεν, Ἀθηνᾶ δὲ κομίσασα αὐτὸ πρὸς τὴν μητέρα τρέφειν παρεκελεύσατο. (Diod. Sic. 4.9.6)

The same author relates another legend about Hera’s supposed bearing of Heracles: προσθετέον δ᾽ ἡμῖν τοῖς εἰρημένοις ὅτι μετὰ τὴν ἀποθέωσιν αὐτοῦ Ζεὺς Ἥραν μὲν ἔπεισεν υἱοποιήσασθαι τὸν Ἡρακλέα καὶ τὸ λοιπὸν εἰς τὸν ἅπαντα χρόνον μητρὸς εὔνοιαν παρέχεσθαι, τὴν δὲ τέκνωσιν γενέσθαι φασὶ τοιαύτην · τὴν Ἥραν ἀναβᾶσαν ἐπὶ κλίνην καὶ τὸν Ἡρακλέα προσλαβομένην πρὸς τὸ σῶμα διὰ τῶν ἐνδυμάτων ἀφεῖναι πρὸς τὴν γῆν, μιμουμένην τὴν ἀληθινὴν γένεσιν· ὅπερ μέχρι τοῦ νῦν ποιεῖν τοὺς βαρβάρους ὅταν θετὸν υἱὸν ποιεῖσθαι βούλωνται. (Diod. Sic. 4.39.2)

 8 None of these appearances is, however, placed in the hero’s childhood. One might possibly mention the killing of Linos, Heracles’s teacher of music, by the child hero either with a large stone or the lyre or the plectrum; Apollod. 2.4.9, Ael., VH 3.32, al. The killing is represented on fifth century Attic vases, e.g. the red-figure cup by Duris in Munich (2646).

  Kyriakos Tsantsanoglou The description seems to imply a newborn child, but it is actually a newborn soul after the hero has met his death and has been deified, and after Hera eventually receded from her earlier wrath. I do not know whether or not the habit is barbaric, as Diodorus claims, or how old the legend is. Had it not been for the exceptional case of Heracles, it might remind of the favourable treatment of the initiated in afterlife: e.g., Pind. fr. 137 ὄλβιος ὅστις ἰδὼν κεῖν᾽ [sc. τὰ ἐν Ἐλευσῖνι μυστήρια] εἶσ᾽ ὑπὸ χθόν᾽· οἶδε μὲν βίου τελευτάν, οἶδεν δὲ διόσδοτον ἀρχάν; Pelinna gold lamellae D2 Tzif. νῦν ἔθανες καὶ νῦν ἐγένου. It is true that Ptolemaeus Chennus, Περὶ παραδόξου ἱστορίας or Περὶ καινῆς ἱστορίας, Phot. Bibl. cod. 190, 148a.38 Bekker; 3.14, p. 24 Chatzis, poses the question τίνος ἐστὶν ὁ ὕμνος ὁ ᾀδόμενος ἐν Θηβαίοις εἰς Ἡρακλέα, ἐν ᾧ λέγει Διὸς καὶ Ἥρας υἱός; Photius’ abridgement does not give the answer, but the Patriarch’s criticism about the author’s reliability (which, combined with the book’s particular contents set out in the Bibliotheca, led to his modern description as “fantasist”) is remarkable: 146b.5 ἔχει δὲ πολλὰ καὶ τερατώδη καὶ κακόπλαστα, καὶ τὸ ἀλογώτερον, ὅτι καὶ ἐνίων μυθαρίων αἰτίας, δι᾽ ἃς ὑπέστησαν, ἀποδιδόναι πειρᾶται. ὁ μέντοι τούτων συναγωγεὺς ὑπόκενός τέ ἐστι (“hollow, flabby”) καὶ πρὸς ἀλαζονείαν ἐπτοημένος (“with a passion toward charlatanry, imposture”), καὶ οὐδ᾽ ἀστεῖος τὴν λέξιν. Be that as it may, the Theban hymn with the specific invocation must have existed. The paradox awaited must lie in the author’s omitted answer. It is, however, expected that given the tradition of the hero’s deification and his concurrent solemnized adoption by Hera, he might well be invoked as son of Zeus and Hera. Still, this has nothing to do with the hero’s earthly boyhood. Finally, as mentioned above, in a second century CE poetic inscription found in Rome, Heracles appears as given by Zeus to Dike as adopted son: 7 τῶ σὲ καὶ υἷα Δίκηι Κρονίδης θετὸν ἐγγυάλιξε, | εὖτε μιν ὑβρισταὶ φῶτες ἄτιμον ἄγον. The difference between nurse of the παῖς μάργος and adoptive mother of the hero is negligible. There is, however, a serious difference between the mythological reports of the inscription and the papyrus. In the latter, Zeus and Hera entrust the rearing of their baby or child son to Dike as a nurse in order to make him docile. In the inscription, however, it is the grown up hero that Zeus offers to Dike as her adopted son, when insolent mortals would not honour her, i.e., when they would not respect moral law. Heracles has already carried out his labours and so has exhibited his devotion to justice. Actually, he is to serve as Dike’s companion and assistant, killing wild beasts, but also (5 f.) ὑπε[ρ]φιάλους ἀδίκους τε ἄνδρας, thus enforcing justice on men. 9  9 Kaibel mentions the fragmentary epic verse which mentions Heracles as “the most righteous slayer” (δικαιοτάτου δὲ φονῆος). It was attributed to the sixth century BC epic poet Peisandros

παῖς μάργος  

D.F. Sutton, 10 developing Kakridis’s findings, but rejecting the ascription to the Aitnaiai, goes on to propose that the Dike fragment came from the Kerykes, an Aeschylean satyr-play, in which Heracles must have had a major part. The play had already been associated by B.A. Van Groningen 11 with the story of the harsh punishment of the heralds of king Erginos by Heracles. A. Wessels 12 considers Sutton’s proposal “bloße Spekulation”. Now, however, I believe that the basic evidence is changed altogether. Fr. 9 (b) of the same papyrus (fr. 281 b Radt), which Lobel thought to come “apparently from the bottom of the column immediately following that partly preserved in fr. 9 (a)”, i.e., to belong to the right of 9 (a), if placed on the left part of the bottom of the preserved column (fig. 2), restores considerably lines 36–41 and yields satisfactory sense. The punishment inflicted upon the boy by Dike is now clear, and, what is more, the etymology is revealed. First, I reproduce the text of fr. 281 b from Radt’s edition: 281 b


]. .[ ]εαcε ̣[ ]ω̣ τόδ᾽ ἐχθ ̣[ ̣] ̣[ ]ερρύθμιξα κα[ ]παισα· παι ̣ ̣[ ]ητο παίεσθαί ̣[

And then, I present the two fragments joined together. Bars indicate the meeting point of the two papyrus fragments.


̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ] ̣ ̣|[ ̣ ̣ ̣ ]῀̣ν ἔχ[αι]ρε κἀγέλα κακὸν . . .]ε̣ αcε ̣|[ ]ν ̣ζοι φόνος· ·στάζ̣[οι· . . .]ω̣ τόδ᾽ ἐχθ ̣[.] ̣|[. . . . . . . . .]μ̣ουμένη . .]ερρύθμιξα κα|ὶ πρ[. . . . .]γον χέρα ]παισα· παι ̣ ̣|οῦν ἐνδίκως κικλήσκεται, ]η τὸ παίεσθαί | νιν ἔνδικ̣[. . . . .] ̣ος·

 of Kamiros who was credited with an Ἡράκλεια (fr. 10 Kinkel). It is now believed to come from the late (third century CE) epic poet Peisandros of Laranda (Keydell 1935, 309 and n. 4 = Kl. Schr. p. 361; M. Davies publishes it as “Pisandri Camirensis fragmentum spurium” and Alb. Bernabé as “Pisander” fr. 10). 10 Sutton 1974 includes the play in the list; id. 1983. 11 Van Groningen 1930. 12 Krumeich/Pechstein/Seidensticker 1999, 98–106, esp. 105–106.

  Kyriakos Tsantsanoglou

Fig. 2: P.Oxy. 2256 fr. 9 a and 9 b = Aesch. fr. 281 a + 281 b, lines 31–41.

Finally, I give the reconstructed text of lines 27–41, i.e., the verses where Dike relates the παῖς μάργος incident as evidence of her power.



(Δι.) οὐκ ἄν τις οὖ]ν [ἀρνοῖτ]ο ἐπισπέσ̣θ̣ α̣[ι Δίκ]η̣ι ̣, πό]λις τις οὔτε δῆμος οὔτ᾽ ἔτης ἀνήρ, τ̣ οιάνδε μοῖραν π[αρ]ὰ̣ θεῶν καρπουμένη[ι. τ̣ έκμαρ δὲ λέξ̣ω σ̣ọι̣ τόδ᾽ εὐδερκέ[ς.] Χο. φέρε. Δι. ἔθρε[ψα] παῖδα μάργον, ὃν τίκ̣τεν̣ [ποτὲ] Ἥρα μιγε̣ ῖσα Ζηνί, θυμοιδ[ῆ, κακόν,] δ]ύ̣σα̣ρ̣κτ[ο]ν, αἰδὼς δ᾽ οὐκ ἐνῆ[ν] φ̣ρ̣[ον]ήματι. ἀμῶν φο]ρ̣υκτὰ τῶν ὁδοιπόρων μέλη ἠρτᾶτ᾽ ἀκ]η̣δῶς ἀγκύλαισιν ἀρτάμων. τὸ θέ]͜α̣μ̣[α ὁρ]ῶ̣ν ἔχ[αι]ρε κἀγέλα κακὸν κἀλ]έ̣ ας ἔα̣[σκε σάρκας, ὧ]ν ὄζοι φόνος. ·στάζ̣[οι· κἀγ]ὼ τόδ᾽ ἐχθα̣[ί]ρ̣[ουσα καὶ θυ]μ̣ουμένη εὖ] ἐρρύθμιξα καὶ πρ[οσήγα]γον χέρα

παῖς μάργος  


κἄ]παισα· παῖς δ᾽ οὖν ἐνδίκως κικλήσκεται, ὁτι]ὴ τὸ παίεσθαί νιν ἔνδικ̣[ον τέ]λ̣ος.

27 usque ad ἀρνοῖτο suppl. Fraenkel | Δίκηι Vysoký 30 c̣ọι̣ post correctionem e cω dub. Ts., τῶι (‘the ω is anomalously made and the presumed ι has lost its top and might perhaps be read υ’) Lobel | antilaben coniecit Ts. 32 κακόν Ts. 34 ἀμῶν Ts. | φο]ρ̣υκτὰ Lobel | βέλη pap., μέλη Lobel 35 ἠρτᾶτ᾽ ἀκ]η̣δῶc Ts. | ἀρτάμων gen. pl.; initio -ω̂ ν (participium) scriptum erat, postea accentus circumflexi angulati sinistra pars deleta est, ut accentus gravis confectus sit, i.e. -ὼν barytonon 36–41 fr. 281b coniunxit et omnia coniecit Ts. “Then nobody would refuse to obey Dike, neither city nor commoner or gentleman, seeing that she enjoys such a lot by the gods. And I shall relate to you this clearly seen proof. — Go on! — I nurtured a ferocious boy, whom Hera bore once after mating with Zeus, irascible, malicious, disobedient, with no shame in his mind. Hacking off blood-stained the limbs of the passers-by, he hung them recklessly on butchers’ hooks. Watching the spectacle, he rejoiced and laughed at their misfortune and used to leave out in the sun the flesh-pieces, whose gore stank (or ‘dripped down’). And I, detesting this and being angry, brought him to order and stretched out my hand and smacked him (κἄπαισα); and so he is justly called child (παῖς), since being smacked (τὸ παίεσθαι) is his just destination”.

Thus, we have an amusing etymology of the general category to which the boy belongs, but his name is still missing. Identifying the παῖς μάργος can perhaps be useful for spotting the mythical area of fr. 281ab. Lloyd-Jones, 577, is no doubt right that it is uncertain whether the narration about the boy relates or not to the main theme of the play, and so an investigation from this starting-point might misdirect us to alien destinations. However, no matter if the παῖς μάργος in the satyr-play was a diverting detail or not, the appearance of Dike must have had a mythological and dramatic explanation. Narrations of incidents parallel with the main theme of the play are found in drama, but, as far as I know, only in choral parts. Here, since the παῖς incident is presented as evidence of Dike’s power, it is very likely that it sheds light on her role. The story may have been made up by Aeschylus for playing with the παίειν – παῖς pun, but it was concocted about a familiar god, known to the audience, since he was a son of Zeus and Hera. His involvement in the satyr-play story, most likely indirect, must be made not with the characteristics of his boyhood, but those he acquired after his disciplining by Dike. On the other hand, the new characteristics cannot be entirely irrelevant to the god’s innate temperament. Otherwise, the detailed description of his boyhood acts would be pointless. It must be left to the viewer to determine whether the god’s old characteristics survive in the new ones, only cloaked under metaphors so as to appear pleasing and attractive. Literarily, since Aeschylus has invented a story about a son of Zeus and Hera, yet he plans to conceal the god’s name, he must have given a clue to the viewers

  Kyriakos Tsantsanoglou for making the recognition on their own. The clue is found in the opening of Dike’s story: ἔθρεψα παῖδα μάργον. The “mad, rampant, furious, violent boy” appears elsewhere too in Greek literature. Already in Alcman, PMG 58, Ἀφροδίτα μὲν οὐκ ἔστι, μάργος δ᾽ Ἔρως οἷα παίσδει ἄκρ᾽ ἐπ᾽ ἄνθη καβαίνων, ἃ μή μοι θίγηις, τῶ κυπαιρίσκω. (Alcm. fr. 58 PMG)

he appears, thanks to Bentley’s certain supplement, qualifying Ἔρως, in a charming erotic song of young girls. In later poetry, μάργος occurs as a typical epithet of Ἔρως: Αp. Rhod. 3.120 μάργος Ἔρως λαιῆς ὑποΐσχανε χειρὸς ἀγοστόν, Nonnus, Dion. 10.337 ἵστατο μάργος Ἔρως, 33.180 καὶ μάργος Ἔρως ἀνεπάλλετο κόλπου μητρὸς ἑῆς, 48.277 μάργος Ἔρως ἐρέθιζεν. Was, however, Eros a son of Zeus and Hera? The parentage of Eros was one of the most complicated questions in antiquity. As W. S. Barrett puts it on Eur. Hipp. 534, referring to Page, Sappho and Alc., 269–272, “Eros, being the mere personification of an emotion, had no myth, no cult [ ], and no traditional parentage [ ], and the poets on occasion provide him with parents more or less as the fancy takes them”. Leaving aside the god’s cosmogonic hypostasis, the most familiar version connects him with Aphrodite, whether with no father name, or Aphrodite and Ares (Simon. PMG 575, Nonnus Dion. 5.93) or Aphrodite and Ouranos (possibly Hes. Theog. 201, Sapph. 198 b) or Aphrodite and Hephaestus (alii, ap. Serv. in Aen. i.664 al.) or Aphrodite and Hermes (Cic. Nat. 3.59) or Aphrodite and Zeus (Verg. Cir. 134) or Artemis and Hermes (Cic. Nat. 3.60) or Gaia and Ouranos (Sapph. 198 a) or Iris and Zephyrus (Alc. 327) or Eileithyia (Olen ap. Paus. 9.27.1) or Zeus (Eur. Hipp. 534) or Penia and Poros (Pl. Symp. 178), and possibly even more parentages. Cf. Pl. Symp. 178 b γονῆς γὰρ Ἔρωτος οὔτ᾽ εἰσὶν οὔτε λέγονται; Theocr. id. 13.1–2 τὸν Ἔρωτα ... ᾧτινι τοῦτο θεῶν ποκα τέκνον ἔγεντο, where the Scholiast notes: ἀμφιβάλλει τίνος υἱὸν εἴπῃ τὸν Ἔρωτα. Ἡσίοδος μὲν γὰρ Χάους καὶ Γῆς, Σιμωνίδης Ἄρεος καὶ Ἀφροδίτης, Ακουσίλαος Νυκτὸς καὶ Αἰθέρος, Αλκαῖος Ἴριδος καὶ Ζεφύρου, Σαπφὼ Γῆς καὶ Οὐρανοῦ καὶ ἄλλοι ἄλλως. Cf. AG 5.177.5 (Meleager) πατρὸς δ᾽ οὐκέτ᾽ ἔχω φράζειν τίνος, Antagoras (Powell, C.A., Epigr. 1) ὅ τοι γένος ἀμφίσβητον. Zeus is mentioned in Verg. Cir. 134 as father of Eros by Aphrodite, being therefore both pater atque avus idem Iuppiter, but not by Hera. Hipp. 534, Ἔρως ὁ Διὸς παῖς, was considered as the only mention of Zeus as father of Eros (apart from Virgil Ciris) and an innovation of Euripides. Now, it appears that Aeschylus had preceded, but whether the paternity of Zeus was his innovation or not, I cannot say. Though, I believe that the story about Dike as

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Eros’ nurse, the account of the boy’s horrible doings, and, naturally, of his punishment are all Aeschylus’ invention. Moreover, the dreadful arrows, with which the μάργος παῖς committed his criminal acts, continued being his main attribute after Dike disciplined him (Eros Archer), inflicting, however, a different sort of injuries to his targets. For summing up what we know till now, it is necessary to refer also to the previous verses of the fragment, not given above. Dike was sent by Zeus on a special mission to a certain place and people (12 ἐς γῆν τήνδ᾽), and not vaguely to the earth and the humans. What else can that mission be if not to restore justice in a case in which it had been violated? But the violation does not seem to have been committed by a single hero or a genos, but by a whole people. Whether Dike is speaking of her prerogatives or her duties or of her reception into the specific place she has been sent to, her references to the citizens are unspecified expressions and general plurals. On the other hand, combining this impression with Dike’s statement that she is sent to those toward whom Zeus is well-disposed (11 πέμπει δέ μ᾽ αὐτὸς οἷσιν εὐμεν[ὴς κυρεῖ), we may reasonably surmise that Dike is not coming for punishing the people, but perhaps for offering them a chance to redeem. The Satyr-chorus, not only are unable to identify Dike but also do not seem to be friendly to her or to law and justice, the principles that she stands for, as can be inferred from her threats — to which the etymology of παῖς from παίεσθαι must be implicitly included, since the Satyrs are usually designated as παῖδες. However, these threats are expressly addressed to the στρατός of the country. The word cannot be given the vague sense “people, population”, as some times in Aeschylus, mainly in the Eumenides, because such a meaning would lead to the conclusion that the people of this country consisted of Satyrs. Yet, in the satyrplays known to us, Satyrs have always a status auxiliary to humans or to gods, whether as slaves or hired hands or assistants or followers. An army consisting of Satyrs, serving the local people, would fit their usual role. But which human society might need an army of Satyrs? Now, if we combine the arrival of Dike with the story about her foster son, μάργος Ἔρως, can we conjecture that he may be involved in the communal violation that dictated her coming? However, love affairs are normally individual cases. A collective love affair that ended up in violation of justice requiring Dike’s intervention is a rather rare situation. Be that as it may, these observations, surmises, and queries converge to one conclusion: the legend about the Lemnian women. It is a case of collective crime, in which Dike is closely involved. In the first stasimon of Choephoroi, Aeschylus illustrates the enormity of Clytaemnestra’s crime with three mythical cases of female passion. The third and worst of all

  Kyriakos Tsantsanoglou (631 πρεσβεύεται λόγωι) is the crime of the Lemnian women, who murdered every man on the island, their fathers and husbands, a crime which is synonymous to horror (631–638). The next strophic pair (639–651) is devoted to Dike, the goddess who, when violated, inflicts heavy penalties on the violators, a statement that is forthwith connected with the revenge of Orestes being plotted at the time. An expression parallel to the proverbial Λήμνιον κακόν or Λήμνια κακά (Aesch. Cho. 631, Hdt. 6.138.20–24) was Λημνία δίκη, which Photius (λ 269) and Suda (λ 448) interpret by ἡ κακίστη. Further, it is a case where μάργος Ἔρως is involved, both in the beginning of the story and in its final solution. Yet, in spite of the seriousness of the crime, Zeus may be well-disposed toward the women, because the previous behaviour of the men had also been condemnable: they had sexually abandoned them in favour of Thracian slave women. If then Dike’s arrival aimed at offering the women a chance for gaining their redemption, that chance appears in the attempt of the Argonauts to disembark at Lemnos, which must be the theme of the satyr-play of the Argonautic trilogy. Finally, in a society consisting exclusively of women, whom the poet wishes to reserve for a different role, it is reasonable to find an army of bestial creatures. The myth is akin to the one of the Danaids, who also killed their husbands, though for a different reason. They were punished to fill the Danaids’ jar in the underworld, one of the proverbial punishments in Hades together with those of Sisyphus, Tantalus, and Ixion. No punishment is mentioned for the Lemnian women. If the Dike-play comes from this mythical area, the crime must have already been committed. In the myth, the chance given to the women had to do with the sojourn of the Argonauts in Lemnos, which was their first stop after their departure from Iolkos. Now, Aeschylus is credited with producing a tetralogy about the Lemnian women, interwoven with the Argonauts myth in its early stages. The plays attributed to the tetralogy, with varying order according to different scholars, are alphabetically Ἀργώ, Κάβειροι, Λήμνιαι, Ὑψιπύλη. 13 Unfortunately, the evidence provided solely by book fragments is scanty. It is plain, however, that the story centers on the Lemnian incident of the Argonautic legend.

 13 TrGF 3, TRI B XII (Argonautae), p. 118.

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Commentary 27. “Apparently a scriptio plena” (Lobel). It seems that the middle optative verb was written in full for averting the inconvenient rhythm caused by the caesura media. οὐκ ἄν τις οὖ]ν [ἀρνοῖτ]ο Fraenkel, accepted by Lloyd-Jones, Mette, and Werner; 14 Radt mentions the supplement only in the app. crit. For the end of the verse Fraenkel proposed ἐπισπέσθα[ι πόλ]ει, “to follow, to obey a city”, having in mind the new city, Aetna, in whose praise he believed Dike was speaking. Vysoký improved Fraenkel’s proposal keeping the verb but changing the object to the obvious Δίκ]ηι. 28. οὔτε δῆμος οὔτ᾽ ἔτης ἀνήρ was already known (377 N.2) from a discussion in the Homeric Scholia (Il. 6.239c; 2.173.47 Erbse) on the aspiration of έτης. Alexion supported an aspirated initial, whereas Ptolemaeus of Askalon an unaspirated one. Herodian (2.55.18 Lenz; cf. Eust. Il. 641.57), who sides with the latter, adduces the Aeschylean fragment together with a Euripidean one (1014 N.2; see below) as a proof of the lack of a rough breathing. It is remarkable that in our papyrus we read οὔτ᾽ ἕ⟦ν⟧τηc. Cf. St. Radt, Pindars zweiter und sechster Paian, Diss. Amsterdam 1958, 198 f. A generic notion, apparently (οὔ) τις vel sim., is here particularized. Of the three terms, ἔτης, though obsolete in classical Attic, seems to be clear: “private man”, i.e. a citizen who does not hold an office. Its meaning becomes clearer when seen together with the terms from which it is usually distinguished. At Aesch. Supp. 247 ff. (πότερον ὡς ἔτην λέγω | ἢ τηρὸν ἱερόρραβδον (text insecure) ἢ πόλεως ἀγόν;) the distinction is between private man, priest, and city leader; at Eur. fr. 1014 N.2 (πόλεως μὲν ἀρχῶι, φωτὶ δ᾽ οὐκ ἔτηι πρέπων) between city leader and private man; at SIG3 141.11 f. (ἄρχων ἢ ἔτας) between leader and private man; at Thuc. 5.79.4 (ταῖς πολίεσσι ... τὼς δὲ ἔτας) between cities and private men; at SIG3 9.8 f. (αἴτε ϝέτας αἴτε τελεστὰ αἴτε δᾶμος) between private man, magistrate, and community (translated so in, e.g., Meiggs-Lewis, A Selection of Greek Historical Inscriptions, 32.) The last two witnesses, both from dialectal treaties, mention the three terms of our verse. It is only in our verse, however, that a distinction is also made between city and community. Lloyd-Jones, Mette, and Werner translate respectively “no city or people”, “kein Staat, kein Demos”, “nicht Bürgerschaft noch Gau”. But what would the factual difference between πόλις and δῆμος be, if both, as usually, stood for the citizen-body? The problem had been solved already since our verse was known as fr. 377 N.2 A. Nauck, Mélanges

 14 Werner 1988.

  Kyriakos Tsantsanoglou gréco-romaines 4 (1880), 682 f., and Th. Bergk, Hermes 18 (1883), 515 n. 1, had shown that δῆμος was used here, not of the community, as usually, but of a single person, in the sense “commoner”. See LSJ s.v. II.1 (“rarely of a single person”); Il. 12.213 οὐδὲ ἔοικεν δῆμον ἐόντα παρὲξ ἀγορευέμεν. This was the meaning of the term in the treaty of SIG3 9: not “community” but “commoner”. The question is then what the difference between δῆμος and ἔτης would be. Bergk, loc. cit., gave a plausible answer: “ἔται, qui proprie sunt gentiles, deinde nobiles dicebantur, qui principem olim inter cives locum obtinebant, quique alias ἀστοί vel πολῖται appellantur”. Our verse should then be translated: “neither city nor commoner or gentleman”. As shown by the analogues in the treaties, it appears as if Aeschylus is employing here an official formula. Does this use of the language of administration lend solemnity to the speech of Dike or does it add to its comical effect? 29. καρπουμένη[ι: If the construction adopted in line 27 is right, the dative, proposed by Fraenkel, is necessary. Lloyd-Jones inexplicably prints καρπουμένη[ς, leaving line 27 unsupplemented. 30. τω̣ι̣ : Lobel and Radt. Actually, what is read τ is the top curve of c. The second letter is a narrow ω (as narrow as 35 αρταμων) marked on both bottom sides with dots. ι is not written supra lineam but inserted later as a slim vertical in the narrow space between the marked ω and the initial τ of the next word. Τhe scribe wrote cω, possibly attracted by -ξω, which he later corrected to c.ω.I. The dots indicate that the correct cοι was written between two dots in the missing · margin. The same holds for εὺδὲ ρκε[c]. Cf. Ag. 315 τέκμαρ τοιοῦτον σύμβολόν τέ σοι λέγω, Eum. 447 τεκμήριον δὲ τῶνδέ σοι λέξω μέγα, 662 τεκμήριον δὲ τοῦδέ σοι δείξω λόγου. εὐδερκὲς (τέκμαρ) does not mean here “acute cernens” (Italie) or “seeing brightly, bright-eyed” (LSJ), nor is it “dub. sens.” (LSJ Suppl.). It is passive (“clearly seen”) and synonymous to Eum. 244 ἐκφανὲς (τέκμαρ) or Cho. 667 ἐμφανὲς (τέκμαρ). φέρεις or -ρειν Lobel in connection with the reading τῶι. If the three dots following ε in Radt’s edition (φερε[ ̣ ̣] ̣[ ) represent letters, it must be pointed out that Greek has no ending syllables of the type -ρε+3 letters. The tiny trace read ] · [ must be one of the dots that should flank the corrected cοι in the margin. The word, which had already annoyed Fraenkel (“was man eigentlich erwartet ist πρέπει”), must be the exclamatory imperative φέρε, “come on”, i.e., φέρε λέξον, spoken, however, by the Chorus-leader in antilabe. This is the third antilabe to be found in Aeschylus besides PV 980, and fr. 78a (Theoroi).4; cf. Sept. 217. The Theoroi antilabe is the only fully developed one. The other two are cases of elementary divisions of verses between speakers (only one step beyond the extra

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metrum employment of interjections) and have nothing to do with the complex device exploited by other dramatists. Merely, one of the speakers cries out a disyllable interjection either in the opening of the verse or in its close. 31. “ἔθρεψε more probable than ἔθρεψα” (Lobel, followed by Lloyd-Jones). Others (Mette, Ph. J. Kakridis, Radt in app.) prefer the first person. ἔθρεψε is palaeographically impossible, since the upper part of ε ought to be visible. Moreover, the information that she reared an unruly boy whom Hera bore to Zeus would be absurd if “she” was also Hera. What Dike says is that she served as a nurse to a son of Zeus and Hera. Görschen’s ποτέ is very appropriate for describing the indefinite time of the divine myth. But the use of the historical present τίκτει with ποτέ is anomalous. Read τίκ̣τεν̣ . The top tip of an upright which survived is not necessarily an ι. The scribe often writes ν with the oblique starting a little lower than the top (e.g., 32 ζηΝι), its head here being visible in an enhanced image. 31–32. [ποτ᾽ οὐχ] | Ἥρα μιγεῖσα Ζηνὶ θυμοιδ[ὴς πόσει (Merkelbach) may relieve Zeus of this unpleasant fatherhood, but does not offer the name of the supposed father, as one would expect in such a case. Furthermore, οὐχ Ἥρα μιγεῖσα for Ἥρα οὐ μιγεῖσα is bad Greek. 32. θυμοιδ[ὲς βρέφος (Görschen) or τέκνον (Mette), θυμοίδ[η θεόν (LloydJones) are all possible. I would propose alternatively one further characterization after θυμοιδῆ, e.g. κακόν, in the sense “base, evil”. But there are many more possibilities. For the meaning of θυμοιδής see Lloyd-Jones, 578 f. I am uncertain whether the adjective is paroxytone or oxytone; dictionaries accentuate πεοίδης, ἰσχιοίδης, γαστρ(ο)οίδης, but, in prepositional compounds, διοιδής, ἐνοιδής, προσῳδής. The scribe, who elsewhere marks the ambiguous accents, did not accentuate here on the first two syllables. If he has done so on the missing last one, he must have written θυμοιδῆ. παῖς ... θυμοιδής, “irascible son”, may be playing with θυμηδής, “glad-hearted, dear”; the latter can be joined with παῖς: Epigr. Anat. 13:72,16 (Sebastopolis) παῖδας θυμηδέας, οὓς [τέκεν αὕτη]. 34. ἄ]φυκτα is unanimously adopted, though the reading is not so certain. Lobel describes the traces of the first letter as “apparently the ends of the overhang and central stroke of ε but the damaged right-hand loop of ρ or φ cannot be ruled out”. “]Ε̣ pot. qu. ]Φ̣, ]Ρ̣” (Radt). Still, Ι believe that ρ not only cannot be ruled out, but is much likelier than ε, especially because the two upper strokes of ε are usually more distanced between themselves than the tiny arcs that make up the loop of ρ. If ρ, φο]ρ̣υκτά, “defiled (with blood)” proposed by Lobel is the only fitting word; cf. Od. 20.348 αἱμοφόρυκτα (κρέα). This reading supports Lobel’s suspicion that βέλη should be emended to μέλη, though his supposition of Sinis, the highway bandit killed by Theseus, is unnecessary. Then the verse may open

  Kyriakos Tsantsanoglou with a participle denoting “hacking off, cutting off”. It is difficult to estimate accurately the size needed for a left margin justification, but ἀμῶν seems fitting. 35. Both lines 33 and 35 end with punctuation marks; then, 34–35 must constitute a separate period. If this period starts with a participle as we presumed, the verb must be found at the opening of 35. ἀνα]ι ̣δῶς, is difficult to read, as noticed by Lobel, since the only visible relic of the supposed ]ι ̣ is part of a horizontal at the middle of the line. It might be an η with its right-hand upright abraded (the left-hand one should have been lost in the break). Radt disagrees: “]Ị legi posse pace Lobel haud negaverim”. No doubt, ἀναιδῶς is clearly associated with 33 αἰδὼς δ᾽ οὐκ ἐνῆ[ν] φ̣ρ̣[ον]ήματι, but it would be curious to characterize as shameless the second part of the boy’s atrocious act but leave the first undesignated. Speaking of corpses or their limbs, ἀκηδῶς, “without care, without burying”, is most fitting. An accent is clearly visible above the omega of ἀρταμων, whose shape is, however, unusual. It seems like an upright descending with a slight bent to left but hardly similar to a grave. Radt questions: “an accentus circumflexus erat, qui in ceteris quidem huius fragmenti locis rotundus, in aliis autem eiusdem papyri fragmentis (cf. fr. 451r9. 451s32b2. 53,10) angulatus est?”. It is true that both the size and the cant of the stroke match the right-hand leg of an angular circumflex rather than the grave. Actually, the corrector wiped off the left-hand leg, in order to produce a grave accent, leaving, however, visible relics of the deleted left-hand leg. Clearly, the original reading was the participle of ἀρταμέω (ἀρταμῶν). But, after the correction, the barytone -ὼν denoted an unaccented ending, and so ἀρτάμων, gen. pl. of ἄρταμος, “butcher”. If so, ἀγκύλαισιν, a much debated word (“bow, missiles, thonged javelins”), becomes clear: “on butchers’ hooks”. Then, the verb in the opening of the verse becomes also clear: “he hung, he used to hang”, possibly the middle ἠρτᾶτ(ο). The whole distich could run ἀμῶν φο]ρ̣υκτὰ τῶν ὁδοιπόρων μέλη | ἠρτᾶτ᾽ ἀκ]ηδῶς ἀγκύλαισιν ἀρτάμων, “after hacking off blood-defiled the limbs of the passers-by | he used to hang them ruthlessly on butchers’ hooks”. Aeschylus shows a predilection for words of the butchers’ vocabulary even in high drama: Pers. 463 κρεοκοποῦσι δυστήνων μέλη; Ag. 1277 ἐπίξηνον μένει; PV 1023 αἰετὸς λάβρως | διαρταμήσει σώματος μέγα ῥάκος; fr. 193.11 R. (from Prometheus Lyomenos in Cicero’s translation) aduncis lacerans unguibus | Iovis satelles pastu dilaniat (= (δι)αρταμεῖ) fero. 36. At the top of fr. 9 (b) = 281 b R. the bottom tip of a thin descending oblique followed after a short distance by the low end of a thicker ascending oblique. Though there are more possibilities, Α̣Ṃ seems very likely.

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]ῶ̣ν: “] ̣̑, ω possible but not verifiable” (Lobel), perhaps represents a further participle: ὁρ]ῶ̣ν? I propose τὸ θέ]͜α̣μ̣[α ὁρ]ῶ̣ν, which fits exactly the size, the traces, and the sense. ἔχαιρε κἀγέλα: Cf. Soph. Aj. 961 f. οἱ δ᾽ οὖν γελώντων κἀπιχαιρόντων κακοῖς τοῖς τοῦδε; El. 1300 χαίρειν πάρεστι καὶ γελᾶν ἐλευθέρως. Whereas ἔχαιρε is absolute, “he rejoiced”, ἐγέλα takes the accusative, “he derided the ill”. κακόν may imply both the evil committed by the boy and the disaster suffered by the victims, which actually amount to the same thing. 37. κἀλ]έ̣ ας, “and lying in the sun”, acc. pl. of ἀλεής. The rare adjective derived from ἀλέα, “warmth, heat”, occurs in Soph. Phil. 859 describing ὕπνος and is interpreted in the Scholia: ἀλεὴς ὕπνος ἐσθλός· ὁ ὕπνος ὁ ὑπὸ τὴν ἀλέαν τοῦ ἡλίου. Alternatively, μελ]έ̣ ας, possibly suggesting μελεϊστί, though less matching ἔα̣[σκε. Following the initial ε, Lobel notes “the foot of a stroke rising from the line with a slight slope to right”, yet it is not one stroke but a narrow angle, certainly an A. The epic imperfect ἔασκε, “used to leave”, is self-evident. σάρκας seems inevitable, since what we need here is a masculine or feminine noun in acc. pl. scanning – ⏑, therefore necessarily a third-declension one-syllabled noun, and denoting something which after being hung on a hook either stinks or discharges blood. Lobel read ὄζοι. Görschen’s ἄζοι (Radt “ὄ̣ ζ vel ἄ̣ζ”) is impossible from a sense point of view, since ἄζω is transitive, and I cannot see what the gore or the corpse or the killing might parch. Cf. Ag. 1309 f., which involves both blood dripping and flesh stinking: — φόνον δόμοι πνέουσιν αἱματοσταγῆ. — καὶ πῶς; τόδ᾽ ὄζει θυμάτων ἐφεστίων. For the whole image cf. Pers. 463 παίουσι κρεοκοποῦσι δυστήνων μέλη. 38. “Detesting this and being angry”. τόδε cannot be connected to θυμουμένη; θυμοῦμαι is normally constructed with dative or περί τινος, ἔς τινα, πρός τινα. Absolutely, like here, at Ag. 1069, Eum. 801. 39. μετ]ερρύθμιξα (Mette) is too long. Of the three possible compounds: ἀνερρ-, διερρ-, and ἐπερρύθμιξα, I would have a slight preference for the last one because it seems to fit exactly with the left-hand margin. However, it is the simple ῥυθμίζειν that occurs in the sense “bring to order, correct, chasten, punish”: [Aesch.] PV 241 νηλεῶς ὧδ᾽ ἐρρύθμισμαι, IC I xvi.5.35 (Lato, second cent. BC) ἐρευνίοντες καὶ ῥυθμίττοντες used of criminal correction. Cf. Antiph. com. 33.4 εὔρυθμος βακτηρία, “corrective cane”. Then, εὖ ἐρρύθμιξα? In spite of the Cretan legal occurrence, it seems like a colloquial usage rather than a formal metaphor. Cf. Modern Greek colloquialisms κανονίζω, διορθώνω, συγυρίζω, σιάζω “set to order, adjust, tidy up”, but also “rebuke, punish”.

  Kyriakos Tsantsanoglou Lobel considered the Doric form as a sign of satyr-play comparing the Doricisms found in the Diktyoulkoi: μικκός, φίντων, ὀβρίχοισι, θῶσθαι. Fraenkel (Kleine Beiträge 1, 252 n.1; cf. on Ag. 785) objected comparing Aesch. Supp. 39 σφετεριξάμενοι and, possibly, Ag. 785 σεβίξω and Cho. 954 f. ἐπωρθίαξεν. Perhaps a distinction should be made between Doric vocabulary and Doric or quasiDoric morphology. The first may be used to lend a provincial, possibly rustic, colouring to the text, as is the case in the Diktyoulkoi, the latter merely metri gratia, as with the tragic occurrences. πρ[οσήγα]γον χέρα Fraenkel: “I laid my hand (on him), I seized (him)”. Cf. Ar. Lys. 893 = Men. Sam. 582 μὴ πρόσαγε τὴν χεῖρά μοι; elsewhere ἐπιβάλλειν or προσφέρειν χεῖρά τινι. Dike was actually shown on the Kypselos chest seizing Adikia with one hand and striking her with a stick (Paus. 5.18.12), and so also on a 6th century BC Attic amphora in Vienna. 40–41. I was not able to find elsewhere the jocular etymology of παῖς from παίω, “smack, hit”, which may have also been prompted by the colloquial shortened Attic imperative παῖ for παῖε: Xen. Cyn. 6.18 παισάτω πᾶς (παῖς codd.), παῖ δή, παῖ δή. παίειν has not survived in Modern Greek, only παιδεύω in the sense “pester”. It is from the latter that a similar folk etymology occurs in a Cretan tag: τὴν παίδαν ἔχουν τὰ παιδιά, γιαῦτος παιδιὰ τὰ λέσι, literally “pestering is the property of children, that is why they are called children”. But the real purpose of the joke is to consecrate caning by attributing its use to a supreme deity and to affirm its fated relevance on child-raising by means of name-magic. Another Modern Greek proverb declares that τὸ ξύλο βγῆκε ἀπ᾽ τὸν παράδεισο; it is used in the sense of “spare the rod and spoil the child”, but literally it means “the rod (= the wood of the tree of knowledge) came from Eden”. 41. ὁτι]ή: cf. 9 above, there too at the opening of the line. No other causal conjunction, which is necessary at this place, fits the relics, the space and the metre. Besides this line, the play with the name of Δίκη appears repeatedly in the fragment: 6 δίκηι, 17 ἔνδικον, 40 ἐνδίκως. A spot level with the top of letters, but at such a distance from ο that renders ]λ certain. For τέλος in the sense “destination, duty, obligation”, cf. Ag. 908, 1202, Cho. 760, Eum. 743.

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Bibliography Funghi, M.S./Martinelli, M.C. (1996–1997) [1998], “P. Gen. inv. 98: Eschilo?”, Analecta Papyrologica 8–9, 7–17. Kakridis, Ph.J. (1962), “Der παῖς μάργος im Dike-Fragment des Aischylos”, Eranos 60, 111–121. Keydell, R. (1935), “Die Dichter mit Namen Peisandros”, Hermes 70, 301–311. Krumeich, R./Pechstein, N./Seidensticker, B. (eds) (1999), Das griechische Satyrspiel, Darmstadt. Lloyd-Jones, H. (1957), Aeschylus (ed. Herbert Weir Smyth, Loeb Classical Library) Appendix, London. Robertson, D.S. (1953), “Dike and Ares”, CR n.s. 3, 79–80 Sutton, D.F. (1974), “A Handlist of Satyr Plays”, HSCPh 78, 107–143 Sutton, D.F. (1983), “A Possible Subject for Aeschylus’ ‘Dike Play’”, ΖPE 51, 19–24. Van Groningen, Β.Α. (1930), “Ad Aeschyli Κήρυκας”, Mnemosyne n.s. 58, 134. Werner, O. (19884), Aischylos. Tragödien und Fragmente (Sammlung Tusculum), München/ Zürich.

Nikos Manousakis

Aeschylus’ Actaeon: A Playboy on the Greek Tragic Stage? As reported by Hesiod (Th. 975–977), among the children of Kadmos and Harmonia, a daughter of Aphrodite, is Autonoe, who, according to the same author (Cat. frr. 215, 216, 217 MW3), in turn marries Aristaeus – a son of the nymph Cyrene and Apollo. In the first seventy lines of Pyth. 9 (474 BC) 1 Pindar narrates in iridescent detail the story of Apollo’s fascination with the wild maiden Cyrene (παρθένον ἀγροτέραν), whom he witnesses fearlessly fighting a lion all by herself in Pelion (λέοντί ποτ᾽… | ὀβρίμῳ μούναν παλαίοισαν | ἄτερ ἐγχέων). The god summons Chiron from his cave to show him the marvelous girl, and asks him if it is right to lay his “famous hand upon her and indeed to reap the honey-sweet flower from the bed of love”. 2 The centaur advises the god of prophecy to proceed with what he already knows will eventually happen, and Apollo swiftly seizes Cyrene in his golden chariot and takes her to Libya. 3 There the god will make the wild girl ruler of a city (ἀρχέπολιν Pyth. 9.54) bearing her name, and she will give birth to a son, Aristaeus. The baby will be looked after by the Horai and Gaia, who will provide him with nectar and ambrosia, making him immortal (Pyth. 9.60–64). He will be regarded as a Zeus and a holy Apollo – Ἀγρεὺς (huntsman) and Νόμιος (pastor) (Pyth. 9.65). 4 From this quite extraordinary bloodline, containing a formidable woman who ἀκόντεσσίν τε χαλκέοις | φασγάνῳ τε μαρναμένα κεράϊζεν ἀγρίους | θῆρας (Pyth. 9.20–22), 5 εὐρυφαρέτραν… ἑκάεργον Apollo (Pyth. 9.26, 28), 6 Aristaeus, an  1 On Pyth. 9 see the studies of Farnell 1961, 201–213; Fränkel 1975, 441–450; Carey 1981, 65–103; Stephen 1996, 117–142. 2 The translation is by Race 1997. Translations form Greek and Latin are my own, unless otherwise stated. 3 According to Pherecydes Hist. fr. 9a line 7–8 and others, see FGrHist 316 fr. 3, Cyrene was actually carried to Africa by swans. 4 Cf. Apollon. Arg. 2.506–507. According to the anonymous commentator of Pyth. 9 sch. 6a, ἀπὸ δὲ Ἠοίας Ἡσιόδου τὴν ἱστορίαν ἔλαβεν ὁ Πίνδαρος. For Aristaeus see also the accounts of Diod. Sicul. Bibl. Hist. 4.81.2; Paus. 8.2.4, 10.17.3–4, 10.30.5; Virg., Georg. 4.315–558. 5 Callimachus (Hymn 2. 90ff.) relocates Cyrene’s lion-wrestling from Thessaly to the newly founded Libyan city that will bear her name. Hence, when killing the African beast, Phoebus’ wild bride becomes a civilizing hero(ine) of the stature of Heracles, or, as a matter of fact, Kadmos. This version is probably adapted by Callimachus from the local historian Acesander, see Williams 1978, 79. 6 Apart from a bow-wielding god, Apollo has also been a shepherd when serving Admetus in Thessaly.

  Nikos Manousakis agrarian deity, and Kadmos, the slayer of Ares’ dragon and the god’s son in law, Ἀκταίων ἀνέτελλε. 7 Actaeon, the son of Aristaeus and Autonoe, is a huntsman torn to pieces by his hounds. These are the only two facts on which all ancient sources concerning the mythical figure under discussion are rather unanimous. 8 Actaeon’s deplorable fate was a result of his personal interaction with a female: either Kadmos’ daughter Semele or the virgin goddess Artemis. In the case of the latter, Actaeon was punished by the goddess because he boasted he was a better hunter than her, because he thought he could be united with her, or because he saw her bathing naked. Among the few tragedies listed under Phrynichus’ name in the Suda Lexicon there is an Actaeon — which may very well have been the oldest stage adaptation of the huntsman’s myth. Apart from its title, we have no other evidence as regards Phrynichus’ composition. The first Actaeon-drama about which we can draw substantive conclusions is Aeschylus’ Toxotides (Archeresses). To begin with, the title of the drama seems to be quite informative. As Sommerstein aptly notes, “since women archers were not a feature either of ancient Greek society or (except in the case of Amazons) of the ancient Greek imagination, the Chorus is likely to have consisted of nymphs accompanying Artemis”. 9 What has not yet been addressed is a direct consequence of this judgment. If Artemis’ attendants populated the Chorus of a play in which Actaeon was the protagonist, as the extant fragments make rather clear, 10 then, at least at the outset of this

 7 Nonnos Dion. 5.287. 8 The suggestion by Forbes Irving 1990, 80 that the essence of Actaeon’s “story is a hunting nightmare in which the hunter identifies with his victim”, is ingenious. 9 Sommerstein 2008, 244. In fact, the bow seems to be the symbol par excellence of the Amazons in the Aeschylean imagination, see Supp. 287–289 καὶ τὰς ἀνάνδρους κρεοβότους {δ’} Ἀμαζόνας, | εἰ τοξοτευχεῖς ἦστε, κάρτ’ ἂν ἤικασα | ὑμᾶς (“and if you were equipped with bows, I would have surely thought that you were the menless, flesh-eating Amazons”); Eum. 625–628 οὐ γάρ τι ταὐτὸν ἄνδρα γενναῖον θανεῖν | … καὶ ταῦτα πρὸς γυναικός, οὔ τι θουρίοις | τόξοις ἑκηβόλοισιν, ὥστ’ Ἀμαζόνος (“for a noble man to die… at the hands of a woman — and not by the far-shooting furious bow of an Amazon”). See also Johansen and Whittle 1980, 321 for further references by Greek authors of the bow as a weapon characteristic of the Amazons. The existing evidence indicates that Aeschylus must have been more fascinated with these female warriors than both Sophocles and Euripides. In six secure Aeschylean plays we find three expressive references to these manly women, see the two references in this n. and also Eum. 685ff. Sophocles never mentions the Amazons in his extant plays and fragments, whereas in eighteen secure Euripidean dramas we find four formulaic references to Hippolytus through his Amazon mother in the homonymous play (10, 307, 351, 581), and two (one lyric and one brief iambic) mentions, rather similar between them, to Heracles’ Amazon labour in Her. (408–418) and Ion (1143–1145). 10 See fr. 241 Radt.

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play, the goddess — who is the physical “instigator” of the huntsman’s killing according to almost all (literary and artistic) accounts from antiquity — must have been favorable towards him. In fact, this very aspect of Actaeon’s mythical persona is attested in two later authors, Callimachus and Nonnos, and, in all likelihood, it was also the one Aeschylus employed in his Tox. Callimachus (Hymn 5.110) describes Actaeon as being μεγάλας σύνδρομος Ἀρτέμιδος, while in Nonnos (Dion. 5.290) he is Ἀρτέμιδος θεράπων ὀρεσίδρομος. 11 An alternative plot for Tox. would have been too problematic, since we would have to account for a tragedy which was most probably the opening drama of the trilogy it was part of, as we will see below, and in which the Chorus was all along not just unfavorable but rather hostile towards the main character. This kind of plotline can be regarded as characteristic of Greek comedy to some extent (see Aristophanes’ Achar. and Birds), yet the only parallel in extant tragedy is Aeschylus’ Eum. 12 Still, this play is the culmination of a broad composition, and its plot is tied to a long series of preceding stage events. When the ghost of Clytemestra bids the Furies to wake up and pursue Orestes, the audience, evidently, needs no explanation of her motives. However, this could hardly have been the case for Tox., and the various structural difficulties that would emerge if we were to conjecture an a priori turbulent divine Chorus for the lost drama render this plotline dramatically unthinkable. Thus, it seems that we are in a position to indicate that at the opening of Aeschylus’ Tox., no matter whether Artemis was actually one of the dramatis personae or not, 13 Actaeon was portrayed as her protégé: a fortunate regular companion of the hunting goddess. 14 This line of thought leads us straight to two other mythic hunting companions of Artemis, Orion and Hippolytus. Orion’s legend “probably had its beginnings in the Mycenaean Age; and he was apparently a popular hero in the Dark and early Archaic Ages. He was early identified with the constellation that we call Orion. Though fifth-century Hellenes knew the constellation by this name, the

 11 For the use of Actaeon’s example by Callimachus see indicatively Bulloch 1985, 218ff., and also Stephens 2015, 236ff. For Actaeon in the work of Nonnos see Heath 1992, 135ff.; Paschalis 2014, 109ff. 12 The Chorus in Eur. Bacch. is, of course, hostile to Pentheus from the very beginning. Yet, in that play the Chorus is an “extension” of Dionysus, one of the protagonists. On the other hand, in Eum. the deities of the Chorus are absolutely essential to the plot. Most likely, this would have also been the case in Tox. 13 Sommerstein 2013, 87 maintains that Artemis “will certainly have been a character” in the drama. Yet, the existing evidence provides scant basis for such a definitive claim. 14 Possibly the unattributed iambic Aeschylean fr. 342 Radt, δέσποινα νύμφη, δυσχίμων ὀρῶν ἄναξ (“lady nymph, queen of the fearful mountains”), derives from Tox. and refers to Artemis.

  Nikos Manousakis hero Orion had by then faded into the background, eclipsed by Heracles, Theseus, Perseus, and other heroes”. 15 In Od. 5.118–124, the most informative Homeric reference to the myth of Orion, Calypso reproaches the gods for being σχέτλιοι and ζηλήμονες, begrudging goddesses who openly sleep with mortals. That is why the gods turned against Dawn when she seized Orion to be her lover, until the chaste Artemis brought upon him an easy death with her arrows in Ortygia. ἀγανοῖς βελέεσσιν ἐποιχομένη κατέπεφνεν is a Homeric formula that could be signifying nothing more than Orion’s sudden death. Yet, there is a possibility that the poet employed it to specifically indicate the hero’s painless slaying by Artemis, who could have been in favor of him. The Homeric formula under discussion appears in Il. 24.759, and in various passages in the Od, referring to the state of sudden, painless death sent by Apollo, Artemis, or both. 16 In the Il. the formula has a clear highlighting effect, since it implicitly identifies a “mild” slaying act by Apollo with how the god protected and cared for Hector’s corpse (νῦν δέ μοι ἑρσήεις καὶ πρόσφατος ἐν μεγάροισι | κεῖσαι, τῶι ἴκελος ὅν τ’ ἀργυρότοξος Ἀπόλλων | οἷς ἀγανοῖσι βέλεσσιν ἐποιχόμενος κατέπεφνεν, “but now dewy and fresh you lie in my halls, like someone whom Apollo of the silver bow has just assailed with his gentle arrows and killed him”). 17 In the aforementioned speech by Calypso in Od. the use of the formula is, technically, somewhat eccentric. In all other epic examples, it is employed with Apollo being the subject if the dying person is a man, and Artemis if it is a woman. Orion is in fact the only mortal male who “suffers” a swift, painless death, hit by the arrows of Leto’s daughter. 18 This, over and above the mythical convention, could be an allusion to their intimate prehistory. Ps-Apollodorus (Bibl. 1.4.5) tells us that Orion, ὡς μὲν ἔνιοι λέγουσιν, ἀνῃρέθη δισκεύειν Ἄρτεμιν προκαλούμενος, ὡς δέ τινες, βιαζόμενος Ὦπιν μίαν τῶν ἐξ Ὑπερβορέων παραγενομένων παρθένων ὑπ᾽ Ἀρτέμιδος ἐτοξεύθη. In the latter version of the myth, the object of Orion’s sexual assault, the hyperborean nymph accompanying the goddess, is in some accounts Artemis herself, also known as Ὦπις. Aratus (Phaen. 634–646) is more descriptive, recounting that, as προτέρων λόγος has it, Orion, Artemis’ co-hunter, assaulted the goddess grabbing her by her robe (ἑλκῆσαι πέπλοιο). 19 Some authors narrate that the goddess favored the  15 Fontenrose 1981, 5. 16 Apart from Od. 5.123–124, see also Od. 3.279–280; 11.172–173; 11.198–199; 15.410–411. 17 See Richardson 1993, 357. Macleod 1982, 153 notes that the formula could have been invented to be used in this Iliadic passage, and then was “reproduced more or less appropriately” in the Od. 18 Cf. — most notably — Il. 21.483–484. See Heubeck, West and Hainsworth 1988, 267. 19 Kidd 1997, 396 aptly indicates that this version of the myth is reflected in Hom. sch. (AD) Σ 486: συγκυνηγῶν δὲ οὗτος (sc. Orion) Ἀρτέμιδι, ἐπεχείρησεν αὐτὴν βιάσασθαι.

Aeschylus’ Actaeon: A Playboy on the Greek Tragic Stage?  

hunter until he committed his sexual lapse, while others say that this intimate relationship lasted until Orion’s death, which was caused by some deity other than Artemis. 20 As a matter of fact, according to Hesiod (Cat. Gyn. fr. 148(a) MW3) Orion περὶ τὰς θήρας διῆγε κυνηγετῶν τῆς Ἀρτέμιδος παρούσης καὶ τῆς Λητοῦς, and he was killed by a huge scorpion sent by Γῆ, in order to punish him for boasting that he could destroy πᾶν θηρίον… τῶν ἐπὶ τῆς γῆς γιγνομένων. And it was at the request of Leto and Artemis that Zeus ἐν τοῖς ἄστροις αὐτὸν ἔθηκεν. This version ties Orion’s killing to his proud and boastful temper, which is also what leads Artemis to slay him according to Ps-Apollodorus’ account, when he dares to challenge her in a discus contest. A notably different, and as a matter of fact unique version of the myth is provided by Istros the Callimachean (FGrH 334 fr. 64), 21 who tells us that Artemis was in love with Orion on the point of marrying him (“Oriona a Diana esse dilectum, et paene factum ut ei nupsisse existimaretur”). However, her brother Apollo, who was against this union, challenged Artemis to carry out an archering enterprise, and thus tricked her into killing Orion. The deceived goddess, after mourning for her beloved, placed him among the stars. Hippolytus, the son of an Amazon, is another of Artemis’ hunting protégés. His tragic story, best known from the extant homonymous Euripidean tragedy, seems to have been established at Athens by the sixth century BC, 22 and according to Pausanias, writing in the first century BC, it was still known even to ὅστις βαρβάρων γλῶσσαν ἔμαθεν Ἑλλήνων. This young man, just like Orion and Actaeon at some stage of their myth, was enjoying Artemis’ friendship 23 until another deity, Aphrodite in this case, plotted against him and caused his death. All three male co-hunters of Artemis, Hippolytus, Orion, and Actaeon, are killed by ferocious animals. Yet, Hippolytus is different from the other two in that he is, traditionally, chaste in character, and prefers to spend time riding his horses rather than chasing after the pleasures of Aphrodite. Hence, the relationship between Hippolytus and Artemis, is, and remains, sexless in principle. In Euripides’ play the young man’s chaste conduct, his refusal to adequately honor the goddess of physical love, that is his rigid σωφροσύνη and inherent aversion to sexual intercourse, 24 should have been quite unconventional for ancient spectators. As Barrett puts it, Hippolytus’ claim that  20 See Fontenrose 1981, 13ff. in detail. 21 See Jackson 2000, 83–87. 22 See Barrett 1964, 9. 23 Eur. Hipp. 19: μείζω βροτείας προσπεσὼν ὁμιλίας (“he has come into a companionship greater than mortal”). 24 Eur. Hipp. 13: ἀναίνεται δὲ λέκτρα κοὐ ψαύει γάμων (“he renounces love making and will have nothing to do with marriage”). For Hippolytus’ and Phaedra’s σωφροσύνη (“prudence/ moderation”) see concisely Halleran 1995, 45–46.

  Nikos Manousakis “one must have complete and innate σωφροσύνη… to cull a garland [from the virgin meadow that Reverence tends, while] others are κακοί, and must keep away… is quite astonishing by ordinary Greek standards”. This hero’s “requirement of moral purity is alien to the ordinary Greek cult until Hellenistic times [, and] his insistence that the purity must be innate would be extraordinary even then. This intense and intolerant young man has built into his cult of the virgin Artemis a strange and exclusive puritanism of his own; the Athenian audience, while they feel the beauty of his ideals…, will at the same time feel their narrowness, and will find it excessive and unnatural”. 25 Since, evidently, this Hippolytus could not have been held mythically or dramatically responsible for an assault against the virgin Artemis, as Orion and Actaeon have been, another female “victim” eventually presents itself: his father’s wife, Phaedra. However, the virgin actually “violated” in this tale is male. It is Hippolytus himself — and his “violators”, Aphrodite and Phaedra, are both female. With all the above in mind regarding Artemis’ mythical male co-hunters, I will now examine the extant evidence for Tox., in an attempt to show that there is no need for Aeschylus’ Actaeon to be “a puritanical misogynist like Hippolytus… [who] eventually… succumbs and offends against Semele or Artemis”, as has been suggested. 26 I will argue that there is no actual evidence supporting that Actaeon was depicted in Tox. as a man who kept away from women, or, even more so, loathed them. On the contrary, he was most probably portrayed by Aeschylus as an overconfident sensual young man, an Orion-like seducer, who, however, directed his passionate pursuit towards mortal women. 27 As mentioned earlier, Actaeon’s downfall is closely tied to his personal interaction with either Semele or Artemis. Yet, the earliest sources on the Actaeon-myth, Hesiod, Stesichorus, and Acusilaus are all unanimous in that it was his relationship with Semele that caused his death. The version according to which the Boeotian hunter meets his end for challenging Artemis’ hunting skills is found in late Euripides (Bacch. 337–

 25 See Barrett 1964, 172. Cf. Lawrence 2013, 225–227. 26 Forbes Irving 1990, 87. Another mythical hunter fiercely avoiding women and marriage is Melanion. The young man is mentioned by Aristophanes in Lys. 785ff., and we know that Antiphanes, one of the most important poets of Middle comedy, composed a play entitled Melanion (see fr. 147 PCG). Yet, Aristophanes in this case is distorting the mythical tradition concerning Melanion. In Xen. Cyneg. 1.2.7 and Ps-Apoll. Bibl. 3.9.2 we in fact read that Melanion’s major achievement was to win the hand of the huntress maiden Atalanta in a race against her, and — save Aristophanes — there is no source indicating that he was avoiding women. See Sommerstein 1990, 197–198. 27 See Sommerstein 2013, 87.

Aeschylus’ Actaeon: A Playboy on the Greek Tragic Stage?  

341), while the version in which he dies because he, willingly or unwillingly, offended Artemis in a much more intimate way, most widely known from Ovid’s account in Met. 3.131–259, 28 is unattested until Callimachus (Hymn 5.107–118), and it occurs again in the work of much later authors. 29 Hesiod (Cat. Gyn. fr. 217 MW) reports that Actaeon, τῶν Σεμέ]λης ἐφιέμενος γάμων, was transformed into a deer by the will of Artemis and was torn apart by his own hounds. ἐφιέμενος γάμων is rather unclear. It could mean that Actaeon was eager (determined) to lawfully make Semele his wife, or that he laid hands on her with unlawful sexual intentions. 30 A mutilated mention of Kadmos in this Hesiodic fragment (πρὸς τοῦ μητροπάτορο[ς: “from his mother’s father”) makes it possible that in this account Actaeon’s death was caused, on a first level, by a curse from his grandfather. In another (possibly) Hesiodic fragment (*39 H) we read that the dogs of the hunter were instigated by Zeus (Διὸς ἐννεσίηισι) to set off and kill their master. 31 Acusilaus (FGrHist 2 fr. 33) narrates that Actaeon ἐν τῶι Κιθαιρῶνι κατεβρώθη ὑπὸ τῶν ἰδίων κυνῶν. καὶ τοῦτον ἐτελεύτησε τὸν τρόπον… μηνίσαντος τοῦ Διὸς ὅτι ἐμνηστεύσατο Σεμέλην. Stesichorus (fr. 285 Finglass), on the other hand, brings Artemis to the fore, indicating that ἐλάφου περιβαλεῖν δέρμα Ἀκταίωνι τὴν θεόν, παρασκευάζουσάν οἱ τὸν ἐκ τῶν κυνῶν θάνατον, ἵνα δὴ μὴ γυναῖκα Σεμέλην  28 It is interesting that by highlighting Actaeon’s unintentional act of seeing Artemis naked, Ovid (Met. 3.141–142) seems to be pointing in the direction of tragic guilt: at bene si quaeras, fortune crimen illo, non scelus invenies; quod enim scelus error habebat? (“if you would seek out carefully, you would find that the blame of this mistake lies with fortune, not with any crime. For what crime was there in wandering?”). Note here the crimen-scelus-error wordplay. See further Barchiesi and Rosati 2007, 150–151. Cf. Apuleius’ view, Met. 2.4, on Actaeon’s story: “Actaeon curioso obtutu in deam sursum proiectus” (“Actaeon casting his curious gaze on the goddess”). 29 Luc. Dial. Deor. 16.2; Ps.-Apoll. Bibl. 3.4.4; Hyg. Fab. 180, 181; and Nonnos Dion. 5.287–551 all mention Artemis’ bath and Actaeon’s intrusion upon it. Diod. Sicul. Bibl. Hist. 4.81.3–5 reports that according to some sources Actaeon was punished because he indented to either marry or rape Artemis, see further below. 30 For the latter sense of γάμος see Eur. Hel. 190 Ναΐς… Πανὸς ἀναβοᾶι γάμους (“the Naiad nymph… screaming at the rape of Pan”) — with the comment of Allan 2008 on this verse. 31 This fragment, consisting of twelve hexameter lines, has been assigned to various authors, among them the choral lyric poets Alkman and Stesichoros – an improbable hypothesis, if anything for metrical reasons. See Hirschberger 2004, 491. A further possible Hesiodic fragment (= P.Oxy. 2509 = 103 H) associates Semele with Actaeon through the dogs of the latter, which, as Athena(?) tells Chiron, will be given to Semele’s son Dionysus. Casanova 1969, discussing Actaeon’s myth in the Cat. Gyn, ascribes this fragment to Hesiod. Janko 1984 convincingly supports Casanova’s suggestion, and adds further evidence. On this fragment see further Hunter 2005, 257–259, and the detailed comments of Hirschberger 2004, 393–397. West 1985, 88, though without elaborating, denies the Hesiodic origin of both fragments discussed here.

  Nikos Manousakis λάβοι. 32 This account indicates more clearly that Actaeon and Semele were set to be husband and wife. Dodds suggests that although the early sources make Actaeon compete with Zeus for Semele, “when Semele became Actaeon’s aunt this was no longer suitable, and he transferred his attention to Artemis…, or was turned into a punished boaster”, as is the case in Euripides’ Bacch. 33 Still, this reshaping of the myth need not have taken place before Euripides, who, as far as we can know, of course, is the earliest author in whose work it is attested. For the ancient Greek mythological aristocracy an endogamous marriage between aunt and nephew is by no means inconceivable, 34 and exactly due to this endogamy Actaeon could have been an apposite husband for Semele. In all likelihood, in the oldest version of the myth, Semele was set to marry Actaeon, for “it looks as though they were betrothed”. 35 Yet, Zeus, who wanted the girl for himself, turned against Kadmos’ grandson, and eliminated him. As for Artemis’ conventionally prominent role in Acateon’s death, as Davies and Finglass aptly point out, “it is natural for Zeus to destroy a hunter through the agency of the divine huntress, his daughter”. 36 Actaeon could have also been, and most probably was, a boastful hunter in Aeschylus’ treatment of the myth (see fr. 241 Radt). Yet, the extant fragments of Tox. indicate that his main hamartia in this play is more interpersonal in nature — as we have seen to be the case in all early sources of Actaeon’s story.  32 In Stesichorus’ version Artemis casts the skin of a deer around Actaeon: ἐλάφου περιβαλεῖν δέρμα. This phrase can be a figurative description of Actaeon’s metamorphosis, but it can also mean that the lyric poet either had the goddess actually throwing a deer skin on Actaeon to set his metamorphosis in motion, or that Atremis threw a deer skin on Actaeon only to confuse his hounds, which then attacked and killed him. See in detail Davies and Finglass 2014, 572–574. Cf. Forbes Irving 1990, 198–199 and 200. Also Fontenrose 1981, 34–35 indicates that in the version of the myth Statius and Arnobius had in mind, Actaeon put on a deer skin himself in order to spy on the bathing Artemis. Yet, his hounds mistook him for an actual deer, possibly because the goddess caused them to, and killed him. There could also have been a variation of the myth according to which Actaeon was punished because he killed a sacred deer of Artemis, see Forbes Irving 1990, 200–201. On these versions see also the bibliography provided by Lacy 1990, 37 n. 61, 40 n. 84 and n. 86. Séchan 1926, 137 ingeniously suggests that the killing of a sacred deer may have been a painter’s way of depicting Actaeon’s boast about his hunting skills, exploited by Euripides in Bacch. 33 Dodds 1960, 113–114. 34 Bremmer 1983, 175 n. 13 and 181 n. 43. Cf. Kossatz-Deissmann 1978, 144 and n. 838. A maternal aunt would often be only a few years older, and might even be younger, than her nephew. 35 See Lacy 1990, 28 n. 16. 36 See Davies and Finglass 2014, 572. Kossatz-Deissmann 1978, 144 suggests that Artemis finds her place in the Actaeon-story narrated in Tox. through a “cult nexus” between herself and Dionysus. More specifically, she argues that Artemis acts as an avenger of Dionysus. Yet, this theory is not supported by any actual evidence.

Aeschylus’ Actaeon: A Playboy on the Greek Tragic Stage?  

In Aeschylus’ drama Actaeon seems to be guilty of sexually offending Semele or Artemis, and if the latter is the case his crime should not have been caused by some innocent error, as for instance in Callimachus 37 or Ovid. 38 Nevertheless, a direct sexual offence against Artemis, apart from rendering Actaeon “too much of a monster of iniquity to be the central figure of a tragedy”, 39 is attested for the first time — and rather ambiguously — in a much later source, Diodorus Siculus. 40 According to Diodorus (Bibl. Hist. 4.81.3–5), Actaeon used to offer Artemis the prime prey of his hunt, 41 and, presuming upon this fact, while perhaps also boasting about his hunting spoils, he intended to achieve a (voluntary or forced?) union with the virgin goddess (προηιρεῖτο τὸν γάμον κατεργάσασθαι τῆς Ἀρτέμιδος) at her own temple. It is unclear if in Diodorus’ account Actaeon considered proposing marriage to Artemis, as he considers doing in Nonnos’ version (Dion. 5.512–519), 42 or if

 37 Hymn 5.113–114: ὁππόκα κ᾽ οὐκ ἐθέλων περ ἴδηι χαρίεντα λοετρά | δαίμονος. 38 See n. 28 above. 39 Sommerstein 2013, 87 argues that “Artemis could quite possibly lure him to his doom by disguising herself as a seduceable mortal (rather as Aphrodite does, for a different purpose, in Homeric Hymn to Aphrodite 81–142), giving Actaeon the opportunity to show how good a “judge of fillies” …he is — and, doubtless, to come to a disastrously wrong judgment”. Yet, such a hypothesis seems untenable, since it implies a kind of sensual stage interaction between Actaeon and (the transformed) Artemis that would be rather inappropriate for Greek tragedy. If we may presume that the reaction of the audience to the advances of the mortal Phaedra towards Hippolytus was sufficient to make Euripides rewrite his play on this myth, see Barrett 1964, 11–12, what would have been the reaction of the audience to a tragedy of Aeschylus showing one of the three virgin goddesses (see e.g. Hom. Hymn Aphr. 7–33), even though transformed, sexually provoking a mortal womanizer? Further, even in the aforementioned epic hymn the goddess of love disguises herself as a mortal woman to seduce Anchises, in a sense, against her will — only because Zeus, in an act of retribution, γλυκὺν ἵμερον ἔμβαλε θυμῷ | ἀνδρὶ καταθνητῷ μιχθήμεναι (Hom. Hymn Aphr. 45–46). On this see Olson 2012, 28ff. and 160ff. See also Faulkner 2008, 10ff. 40 Cf. Hyg. Fab. 180 “Actaeon… Dianam lavantem speculatus est et eam violare voluit”. 41 See the bibliography provided by Lacy 1990, 35 n. 51 for hanging offerings to the gods. 42 Nonnos’ Actaeon, with Cyrene’s wedding to Apollo in mind, supposed that he could draw Artemis, Apollo’s’ sister, into his family through marriage (Ἄρτεμιν ὠισάμην ἐμφύλιον εἰς γάμον ἕλκειν). He thought that if Dawn could fall for Orion, Selene for Endymion, and Demeter for Iasion, then Artemis could fall for him (ὠισάμην ὅτι τοῖος ἔην νόος ἰοχεαίρης). After Actaeon’s disappearance, Nonnos’ Dionysus tells his aunt Autonoe that the truth about her son is in fact very different from what she thought (Dion. 44.283ff.): Artemis married Actaeon, and the whole metamorphosis story is nothing but herdsmen’s lies. And if she follows him to the mountains, the god falsely reassures Autonoe, she will meet her boy again — along with his divine wife. Cf. the version of Istros the Callimachean mentioned earlier.

  Nikos Manousakis he attempted to rape her. Yet, Lacy seems to be right in maintaining that in Diodorus the aspiring hunter’s “goal was [also] marriage, and therefore a ceremonially sanctioned union”. 43 Actaeon’s specific transgressions in Euripides and Callimachus are reflective paradeigmata for Pentheus and Teiresias respectively. The former challenges Dionysus’ divinity, the latter sees Athena naked, and Actaeon does something functionally similar in each of the two accounts. This makes it quite plausible that Euripides and Callimachus actually invented the hunter’s “new” form of offence. It has been argued in detail that the Euripidean and the Callimachean versions belong to a more elaborate, pre-existing state of Actaeon’s myth, focusing on the bath of Artemis. 44 Still, this argument, learned and ingenious as it may be, remains unconvincing, because there is no actual literary evidence to support it. 45 Since, in all likelihood, Actaeon’s hamartia in Tox. is tied to some form of lustful desire, as it will become clear, and he is not simply a boasting hunter, if Aeschylus was not the first to portray him as a wooer of Artemis, possibly a willing trespasser at her virginal bath, his interaction with Semele should have been the kernel of the drama. Whereas there is no Aeschylean sign pointing to Artemis, a particular iconographic piece of evidence suggests that the solution does lie with Semele. Although there are quite a few extant depictions of Actaeon’s fate from classical to late antiquity, and some of them have been associated with Aeschylus, 46 a specific artefact, a red-figure bell krater dating from about 440 BC, attributed to the Lykaon Painter, representing the hounds attacking Actaeon in the presence of

 43 See Lacy 1990, 35ff. 44 See Lacy 1990, 29ff. 45 See Heath 1992, 21–22 n. 21. 46 See LIMC s.v. Aktaion for the art representations of Actaeon in general, and also KossatzDeissmann 1978, 142–165 for those associated specifically with Tox. This scholar, using the evidence from art, persuasively indicates that Aeschylus adopted the Semele version for his lost play. However, as noted earlier, the specific plotline she proposes, with Dionysus in the center of the “divine action,” cannot be supported by the literary evidence. Trendall and Webster 1971, 62 argue that even though the Lykaon krater makes it clear that Zeus was central to the plot of Tox., Actaeon’s hamartia in the drama was not wooing Semele, but seeing Artemis naked. Their suggestion is based on the rather untenable view that Aeschylus’ Actaeon was in fact a chaste hunter. Todisco 2003, 791 provides a quite useful listing of the possible Tox. images grouped according to their place of origin: Attic, Apulian, Campanian etc. For the Actaeon-myth in Campanian vase painting see in detail Leach 1981. It is interesting that the vast majority of illustrations of the myth draw on the dramatic moment of Actaeon’s death (see Jacobsthal 1929; Kilinski II 2013, 201ff.), and show either the hunter alone, while being viciously attacked by his hounds, or the same scene with Artemis present, rousing the dogs.

Aeschylus’ Actaeon: A Playboy on the Greek Tragic Stage?  

Zeus, Lyssa and Artemis, 47 is the only illustration that could be tied to Aeschylus and Tox. on an actual basis. The reason is rather simple. It seems that Aeschylus’ son Euaion was the protagonist of a reperformance of the play depicted in the Lykaon Painter krater. In a dozen red-figure vases dating between about 475 and 450/430 BC, painted, apart from the Polygnotan Lykaon Painter, by the Phiale, the Achilles, and the Euaion Painters, 48 we find the name Euaion, almost always accompanied by the epithet καλός. In four cases the beautiful Euaion is clearly specified as the son of Aeschylus (ΕΥΑΙΟΝ ΚΑΛΟΣ ΑΙΣΧΥΛΟ). 49 In addition to the Lykaon krater under discussion here, which can be associated with some Actaeon-drama, in all likelihood Aeschylus’ Tox., two or three of the remaining Euaion-vases can also be associated with stage plays. More specifically, a Sicilian red-figure calyx krater, having an “Euaion of Aeschylus is beautiful” inscription and showing Perseus next to the bound Andromeda, seems to be tied to Sophocles’ Andromeda. Also, an Etrurian hydria, showing the mythic singer Thamyras seated and holding his lyre points to Sophocles’ Thamyras, whereas an Attic Lekythos, showing a young man holding down his sword could be associated (although this is less likely) with the matricide in the Oresteia. 50 Furthermore, three Euaion-vases can possibly be tied to satyrdrama. 51 All in all, the rarity of the youth’s name, the specific period of time from which the vases date, and, mainly, the association of some Euaion-vases with theatre productions indicate that all evidence should be attached to Aeschylus’ son: a τραγικός according to Suda Lexicon (actor and possibly playwright), quite popular

 47 ARV2 1045, no. 7. For full reference see Matheson 1995, 432. For the full publication record of the krater see the Beazley Archive Pottery Database online, BAPD RF 213562, http://www. (last access 26/02/2018). The Lykaon artist seems to have painted a “near-replica” of the scene in a calyx krater of which only a fragment survives (ARV2 1046, n. 11, BAPD RF 213566), see Robertson 1992, 212. 48 See Robertson 1992, 207. 49 See the list in Shapiro 1987, 108–109. 50 See Trendall and Webster 1971, 63–65 and 69–70 for the Euaion-vases tied to Sophocles’ Andromeda and Thamyras. See also Séchan 1926, 193–198; Webster 1967, 147 and 152. See also the remarks of Gibert in Collard, Cropp and Gibert 2004, 139–140. Thamyras seems to have been one of the poet’s early plays, and a rather unique theatrical event for which Sophocles himself was on stage: κιθάραν ἀναλαβὼν ἐν μόνῳ τῷ Θαμύριδί ποτε ἐκιθάρισεν, ὅθεν καὶ ἐν τῇ ποικίλῃ στοᾷ μετὰ κιθάρας αὐτὸν γεγράφθαι (TrGF IV Radt2 Test. A 1. 24–25). In this production Euaion seems to have performed the role of the nymph Agriope, Thamyras’ mother. For further bibliography on Euaion as Agriope see Wilson 2009, 61 n. 63. See also Kovacs 2013, 496–497. 51 For the full publication record of these vases see the Beazley Archive Pottery Database online (n. 47), BAPD RF 30688, 209713, 214343 (last access 26/08/2018).

  Nikos Manousakis for his looks, 52 “starring” (perhaps in first performances and) in reperformances of his father’s dramas, “directed” by his brother Euphorion, 53 by himself, or possibly by some other theatre craftsman in Aeschylus’ family, 54 and in (at least two of) Sophocles’ plays. The Lykaon krater synthesis (Figure 1 below), with Zeus, Lyssa, and Artemis surrounding Actaeon who is growing horns, and also getting pointy ears and a snout (the glimpse in the hunter’s face while in the processes of dehumanization is an exquisite indication of the painter’s artistry), is quite unique in ancient Greek art. 55 It is hence plausibly associated with a stage transformation of the Actaeon 52 For Aeschylus’ Euaion see also Webster 1972, 47–48; Krumeich 2002. 53 In Euphorion’s lemma in the Suda Lexicon we read that τοῖς Αἰσχύλου τοῦ πατρός, οἷς μήπω ἦν ἐπιδειξάμενος, τετράκις ἐνίκησεν. If we are to put faith in this information, Euphorion must have directed at least four unperformed tetralogies composed by his father. The number of works left behind by Aeschylus (twelve tragedies and four satyr plays) seems rather extreme, yet it is not impossible. Further, Euphorion seems to have been a successful theatre practitioner himself, since, according to Aristophanes’ of Byzantium Hypothesis to Med., in 431 BC he was awarded first prize with Sophocles and Euripides in the second and third place respectively. Aeschylus’ anonymous biographer informs us that the poet οὐκ ὀλίγας δὲ μετὰ τελευτὴν νίκας ἀπηνέγκατο, since Ἀθηναῖοι τοσοῦτον ἠγάπησαν Αἰσχύλον ὡς ψηφίσασθαι μετὰ θάνατον αὐτοῦ τὸν βουλόμενον διδάσκειν τὰ Αἰσχύλου χορὸν λαμβάνειν (l. 48–52). This honorary decree as regards Aeschylus’ work is also attested in various other sources, see TrGF III Radt Test. Gm. Sommerstein 2010a, 13 suggests that the gap between the thirteen victories mentioned in the Vita for Aeschylus and the twenty-eight in the Suda Lexicon should be filled with those achieved posthumously. Cf. Vahtikari 2014, 85. However, Biles 2006/7 casts serious doubt on the existence of the decree under discussion. In any case, even if the actual official order is a confection, as it seems to be, this does not write off the indissoluble respect Aeschylus’ work enjoyed in the fifth century BC, inside and outside Athens, proved by the reperformances of his plays after his death, and also during his lifetime. See in detail Hanink and Uhlig 2016. See also Lamari 2015. On reperforming old drama in the fourth century BC, and the rather low popularity of Aeschylus’ plays, see Nervegna 2014. 54 Aeschylus has been the biological forefather of a series of theater practitioners. Both his sons Euphorion and Euaion, his nephew from his sister, and son of a certain Philopeithes, Philocles, were τραγικοί. Philocles’ sons, Morsimus and Melanthius were all τραγικοί. Morsimus’ son, Astydamas I, and his sons, Philocles II and Astydamas II, were of the same craft as well. Astydamas III and Aeschylus III could have been members of the same family — the grandsons of Astydamas II (?). This “biblical” sequence makes it clear that Aeschylus’ bloodline was still present in theatre practice at some point in the middle of the fourth (or even third) century BC — more than a hundred years after Aeschylus’ death. See Ferrin Sutton 1987, 12–13. Cf. Griffith 2013, 117. Vahtikari 2014, 234 assumes that Tox. was one of Aeschylus’ plays that was probably restaged in Magna Graecia. 55 A fragment of an Agrigentine relief vessel, dated in the first half of the fourth century BC, represents on the left side Artemis next to Actaeon, who is being attacked by his hounds, a seated man in the middle, and on the right side a woman with a long drapery (LIMC s.v. Aktaion n. 34). Breitenstein 1945, 142 identifies the female figure as Lyssa. Yet, as the scholar himself indicates,

Aeschylus’ Actaeon: A Playboy on the Greek Tragic Stage?  

myth, and Euaion’s involvement in the scene makes it most probable that it is, to some degree, tied to Aeschylus’ Tox. Another, though much less conclusive, indication for this hypothesis could be that there are four dogs discernible in the scene, three attacking Actaeon and one emerging from Lyssa’s head — and we do know (see fr. 245 Radt) that in Tox. Actaeon’s hounds were indeed four: Κόραξ, Ἅρπυια, Χάρων, and Λυκόττας. 56 However, even if this synthesis is in fact inspired by the work of Aeschylus, as it seems to be, there is still a further obstacle to overcome in the attempt to employ it as evidence for the plotline of Tox. In vase painting, “scenes from tragic drama were depicted as if the characters were in the mythological story that the drama was portraying”. 57 What then can we conclusively infer about the play itself from the Lykaon synthesis “interpreting” Tox.? Very few things actually — but still some quite crucial points. Firstly, Zeus’ presence in the scene speaks to the use of the Stesichorean Semele version by Aeschylus, 58 in which Actaeon is killed in order not to take Semele as his wife, or of a similar version in which Actaeon dies for making advances at Semele. Lyssa

 this figure “lacks every explanatory attribute” of the goddess of vengeance. For Lyssa in artefacts presenting Actaeon’s killing see further Schlam 1984, 94. Kossatz-Deissmann 1978, 160 more convincingly identifies the woman as Semele. It is possible that a female figure on the right of a similar scene, but without Zeus present, in a Lucanian vase (LIMC s.v. Aktaion n. 45; Todisco 2003, 400 L 45) can also be identified as Semele. The woman is touching the top of her dress on her right shoulder. This gesture can in fact be indicative of the horror with which she is presented, but it can also point to her feminine status, see Llewellyn-Jones 2005, 89–90 with further bibliography. An Apulian amphora (LIMC s.v. Aktaion n. 88; Todisco 2003, 469 Ap. 183) dating from the middle of the fourth century BC, presents Actaeon being attacked by his hounds, surrounded by Artemis, Lyssa, Aphrodite and Eros. Artemis and Aphrodite are both seated. On the right (next to Aphrodite and Eros), an unidentified standing woman, who could by all means be Semele, is pointing at the scene. The presence of Aphrodite and her son could be indicative of the sexual nature of Actaeon’s crime. 56 For the catalogue of Actaeon’s dogs in Greek and Roman literature see Nikolopoulos 2014, 163. It is interesting that various representations of Actaeon being attacked by four hounds, among them the Lykaon krater under discussion here (see LIMC s.v. Aktaion n. 15, 27, 30, 45, 81), have also something else in common: Artemis is always present, and always armed. Even more interesting is that in four of the five cases she holds a bow, and only once (LIMC s.v. Aktaion n. 45) she is presented holding two spears – and while the four bow-vases are dated between 490 and 440 BC, the spears-vase is dated to about 330 BC. We are, of course, in no position to say if the bow-vases were influenced by a specific Actaeon-tragedy (a reperformance of Tox.?) but such a scenario is possible. 57 Dickin 2009, 57. 58 It is generally accepted that, in composing his stage version, Aeschylus was variously influenced by Stesichorus’ Oresteia. See most recently Swift 2015, 127ff. (with the older bibliography in n. 11).

  Nikos Manousakis and Artemis seem to simply be Zeus’ accessories in eliminating the hunter. In Séchan’s words “chez Eschyle… c’était Zeus, irrité des prétentions rivales d’Actéon, qui était la cause première du drame; Artemis et Lyssa n’étaient que les ministres de sa vengeance et n’agissaient, pas plus l’une que l’autre, pour leur compte personnel”. 59

Fig. 3: Red-figure bell krater attributed to the Lykaon Painter, portraying Zeus, Lyssa, Actaeon (Euaion), and Artemis/00.346 © Museum of Fine Arts, Boston MA.

A second “deduction” we can make about Tox. from the Lykaon Painter synthesis, directly tied to the first, concerns the presence of Lyssa. In this representation of Actaeon’s death, unlike all other similar illustrations, Artemis alone, holding her “torche vengeresse” 60 (did the incident in Aeschylus’ version take place at night?) in her right hand, a bow in her left, and carrying a quiver, seems to be insufficient in instigating rage (rabies) into the hunter’s hounds. The goddess stands on the left of Actaeon, watching Lyssa in flesh and blood carrying out this gory mission. Lyssa is on the hero’s right, moving towards him while directing  59 Séchan 1926, 135. 60 Séchan 1926, 133.

Aeschylus’ Actaeon: A Playboy on the Greek Tragic Stage?  

the dogs. Zeus is standing just behind Lyssa, holding a pole in his right hand and his thunderbolt in his left. Further, there is evidence, though inconclusive, that these characters, Zeus and Lyssa, are associated through the inscriptions stating their names. 61 Yet, it seems quite improbable that Lyssa was a stage character in Tox., as she must have been in Aeschylus’ Xantriai (Wool-Carders). In the latter drama the personification of rage appears on stage ἐπιθειάζουσα ταῖς Βάκχαις. 62 Lyssa seems to have functioned in Xantr. as Clytemestra’s ghost functions in Eum., instigating the women of the Chorus to rush after their victim — most likely Pentheus. Still, Pentheus’ dismemberment did not, evidently, take place on stage, before the audience, and the same applies to the tearing of Actaeon to shreds by his hounds instigated by λύσσα. 63 Hence, we can infer from the Lykaon synthesis that, most likely, Lyssa was only graphically mentioned in Tox. — probably in the messenger speech describing Actaeon’s death, from which fr. 244 Radt derives. 64 Furthermore, if we can associate Lyssa, as a name for both rage and rabies, with Tox., then Mette seems to be right in supporting that the unattributed Aeschylean fr. 372 Radt, ἀφρὸς | βορᾶς βροτείας ἐρρύη κατὰ στόμα, plausibly derives from the aforementioned messenger speech. 65

 61 Right above the head of each character we read ΔΙΟΣ, ΛΥΣΣΑ, ΕΥΑΙΩΝ-ΑΚΤΑΙΩΝ, and ΑΡΤΕΜΙΣ respectively. Mercanti 1914, 130, based on the use of genitive for Zeus’ name, suggests that ΔΙΟΣ ΛΥΣΣΑ should be read together as “Zeus’ rage”: rage instigated by Zeus. Nevertheless, as Caskey and Beazley 1954, Plate LXII note, “the old practice of writing the names of persons in the genitive had not died out, and there are several examples of it in the Group of Polygnotos, to which the Lykaon Painter belongs”. On the other hand, the use of only Zeus’ name in the genitive in the Lykaon krater under discussion still renders Mercanti’s argument possible. 62 See fr. 169 Radt. For Xantr. see concisely Sommerstein 2008, 170–172; Sommerstein 2013, 89– 90. 63 Lyssa, daughter of Night and Ouranos, is a stage character in Euripides’ Her. In this play, Iris incites a reluctant Lyssa, to instigate Heracles to kill his children. “Lyssa will interact directly with Heracles, but we do not see this. At 1003–1006 the messenger reports that Athena, seen by the observers, interacted physically with Heracles, hurled a rock at him and threw him to the ground to stop his murdering frenzy; but, again, we do not see this. Lyssa has been one of the characters in Aeschylus’ Xantriai… It is not impossible the Euripides’ deployment of Lyssa in Heracles may have been inspired by the deployment of the Aeschylean Lyssa, but, if so, the modality of interaction is different, since there was every reason to think that in Aeschylus’ Xantriai it happened in the direct interaction mode on stage”, see Sourvinou-Inwood 2003, 470. 64 Unless Sommerstein 2013, 90 is right in suggesting that Lyssa in Xantr. acts upon the bacchants from a distance. If this hypothesis holds, one would say that the same could be applied to Lyssa instigating the dogs of Actaeon — evidently in the presence of the Chorus of hunting nymphs. 65 See Mette 1963, 135. Another possibility for the attribution of this fragment is Glaucus of Potniae. Glaucus was a son of Sisyphus, devoured by his own mares. For Aeschylus’ drama on this myth see Sommerstein 2008, 32–33. A foaming mouth is an actual symptom of rabies in both

  Nikos Manousakis The Lykaon synthesis and Occam’s razor suggest that Aeschylus adopted the Semele version in Tox. 66 Yet, how exactly did he structure his plot? To answer this question, I will translate and discuss four fragments of the drama (241, 242, 243, 246 Radt) that, I maintain, are directly related scenically. οὔπω τις Ἀκταίων᾽ ἄθηρος ἡμέρα κενόν, πόνου πλουτοῦντ᾽, ἔπεμψεν ἐς δόμους (Aesch. fr. 241 Radt) there has never been yet a day to send Actaeon home empty-handed — much strained and with no prey αἰδοῖ μὲν ἁγναῖς παρθένοις γαμηλίων λέκτρων ταπεινή βλεμμάτων ῥέπει βολή 67 (Aesch. fr. 242 Radt) bashful virgins, pure of the wedding bed, always drop their glance low νέας γυναικὸς οὔ με μὴ λάθηι φλέγων ὀφθαλμός, ἥ τις ἀνδρὸς ἦι γεγευμένη· ἔχω δὲ τούτων θυμὸν ἱππογνώμονα (Aesch. fr. 243 Radt) the burning eyes of a young woman who has tasted a man, never, ever, escape my notice. I am quite an expert at spotting mares of this breed πεζοφόροις ζώμασιν (Aesch. fr. 246 Radt) (wearing) girded frocks that reach low to the feet

 dogs and horses. Yet, there is not the slightest evidence that λύσσα was mentioned in Aeschylus’ Glaucus, whereas for Tox., as inconclusive as it may be, there is an indication. 66 Cf. Renner 1987, 283 for a further Hesiodic fragment from the Cat. Gyn. about Actaeon and his wife (?). 67 For the conjectures on the text adopted here see TrGF III Radt 347.

Aeschylus’ Actaeon: A Playboy on the Greek Tragic Stage?  

These fragments can all be regarded as pieces of the same scene — a scene which seems to have been placed early in the play. The setting of Tox. is the city of Thebes, and, more specifically, Kadmos’ royal halls. As Sommerstein suggests, fr. 241 Radt might be a part of the prologue, in which Actaeon “looks forward to a successful day of hunting”, 68 or, more conveniently for the structure of the plot, Actaeon could be speaking these lines just after returning from hunting, in an opening mutatis mutandis similar to that of Euripides’ Hipp. In this prologue Actaeon could be priding himself about his performance in the “sport” either in the presence of the Chorus, or in an unanswered monologue, 69 (addressed to a group of servants?), spoken before the entrance of the hunting nymphs, who had also spent the day with Actaeon and Artemis in the woods, and might have fallen back for some reason. Most likely, the following fragments, 242, 243, 246 Radt, are remnants of the same speech. The subject of the speech is women: virgin and deflowered — and, judging by the tenor of the lines, the speaker is evidently male. The language of the first two fragments (242, 243 Radt) abounds in sexual tension, and the third one (246 Radt) could also be tied to the very same context. There seems to be nothing puritanical in these lines, and whoever the speaker is, there is no basis for describing him as prudish. 70 The speaker seems to be a quite selfconfident womanizer, a real playboy. In frr. 242 and 243 Radt, in all likelihood directly tied to each other, the unknown character speaks, on the one hand about shy, unmarried, virgin girls, who, evidently in the presence of men, drop their eyes (and keep them) low, and, on the other hand about girls who have already “tasted” a man, girls who know the pleasures of intercourse — and this fact is discernible in their ardent eyes. According to Aristotle (Rhet. 2.6.18) Greek proverb had it ἐν ὀφθαλμοῖς εἶναι αἰδῶ, and Euripides in Cresphontes (457 Kannicht) has a similar maxim: αἰδὼς ἐν ὀφθαλμοῖσι γίγνεται. Aeschylus himself in Semele (fr. 168 Radt), 71 when having Hera speak about the infallible, well-minded, just-married brides, lying in the wedding bed for the first time, mentions close together (in a mutilated context) women’s eyes and their commended sense of shame: κόρας ν]εολέκτρους ἀρτιγάμ̣[ους | … [ὄ]μ̣μασιν ε[ὔ]φρονες | … [ὑ]περ ὄμματός ἐστ̣[ι | αἰδὼς γὰρ καθαρὰ καὶ ν[υ]μφο̣κ̣όμ̣ος μέ[γ’] ἀρ̣ί̣[στα. 72 αἰδὼς in Greek literature is thought as having its  68 Sommerstein 2008, 247. 69 Cf. the prologue in Aesch. Sev., Ag., Cho. and Eum. 70 See n. 26 above. The sexually “dehydrated” language of Euripides’ Hippolytus when referring to women points to a directly opposite state of mind from that of the speaker of the Aeschylean fragments under discussion. 71 See n. 98 below. 72 [ὄ]μ̣μασιν is proposed by Diggle 1998, 23. Contra Sommerstein 2010b, 204.

  Nikos Manousakis seat in the eyes, 73 and Plutarch (Mor. 528e) quotes the fourth-century BC historian Timaeus (fr. 122) saying that τὸν ἀναίσχυντον οὐ... κόρας ἐν τοῖς ὄμμασιν ἔχειν ἀλλὰ πόρνας. 74 The downcast eyes’ αἰδὼς is a trait that accompanies the maiden in the wedding bed. Even Aphrodite, the goddess of love and lust in person, makes this gesture of maidenhood shyness. In the Homeric Hymn to Aphrodite (155–156) she follows Anchises to their love-bed κατ᾽ ὄμματα καλὰ βαλοῦσα. 75 Also, Pindar, in Pyth. 9 (9ff.) discussed earlier, has Aphrodite welcoming the newlywed couple, Apollo and Cyrene, as in normal circumstances the grooms’ family would, overlaying their sweet bed with beloved αἰδῶ. 76 The speaker of frr. 242 and 243 Radt most likely explains to his interlocutor(s) how one can tell between a maiden and a young girl (married or unmarried?) who overtly, through marriage, or secretly has known the taste of men — and the sexual overtone in the use of γεύω is quite prominent. Save for this fragment, Aeschylus employs the verb γεύω only for extraordinary “edibles”. In Ag. 1222 Cassandra speaks of Thyestes, the father who tasted the flesh of his own children, whereas in fr. 29 Radt from Glaucus the Sea-God, most probably a satyr drama, 77 Glaucus speaks about how he came to taste the grass that gives mortals everlasting life. 78 In Tox. the speaker’s method of telling women apart lies in the eyes —  73 See Richardson 1974, 227 for references in archaic, classical, and Hellenistic Greek authors. See Hom. Il. 9.372–373 with the comments of Griffin 1995, and also Eur. IA 944, about the eyes and shamelessness. 74 In Ps.-Plutarch’s Lives 839c we read that “after watching Sophocles the tragedian lustfully ogling a boy, [Isocrates] said: It’s not just our hands that we should keep to ourselves, Sophocles, but our eyes as well”. The translation is by R. Waterfield, see Roisman, Worthington and Waterfield 2015. In various other versions of the story the comment concerning Sophocles’ conduct is attributed to Pericles, see id. 166. For historical analysis of the semantic range of the word αἰδώς in Greek literature see the thorough studies of Schultz 1910; Effra 1937; Cairns 1993. See also Ferrari 2002. 75 For lovers casting down their eyes in later Greek and Latin poetry see the references by Faulkner 2008, 225. 76 As Carey 1981, 69 notes, “this picture of the young couple, embarrassed in each other’s presence, shunning public gaze and making love in deserted Libya, is the most delightful in Pindar”. In Ath. 13.16.11 we read that Aristotle (fr. 43) “well claimed that the only part of their boyfriend’s bodies that lovers pay attention to is the eyes, which is where the sense of decency [(τὴν αἰδῶ)] resides”. The translation is by Olson 2010. 77 See Sommerstein 2008, 24–25 with some further bibliography. 78 In Sophocles and Euripides γεύω literally means to taste something, and it is used mainly for wine, for the flesh of animals sacrificed for oracular purposes, and also for horse fodder (see Soph. Ant. 1005, Eur. Ion 1203, Cycl. 149, 150, 155, 559, IA 423). It is used figuratively by both poets to describe the “tasting” of toils and sorrows by men (see Soph. Trach. 1101, Eur. Alc. 1069, Hec. 375, Her. 1353). Only in Aj. 844 we find a rather daring use of the verb, with Ajax, in his last

Aeschylus’ Actaeon: A Playboy on the Greek Tragic Stage?  

that never lie. The sense that emerges when we combine frr. 242 and 243 Radt is that while maidens have the natural tendency, not just to look down, 79 but to look away by looking down — just like the μεταστραφθεῖσα goddess in the Homeric Hymn to Aphrodite (156) — 80 when being in the field of vision of a man that could potentially be their future husband (or their lover), women who have tasted sex are unable to hide their willingness to taste it again, because their glittering eyes, 81 (keeping direct eye contact), give away their yearning for the well-known pleasure. Xenophon (Mem. 2.1.21–22) quotes from memory a work by the sophist Prodicus (fr. 2) on Heracles’ meeting with Virtue and Vice: the former is described as τὰ δὲ ὄμματα αἰδοῖ, while the latter as τὰ δὲ ὄμματα ἔχειν ἀναπεπταμένα. The difference between the shy glance of maidens and the wide-open gaze of sexually “initiated” girls is one of the topics addressed by the unknown Aeschylean speaker. Yet, telling virgins and non virgins apart by the look in their eyes is not an easy task. To be able to always take note of the glittering eyes of willing girls, and to never miss a possible prey, one’s senses should be heightened — he should be properly trained in this “sport”. And our unknown speaker seems to be exactly this kind of man. The phrase the speaker uses to declare his expertise in spotting “initiated” women, ἔχω δὲ τούτων θυμὸν ἱππογνώμονα, is pregnant with bold sexual symbolism. Aristotle (Hist. an. 6.21, 572a 10) notes that “in eagerness for sexual intercourse, of all female animals the mare comes first… Mares become horse-mad [(ἱππομανοῦσιν)], and the term derived from this one animal [(τὸ ὄνομα αὐτῶν)] is applied by way of abuse to women who are inordinate in their sexual desires

 speech, calling the Furies to come and feed on the entire Greek army, see Finglass 2011, 385. From what we can tell, Aeschylus’ use of ἀνδρὸς… γεγευμένη is bold and original. 79 More specifically, to direct low the rays, the “arrows” of their glance. Cf. Ag. 742–743 where Helen, when first arriving in Troy, is described as μαλθακὸν ὀμμάτων βέλος, | δηξίθυμον ἔρωτος ἄνθος (“a soft arrow coming from the eyes, a heart-biting flower of love”). 80 See Faulkner 2008, 224–225. 81 The burning eyes possibly reoccur in the work of Aeschylus in (the dubious) fr. 451c 8–9, but this time most probably as regards rage: κε]ῖ̣ [ν̣ ]ος εἶ̣ π̣ε̣ δ̣ὴ φλ̣έγων | ὀργὴ]ν̣ π̣ε̣δόθεν ὀμμάτων̣ , see further TrGF III Radt 460. For the “flaming eyes of love” see Soph. fr. 474 Radt2 from Oenomaus, where Hippodameia speaks about Pelops’ look of love: τοίαν Πέλοψ ἴυγγα θηρατηρίαν | ἔρωτος, ἀστραπήν τιν’ ὀμμάτων, ἔχει· | ἧι θάλπεται μὲν αὐτός, ἐξοπτᾷ δ’ ἐμέ, | ἴσον μετρῶν ὀφθαλμόν, ὥστε τέκτονος | παρὰ στάθμην ἰόντος ὀρθοῦται κανών (“so strong is the the captivating charm that Pelops has — the lightning in his eyes. It warms him, but turns me to ashes. And he has a way of looking at me directly in the eyes — like some craftsman measuring well, and drawing an unmistakably straight line”). For this play see Sommerstein and Talboy 2012, 75–109. For the “eyes of love” in Greek tragedy, see further Wright 2017, 230–232.

  Nikos Manousakis [(ἐπὶ τῶν ἀκολάστων περὶ τὸ ἀφροδισιάζεσθαι)]”. 82 Aristotle further tells us (Gen. An. 4.5, 773b 25ff.) that only women, and among animals the female horse, which is by nature prone to sexual intercourse (φύσει ἀφροδισιαστικὸν), admit copulation even when already pregnant. Hence, in Greek thinking the word ἵππος seems to have been an idiom for lustful women. 83 Anacreon (PMG 417) likens a girl who looks at him λοξὸν ὅμμασι to a Thracian filly, and assures her that if he puts the bridle on her, he will use the reins to wheel her round the turnpost of the racecourse — for now she has no skilled horseman to ride her: δεξιὸν γὰρ ἱπποπείρην | οὐκ ἔχεις ἐπεμβάτην. 84 Heraclitus, the grammarian who quotes the poem in his Homeric Problems, notes that Anacreon composed it ἑταιρικὸν φρόνημα καὶ σοβαρᾶς γυναικὸς ὑπερηφανίαν ὀνειδίζων, τὸν ἐν αὐτῇ σκιρτῶντα νοῦν ὡς ἵππον ἠλληγόρησεν. It seems then that the girl Anacreon addresses is meretriciously avoiding him, while she would most likely want to let him “ride” her as much as he wants to lead her to the “finish line”. 85 Hutchinson aptly associates Anacreon’s ἱπποπείρην with Aeschylus’ ἱππογνώμονα. Both these compounds, in their specific context, invoke the concept of a man highly experienced with women. 86 In Aristophanes’ Lys. 677–678 we listen to the Chorus of old men say that ἱππικώτατον γάρ ἐστι χρῆμα κἄποχον γυνή, | κοὐκ ἂν ἀπολίσθοι τρέχοντος. And the par excellence “equestrian” women, they add, are the Amazons, fighting men from the back of their horses. Sommerstein is right to indicate that horsemanship “in connection with women automatically suggested the “equestrian” coital position”. 87 Moreover, Aristophanes in his second Thesmophoriazusae (fr. 344 PCG), even more explicitly, refers to the opposite position — with the man on the top: ἀναβῆναι τὴν γυναῖκα βούλομαι. Various other references from comedy indicate that the connection between riding a horse and sexual intercourse was a cliché  82 The translation is by Peck 1970. Cf. Virg. Georg. 3.266–283, indicating that it was Venus herself who inspired the sexual frenzy of mares, see Erren 2003, 675ff. See also Hor. Odes 1.25.14 and Ov. Ars 2.487–488. 83 See Pind. fr. 107 Bowra (= 122 S–M) in which a group of a hundred prostitutes is referred to as φορβάδων κορᾶν ἀγέλαν ἑκατόγγυι- | ον. On this fragment see further Currie 2011, 289–293. The comic poet Eubulus (fr. 82 PCG) calls prostitutes πώλους Κύπριδος — cf. Hesych. Lex. s.v. πῶλος. Also, in Ath. 13.45.39 we find a hetaira called Ἵππη. 84 The lyric image of a mare-girl is much older than Anacreon, see Alcm. 1.45–59 PMG with the notes by Calame 1983, 311ff. 85 On this poem see most recently Leo 2015, 163–175. 86 Hutchinson 2001, 284. The first to indicate this parallel was Wilamowitz-Möllendorff 1913, 119. 87 Sommerstein 1990, 192. This association even takes the form of a political pun, see Aristoph. Lys. 619 (with the note of Sommerstein 1990, 186) and 772–773, and also Wasps 500–502 (with the note of Biles and Olson 2015, 243–244 for further references).

Aeschylus’ Actaeon: A Playboy on the Greek Tragic Stage?  

in Greek thinking. 88 Old comedy is, of course, the genre of sexual wordplay by default, and lyric poetry can be quite playful in this direction. The question that has to be addressed here is how can we account for such a clearly playful sexual concept in an Aeschylean tragedy. Before I attack this question I should first comment on the last fragment from Tox. which, I argue, could also belong in the same scene as the others. In short, this last fragment seems to concern women’s fashion as a sign of their αἰδώς. In one of the sources for fr. 246 Radt, Pollux Onomasticon 7.51.5–52.1, we read the following: τὸ δὲ ζῶμα ἔστι μὲν ἐπιτήδειον ἐνδῦναι, πέζας δὲ ἔχει, ὡς Αἰσχύλος δηλοῖ, πεζοφόρα τὰ ζώματα ἀποκαλῶν. ὅτι δ’ ἐνδῦναι ἦν ἐπιτήδεια, τεκμήραιτ’ ἄν τις καὶ τῷ ἐν τῇ Μενάνδρου Ῥαπιζομένῃ: οὐχ ὁρᾶτε τὴν τροφόν ζῶμ’ ἐνδεδυμένην; ὡς ἐπὶ τὸ πολὺ γὰρ γραῶν τὸ φόρημα ἦν. (Poll. Onom. 7.51.5–52.1) The ζῶμα is convenient (comfortable) clothing, and it has a hemline low to the feet, as Aeschylus indicates, calling πεζοφόρα the ζώματα. One can also ascertain the fact that they are convenient from (the reference in) Menander’s Rhapizomene don’t you see the nurse wearing a (bordered) girded frock? since it is old women mostly wearing a dress like that.

Photius in his Lexicon s.v. ζῶμα (Ζ 71 Theodoridis), makes it clear that the word can mean a kind of θώραξ — a piece of battle clothing — 89 but also that Menander’s reference is about a certain type of girded garment. Hence, Aeschylus’ πεζοφόρα ζώματα are women’s girded frocks that reach low to the feet. These long robes are quite comfortable, and that is why old women, like the nurse in Menander’s Rhapizomene, 90 who at their age evidently care very little about their looks, wear them all the time. There is one example in Greek literature where ζῶμα is used as a synonym for ζώνη, signifying the maiden girdle — which girls would

 88 See Henderson 1991, 164–165 in detail. 89 From a Scholion by Aristonicus in Il. 4 (187a1–2: τοῦ ζώματος μνησθεὶς παραλέλοιπε τὸν θώρακα ὥστε ἀπὸ μέρους τὸ ὅλον δεδηλῶσθαι), we can infer that ζῶμα is a girt or piece of clothing worn under the armor, that could be used as a hypernym for the breastplate. See further Kirk 1985, 350. The ζῶμα φαεινόν in Od. 14.482 could suggest that the piece of clothing under discussion was actually made of some kind of metallic material. ζῶμα in other contexts can also mean loincloth/waist-cloth (worn next to the body), see e.g. Il. 23.683; Alcaeus fr. 203, 357 L–P. See further Bennett 1997, 70 n. 15 and 116 n. 8. 90 Fr. 327 PCG.

  Nikos Manousakis wear from the age of puberty and remove when they were to get married. 91 In an Alcaean poem about the union of Thetis and Peleus (fr. 42 L–P), the poet describes how the bridegroom deflowered his pure, virgin bride by loosening her ζῶμα. 92 Even though there is no actual evidence to support such a hypothesis, the early use of this word for the maiden girdle makes it possible for Aeschylus to have also used ζῶμα, signifying a seemly long robe, in an allusive phrase invoking the loss of virginity. 93 In any case, it is plausible that in Tox. πεζοφόροις ζώμασιν was spoken in the very same scene as the other three fragments considered here, and, if so, it could be pointing to a further criterion, save the shy/passionate look, by which one can tell virgins and sexually “initiated” girls apart: that is how (provocatively) they dress. Herodotus (1.8.3) tells us that at Candaules’s suggestion to see his wife with no clothes on Gyges replies that the woman who takes off her clothes loses the respect that she is owed. 94 From this point of view we may infer that in the Greek mind how a woman covers her body is crucial with regard to how respected she wants to be. The association between αἰδώς and how provocatively a woman chooses to dress is clear in the tale of Heracles’ meeting with Virtue and Vice mentioned earlier (Xen. Mem. 2.1.21–22/ Prodicus fr. 2). There, Virtue is described κεκοσμημένην τὸ… σῶμα καθαρότητι, wearing a (purely) white raiment, while Vice has on a négligé, an ἐσθῆτα… ἐξ ἧς ἂν μάλιστα ὥρα διαλάμποι.

 91 See Garland 1990, 219ff. The “loosening” of a woman’s girdle is also associated with childbirth, see further Hitch 2015, 524–525. In tragedy ζώνη is primarily associated with the womb, see Aesh. Cho. 992, Eum. 607–608, Eur. Hec. 762, I.T. 204–207. For the various concepts related to the female ζώνη in Greek literature, among them both virginity and seduction, see in detail Bennett 1997, 125–160. This scholar, id. 145, suggests an interesting association between ζώνη and ζῶμα in view of Hera as a warrior-seductress in the epos (see Il. 14–15). 92 For this poem see concisely Page 1955, 278–281. 93 Electra, the tragic maiden par excellence, ever “married” to the memory of her father’s wretched fate, in Sophocles’ homonymous drama gives her sister Chrysothemis her οὐ χλιδαῖς ἠσκημένον ζῶμα (l. 452), her unadorned girdle, asking her to offer it to Agamemnon’s tomb, see Finglass 2007, 228–229. Save the Tox. fragment, this is the only other occurrence of ζῶμα (meaning girdle in this context) in extant tragedy. The compound συ/ξυζωμάτων (also meaning girdles), clearly used as a synonym of ζώνη, occurs (plausibly for metrical reasons in the main) in Aesch. Supp. 462, where Danaus’ daughters threaten to hang themselves from the statues of the gods in order to protect their maiden status. In comedy ζῶμα occurs in an Aristophanian fragment (332 PCG (l.7)), most likely meaning “undergarment” in that context. 94 See Ferrari 2002, 79.

Aeschylus’ Actaeon: A Playboy on the Greek Tragic Stage?  

As has been suggested as early as Mette, the speaker of the fragments presented above seems to be Actaeon. 95 Yet, Mette maintained that there is a mocking undertone against the Chorus in the hunter’s words in frr. 242 and 243 Radt. This is a rather untenable hypothesis. A hero shamelessly accusing a friendly divine group of companions of a virgin goddess as being unchaste could not easily fit in Greek tragedy. Mette’s view most probably derives from the misinterpretation of an ancient source. More specifically, Antigonus Carystius in Hist. Mir. 115.1–2, with Aristotle’s work in mind, notes: τῶν δὲ θηλέων ζῴων ῥοπικώτερόν φησιν εἶναι πρὸς τὴν συνουσίαν ἵππον, καὶ ἱππομανεῖν ἰσχυρῶς, ὅθεν καὶ πρὸς τὴν βλασφημίαν ἀπὸ τούτου μεταφέρεσθαι καὶ τὰς πρὸς τὰ ἀφροδίσια κεκινημένας ὀνειδίζεσθαι. φαίνεται δὲ καὶ Αἰσχύλος ἱστορικῶς τὸ τοιοῦτον οὕτως πως εἰρηκέναι πρὸς τὰς παρθένους ἐν ταῖς Τοξότισιν. Antigonus then quotes frr. 242 and 243 Radt. Mette must have taken πρὸς τὰς παρθένους to indicate that the lines were expressed in accusation of the virginal nymphs populating the Chorus. However, what Antigonus seems to actually mean is that one of Aeschylus’ characters, in all likelihood Actaeon, addressed these lines to the virgin nymphs of the Chorus without any hostility, simply in discussing with them the nature of mortal females. If Actaeon addresses these sexually charged lines to the huntresses of the Chorus, who were probably portrayed more like Amazons, 96 with whom a man could have had a “brash” conversation about the sexual conduct of common women, rather than like ethereal virgin nymphs of the woods, what is the specific subject of this conversation? It seems highly unlikely for these lines to be a general comment made by Actaeon as regards female nature. Three fragments of a lost Aeschylean drama deriving from quite different sources are plausibly closely interconnected pieces of the same scene — in all likelihood of the same speech. Even if one accepts that Aeschylus did compose lines (especially iambic) that were not inseparably interwoven in the plotline of his plays, it would be rather unconvincing to suggest that these fragments are not crucially relevant to the plot of Tox. Who is then the specific woman whose conduct triggered Actaeon’s words? Most probably, she is none other than Semele. Or else, if Actaeon was in fact referring to some specific girl other than her, we would have to persuasively explain how this aspect of the plot could serve the dramatic economy of Tox. If the suggested hypothesis is correct, it becomes clear that the Aeschylean version of the Actaeon-story could have been innovative in that the poet did not choose to portray Actaeon and Semele as set to be lawfully married, as seems to  95 Mette 1963, 135 — cf. Séchan 1926, 135. See also Sommerstein 2008, 247; Sommerstein 2013, 87. 96 See n. 9 above.

  Nikos Manousakis have been the case in earlier accounts. If Actaeon and Semele were set to be married in Tox., this means that Actaeon would have been portrayed as a shameless, un-tragic figure, vilifying his bride to be by suggesting that she is not a virgin, but a lustful woman. 97 In Tox. Kadmos’ daughter has probably already been “involved” with Zeus, and, most likely, she is already pregnant with Dionysus. Gossip surrounding her name would have been flaring up in Thebes, 98 and this could very well have been the topic of discussion between Actaeon and the Chorus. The hunter could have suggested that his experience with girls allows him to see through Semele: she is nothing more than a vain, lustful woman, entertaining a rumor that Zeus himself “fell” for her. Actaeon, plausibly overconfident about his looks and amorous skills, could have claimed that he can prove Semele’s lustfulness and deception — the latent meaning being that he could pursue her amorously and seduce her. Since she has known the pleasures of intercourse, by lying with some mortal man of course, she would be a rather eager prey. Alternatively, without challenging Semele’s claims that the father of gods is her lover, Acateon could have declared that he is able to seduce Semele and share almighty Zeus’ bed. The Chorus should have reproached the hunter for his arrogance, possibly reminding him that the will of Zeus is unintelligible to mortals, and those irreverent to the gods are severely punished. Following this conversation, the archeresses could have sung about the misfortunes of Semele and the joys of being a

 97 That is the case, of course, if Actaeon is indeed vilifying a particular woman for sexual lust. Nevertheless, it is not an impossible scenario that he is outlining his ability to distinguish between immodest and chaste women, to then state that he is particularly pleased that his brideto-be, Semele, fits into the latter category. Another possibility is that Actaeon has heard rumors of his future wife’s experience (i.e. with Zeus), and he is complaining of the sexual license of women. 98 On the lustful nature of women in the Greek mind see, in detail, Carson 1990. Cf. Eur. Bacch. 26–31 ἐπεί μ’ ἀδελφαὶ μητρός, ἃς ἥκιστ’ ἐχρῆν, | Διόνυσον οὐκ ἔφασκον ἐκφῦναι Διός, | Σεμέλην δὲ νυμφευθεῖσαν ἐκ θνητοῦ τινος | ἐς Ζῆν’ ἀναφέρειν τὴν ἁμαρτίαν λέχους, | Κάδμου σοφίσμαθ’, ὧν νιν οὕνεκα κτανεῖν | Ζῆν’ ἐξεκαυχῶνθ’, ὅτι γάμους ἐψεύσατο (“because the sisters of my mother, even thought they were the last who should have done so, said that Dionysus was no offspring of Zeus, but that Semele, “bedded” by some mortal man, ascribed her sexual misdeeds to Zeus — a clever invention of Kadmos. That is why, they proclaimed, Zeus killed her, for falsely claiming that he was her bedfellow”). νυμφευθεῖσαν in this context is a euphemism for “seduced”. See Dodds 1960, 67. Cf. the very mutilated lyric papyrus fr. 168.8–9 Radt (= P.Oxy. XVIII 2164 fr. 1) from Aesch. Sem.: φιλο[ῦ].σιν … φθονερ[ | δόξα τ’ ἀεικής (“they like to… envious… and the shameful repute”). It is quite clear that the fragment belongs to Sem., as Sommerstein 2008, 224–233; Sommerstein 2010b, 202–204; Sommerstein 2013, 83 convincingly indicates — and not to Xantr., as has been suggested in the past. For further bibliography on this subject see also Hadjicosti 2006a, 121 n. 1.

Aeschylus’ Actaeon: A Playboy on the Greek Tragic Stage?  

virgin. In the next scene Actaeon would go on to make advances at Semele, either on or off stage, and, evidently, she would have vehemently rejected him. As mentioned earlier, in Hesiod’s account of the myth Kadmos possibly cursed Actaeon for his offence, and this could have triggered his divine punishment on the mortal level. Even though it is rather certain that in Tox., as in almost all versions of the myth, the chaste Artemis takes on the killing of the insolent hunter, most likely assisted by Lyssa (in her off stage act of savagery), the instigator of Actaeon’s doom must have explicitly been Zeus — the offended bedfellow of Semele, and the father of her unborn child. There is no way of knowing if Kadmos was a character in Aeschylus’ Tox. and, if he was, what was his view about his daughter’s “involvement” with Zeus. Yet, there is evidence 99 that in Aeschylus’ Semele, a drama in all likelihood following Tox. in a thematically connected trilogy, 100 the fatal union between Semele and Zeus, in all his divine glory, takes place in Kadmos’ house, who most probably knows about the affair, and is honored by this “conjunction” — as is the case with Euripides’ Bacch. Hence, it is

 99 See n. 98 above for the storyline in Eur. Bacch., where Kadmos, for his own reasons, defends Semele and her divine offspring, and cf. the choral fr. 168.11–15 Radt from Aesch. Sem.: [Σ]εμέλας δ᾽ ε[υ- | χ̣όμεθ̣’ εἶναι διὰ πᾶν εὐθύπορον λά[χος όλβου | τὰ γὰρ ἄλλα τάδ’[ | Κάδμῳ Σεμέ̣[λα | … παντοκρα[τ | Ζ̣ηνί, γάμων δ[ (“we pray that Semele’s blissful destiny may be unswerving throughout, and everything else … for Kadmos [and] Semele… almighty Zeus, married”). See also fr. 168a.8–9 Radt from the same play: εὔκλει̣ [ά]ν θ’[ | Κάδμου̣ τ̣ ’ ἀ.[ (“and the glory of Kadmos”). 100 Sommerstein 2013 rightly, I believe, maintains that Tox. was the first play of a thematically connected Aeschylean trilogy concerning the offspring of Kadmos. Tox. was followed by Sem., and the third tragedy of the composition was Xantr., putting on stage the punishment of another impious grandson of Kadmos, Pentheus, by Semele’s son Dionysus. An extensive papyrus fragment (fr. 168 Radt) from Sem. (see n. 98 above) indicates that Hera, disguised as a priestess, appeared on stage in this play. See in detail Hadjicosti 2006b. Her plan, which turned out successfully, was to make Semele doubt the identity of her lover and ask him to present himself to her in full divine glory. Actaeon is most likely mentioned in Sem. (fr. 221 Radt Ζεύς ὃς κατέκτα τοῦτον) in a prologue spoken by Hera, in which the goddess informs the audience that “Zeus, who killed Actaeon because he was a suitor of Semele, has now made her pregnant himself”, see Sommerstein 2013, 88. Hadjicosti 2006a, based on the use of τοῦτον instead of κεῖνον in the fragment, argues that Actaeon’s dead body was seen on stage in Sem. Sommerstein 2013, 87 suggests that it was not the hunter’s dead body, but his tomb which was seen and is referred to in the line under discussion. However, neither of these hypotheses is necessary. Aeschylus’ Hera might be referring to the dead Actaeon using τοῦτον without actually “pointing” to any tangible “object”, as e.g. in Per. 188 where the Queen uses τούτω for the two outstanding girls she sees in her dream, or in Sev. 505 where Eteocles uses τοῦτον to refer to the, evidently not present on stage, Argive warrior Hippomedon, who stands at the fourth gate of Thebes. For τοῦτον cf. Soph. Ant. 203 (for the off stage dead body of Polynices); OT 799, 947; Phil. 442, 444.

  Nikos Manousakis tempting to conjecture, paraphrasing Lacy, 101 that Actaeon’s offence to Semele could have in some way endangered certain “dynastic plans on the part of Kadmos”, who would more than welcome a son of Zeus in his family. If Kadmos was indeed a dramatis persona in Tox., Actaeon’s offence could have led him to curse his grandson also in this drama — and even banish him from Thebes à la manière de Theseus and Hippolytus in Euripides’ Hipp. Actaeon, in an unreconstructable context, is then found in the woods (hunting?), along with his dogs, and possibly along with some male companions. Artemis who has so favored Actaeon by making him her co-hunter, would have turned against him, 102 most probably answering Kadmos’ curse. She would have “visited” the young man in the woods, and transformed him into a deer to be torn apart by his hounds, that were instigated by the Zeus-sent Lyssa. The news of his violent death is brought to the stage characters, Actaeon’s kin, and the Chorus of former co-hunters, by some messenger who could have simply witnessed the events, or took part in them. This messenger could have been either mortal, for instance one of Actaeon’s companions, or divine, plausibly an avenging Artemis, who, à la manière de Dionysus in the exodos of Bacch., speaks about mortal sin and the merciless rage of the gods. Yet, there is also another possibility. Pollux’s mention of a certain horned Actaeon-mask (Onom. 4.141.5) in his περὶ τραγικῶν προσώπων section presumes the appearance of a partly metamorphosed hunter on stage. We are of course in no position to indicate if the mask was tied to Phrynichus’, Iophon’s, or Aeschylus’ Actaeon-play, or perhaps to a drama by a completely different poet. However, it is not improbable that this mask was tied to some mythic “tradition”, which became a stage “tradition”. But if the metamorphosis, evidently, did not take place on stage, how and why did a horned Actaeon face the audience? The answer to this question seems to lie in two later accounts. Pausanias (9.38.5) tells us that the Orchomenians had the following story about Actaeon: “A ghost, they say, carrying a rock was ravaging the land. When they inquired at Delphi, the god bade them discover the remains of Actaeon and bury them in the earth. He also bade them make a bronze likeness of the ghost and fasten it to a rock with iron”. 103 Nonnos (5.412ff.), on the other hand, recounts that the ghost of a transformed Actaeon appeared to Aristaeus in sleep, informing him of his deplorable fate and asking him to bury his changed form and provide the necessary honors. The Actaeon-mask might be an indica-

 101 Lacy 1990, 28. 102 Cf. Apollo’s change of attitude in Aesch. fr. 350 Radt. 103 The translation is by Jones 1935.

Aeschylus’ Actaeon: A Playboy on the Greek Tragic Stage?  

tion that the ghost of Actaeon was also a stage character in fifth-century, and possibly Aeschylean, or later tragedy; a ghost functioning as a messenger of his undisclosed death — much like Polydorus in Euripides’ Hec. 104 The pathetic value of such a character, announcing his vicious killing, indicating Zeus as the architect of his catastrophe, and asking his family for a proper burial of his remains is quite apparent, and the only extant line evidently deriving from the messenger speech in Tox. makes this possible. Fr. 244 Radt κύνες διημάθυνον ἄνδρα δεσπότην (“the dogs utterly ravaged their (own) master”), could have been spoken by someone who witnessed the events, but also by the ghost of the victim himself. In the latter case Actaeon’s reference to the hounds he once mastered, and to the disastrous reversal of this relationship, would have been quite emphatic. 105 After Actaeon’s death had been made known, the play would have ended with a long dirge about the young hunter who had gone astray, sung by the Chorus, while the members of his family were setting off towards the woods to collect what was left of him. 106

 104 For the phantom of Polydorus in Hec. see concisely Gregory 1999, 39ff., and also Lane 2007. For ghosts in extant and lost Greek tragedy see in detail Bardel 1999 and 2005. 105 Cf. Eur. Bacch. 337–339 ὁρᾶις τὸν Ἀκταίωνος ἄθλιον μόρον, | ὃν ὠμόσιτοι σκύλακες ἃς ἐθρέψατο | διεσπάσαντο (“you know about the wretched death of Actaeon, who was torn apart by the flesh-devouring dogs he had raised”). Judging from his other plays, it is quite likely that Aeschylus presented Actaeon’s transformed dead body on stage in the exodos of Tox. The dead bodies of Oedipus’ sons are brought on stage for the exodos in Sev., the dead bodies of Agamemnon and Cassandra are shown on stage in Ag., the dead bodies of Clytemestra and Aegisthus are brought on stage in Cho., Patroclus’ dead body is seen on stage in the exodos of Myrmidons, Hector’s dead body must have been in plain sight in Phrygians or The Ransoming of Hector, and the same applies to the dead body of Sarpedon in Carians or Europa, and to that of Memnon in the Weighing of Souls. There are also other lost Aeschylean plays in which dead bodies could have been brought on stage. If this pattern holds for Tox., and the Actaeon-mask Pollux refers to was in fact used in this drama, it could have been worn by the actor portraying Actaeon as a (half-)transformed dead body. 106 Hesiod in the Cat. Gyn. fr. 217 MW3 (= P.Oxy. 2489) mentions Actaeon’s family along with Hermes, in relation to the tending of the dead hunter’s remains: τε]θνηότα πορσανέουσαι. See West 1985, 88. See further Hirschberger 2004, 391–393. A volute-krater, attributed to the Painter of the woolly satyrs, dating from 450–440 BC (see LIMC s.v. Aktaion n. 16), presents a young man wearing a chlamys, typical attire of huntsmen and messengers, over his elbows. He has just dropped his club, a weapon used by huntsmen, and hat, and he is announcing Actaeon’s death to a standing man and a seated woman, most likely Aristaeus and Autonoe. This young messenger, who also wears a pair of boots, could be Hermes, but he could also very well be a mortal companion of Actaeon. The representation is fairly securely associated with some Actaeondrama — yet, there is no way of ascertaining if this drama is Tox. or another composition. The actual tending of Actaeon’s dead body is represented on a black-figured pyxis dating form 470 BC (see LIMC s.v. Aktaion n. 121), on this see Séchan 1926, 138 and Forbes Irving 1990, 198.

  Nikos Manousakis In this paper, I discussed in detail the extant evidence concerning Aeschylus’ Tox. — more in an attempt to shed some new light on the various questions it poses, rather than in order to provide definitive answers. Even though only a few lines survive from this drama, the thematic affinity of the fragments, the evidence from myth, art, and literature, and also the evidence indicating that it was part of a thematically connected trilogy, allowed me to draw some plausible conclusions about the plot and structure of this Actaeon-play. Certainly, there is much speculation involved in this venture. Yet, the speculation is always firmly based upon the most trustworthy evidence available: the extant fragments of the play. In a nutshell, I propose here that Tox. is based on the oldest version of the Actaeonmyth, the Semele version. However, in the Aeschylean drama, unlike what is the case in earlier accounts, Actaeon and Semele are related but not set to be married. Actaeon is a hunting protégé of the virgin Artemis, who, as is the case with Orion, favors him until he commits a sexual lapse. Too confident about his charm and knowledge of women, he ends up offending a mortal girl who has shared the bed of Zeus, and he pays the price. The moral of Tox. could be summarized in a fragment (428 Kannicht) from Euripides’ lost Hipp.: οἱ γὰρ Κύπριν φεύγοντες ἀνθρώπων ἄγαν | νοσοῦσ᾽ ὁμοίως τοῖς ἄγαν θηρωμένοις: “those who are running away from sexual pleasures are just as mad as those who hunt after them exceedingly”. 107 In Tox. Actaeon is an anti-Hipploytus, obsessed with hunting animal and human prey in exactly the same way Hippolytus, the other hunter, is obsessed with chastity and moral purity. “The link of sex to hunting — an obvious and ubiquitous one, given that both involve pursuit, capture and penetration with a “weapon” — exploits not only the ambiguity of eros, the way it sits on the cusp of culture and nature, but also the violence and death… in the erotic imagery derived from war and its weapons… [H]unting as erotic metaphor locates sex in the no-man’s-land where culture and nature uneasily fraternize and more often try to destroy one another”. 108 It is not hard to imagine how a poet as lavish as Aeschylus would have ingeniously exploited the nuanced link between courtship  107 Cf. Ath. 12.3.5 τὸ οὖν ἡδονὰς διώκειν προπετῶς λύπας ἐστὶ θηρεύειν (“going after pleasures without any moderation is the same as hunting for sorrows”). 108 Thorton 1997, 40–41. For the pursuit of animals as a sexual metaphor in Greek literature, whether it concerns men “hunting” women, men “hunting” boys, or women “hunting” men (Achilles in Eur. IA 959–960 boasts: μυρίαι κόραι | θηρῶσι λέκτρον τοὐμόν: “countless maidens are after my (wedding) bed”), see concisely (with plenty of references to the sources) Cohen 2010, 150–151. For the erotic metaphor of hunting in Greek tragedy, see further Wright 2017, 223. See also Dunn 1980, 104–307 in more detail (about this metaphor in Greek and Latin poetry). On hunting and pederastic courtship see briefly Dover 1989, 87–89, and thoroughly Barringer 2001, 70–124.

Aeschylus’ Actaeon: A Playboy on the Greek Tragic Stage?  

and hunting in Actaeon’s case. The rather unnatural “preoccupation” of this mythical hunter with the pleasures of the flesh, leading him to offend Zeus’ bedfellow — an act evoking Orion’s offence against Artemis herself — and Hippolytus’ unnatural avoidance of this aspect of life, are actually two sides of the same coin, as the aforementioned fragment makes clear. From these two interconnected extremes, which bring all three co-hunters of Artemis to meet their tragic end, Euripides in his extant Hipp. masterfully dramatizes the price one pays for the extreme abstinence from sexual pleasures. On the contrary, Aeschylus in Tox. seems to be dramatizing the price of sexual hedonism 109 — and, alas, this kind of fascinating Aeschylean poetry is in the main (most likely) forever lost to us.

Bibliography Allan, W. (2008), Euripides: Helen, Cambridge. Barchiesi, A./Rosati, G. (2007), Ovidio Metamorfosi, vol. II, Milan. Bardel, R. (1999), Casting Shadows on the Greek Stage: The Stage Ghost in Greek Tragedy, PhD diss., University of Oxford. Bardel, R. (2005), “Spectral Traces: Ghosts in Tragic Fragments”, in: F. McHardy/J. Robson/ D. Harvey (eds), Lost Dramas of Classical Athens: Greek Tragic Fragments, Exeter, 83–112. Barrett, W.S. (1964), Euripides: Hippolytos, Oxford. Barringer, J.M. (2001), The Hunt in Ancient Greece, Baltimore. Bennett, M.J. (1997), Belted Heroes and Bound Women: The Myth of the Homeric Warrior-King, Lanham MD/Oxford. Biles, Z.P. (2006/7), “Aeschylus’ Afterlife: Reperformance by Decree in 5th C. Athens?”, ICS 31/2, 206–242. Biles, Z.P./Olson, S.D. (2015), Aristophanes: Wasps, Oxford. Breitenstein, N. (1945), “Analecta Acragantina”, ActaA 16, 113–153. Bremmer, J. (1983), “The Importance of the Maternal Uncle and Grandfather in Archaic and Classical Greece and Early Byzantium”, ZPE 50, 173–186.

 109 It seems not implausible that Euripides in both his Hippolytus-plays exploited specific ideas present in Tox. fr. 428 Kannicht from the lost Hipp., quoted above, might be evidence that in this play Euripides focused on the punishment not of one, but of both interconnected tragic hamartiae: Phaedra’s unrestrained lustfulness (see e.g. frr. 430 and 434 Kannicht, most probably spoken by Phaedra, see Barrett 1964, 18, also id. 30–1 concisely for the characterization of the queen in the lost play), and Hippolytus’ strict avoidance of lust. If this suggestion is sound — and the sharp contrast between the “corrected” (see the Hypothesis to the extant play 29–30), silent, virtuous Phaedra of the extant Hipp., and the daring, audacious Phaedra of the lost play points in this direction — then Actaeon’s characterization in Tox. might have had something in common with that of Phaedra in the lost Hipp., or, to be accurate, the other way around. For further bibliography on Euripides’ first Hipp. see Collard/Cropp 2008, 466.

  Nikos Manousakis Bulloch, A.W. (1985), Callimachus: The Fifth Hymn, Cambridge. Cairns, D.L. (1993), Aidos: The Psychology and Ethics of Honour and Shame in Ancient Greek Literature, Oxford. Calame, C. (1983), Alcman, Rome. Carey, C. (1981), A Commentary on Five Odes of Pindar: Pythian 2, Pythian 9, Nemean 1, Nemean 7, Isthmian 8, New York. Casanova, A. (1969), “Il Mito di Atteone nel Catalogo Esiodeo”, RIFC 97, 31–46. Caskey, L.D./Beazley, J.D. (1954), Attic Vase Paintings in the Museum of Fine Arts Boston, London. Cohen, A. (2010), Art in the Era of Alexander the Great: Paradigms of Manhood and their Cultural Traditions, Cambridge. Collard, C./Cropp, M.J./Gibert, J. (2004), Euripides: Selected Fragmentary Plays, vol. II, Oxford. Collard, C./Cropp, M. (2008), Euripides: Fragments (Aegeus-Meleager), Cambridge MA. Currie, B. (2011), “Epinician Choregia: Funding a Pindaric Chorus”, in: L. Athanassaki/E. Bowie (eds), Archaic and Classical Choral Song: Performance, Politics and Dissemination, Berlin, 269–310. Davies, M./Finglass, P.J. (2014), Stesichorus: The Poems, Cambridge. Dickin, M. (2009), A Vehicle for Performance: Acting the Messenger in Greek Tragedy, Plymouth. Diggle, J. (1998), Tragicorum Graecorum Fragmenta Selecta, Oxford. Dodds, E.R. (1960), Euripides: Bacchae, Oxford. Dover, K.J. (1989), Greek Homosexuality, Cambridge MA. Dunn, H.D. (1980), The Hunt as an Image of Love and War in Classical Literature, PhD diss., Berkeley. Effra, A.E. (1937), “Αἰδώς und verwandte Begriffe in ihrer Entwicklung von Homer bis Demokrit”, Philologus Suppl. 30n.2. Erren, M. (2003), P. Vergilius Maro: Georgica – Kommentar, Heidelberg. Farnell, L.R. (1961), Critical Commentary to the Works of Pindar, Amsterdam. Faulkner, A. (2008), The Homeric Hymn to Aphrodite, Oxford. Ferrari, G. (2002), Figures of Speech: Men and Maidens in Ancient Greece, Chicago. Finglass, P. (2007), Sophocles: Electra, Cambridge. Finglass, P. (2011), Sophocles: Ajax, Cambridge. Fontenrose, J. (1981), Orion: The myth of the Hunter and the Huntress, Berkley. Forbes Irving, P.M.C. (1990), Metamorphosis in Greek Myths, Oxford. Fränkel, H. (1975), Early Greek Poetry and Philosophy: A History of Greek Epic, Lyric, and Prose of the Middle of the Fifth Century, Oxford. Garland, R. (1990), The Greek Way of Life: From Conception to Old Age, London. Gregory, J. (1999), Euripides: Hecuba, Atlanta GA. Griffin, J. (1995), Homer: Iliad Book Nine, Oxford. Griffith, M. (2013), Aristophanes’ Frogs, Oxford. Hadjicosti, I.L. (2006a), “Semele and the death of Actaeon: Aeschylus fr. 221 Radt”, ACl 49, 121–127. Hadjicosti, I.L. (2006b), “Hera Transformed on Stage: Aeschylus Fr. 168 Radt”, Kernos 19, 291– 301. Halleran, M.R. (1995), Euripides: Hippolytus, Warminster.

Aeschylus’ Actaeon: A Playboy on the Greek Tragic Stage?  

Hanink, J./Uhlig, A.S. (2016), “Aeschylus and His Afterlife in the Classical Period: ‘My Poetry Did Not Die with Me’”, in: S.E. Constantinidis (ed.), The Reception of Aeschylus’ Plays Through Shifting Models and Frontiers, Leiden, 51–79. Heath, J. (1992), Actaeon, the Unmannerly Intruder: The Myth and its Meaning in Classical Literature, New York. Henderson, J. (1991), The Maculate Muse: Obscene Language in Attic Comedy, New York. Heubeck, A./West, S./Hainsworth, J.B. (1988), A Commentary on Homer’s Odyssey – Volume I: Introduction and books I–VIII, Oxford. Hirschberger, M. (2004), Gynaikōn Katalogos und Megalai Ēhoiai: Ein Kommentar zu den Fragmenten zweier hesiodeischer Epen, München. Hitch, S. (2015), “From Birth to Death: Life-Change Rituals”, in: E. Eidinow/J. Kindt (eds), The Oxford Handbook of Ancient Greek Religion, Oxford, 521–536. Hunter, R. (2005), The Hesiodic Catalogue of Women: Constructions and Reconstructions, Cambridge. Hutchinson, G.O. (2001), Greek Lyric Poetry: A Commentary on Selected Larger Pieces, Oxford. Jackson, S. (2000), Istrus the Callimachean, Amsterdam. Jacobsthal, P. (1929), Aktaions Tod, Merburg. Janko, R. (1984), “P.Oxy. 2509: Hesiod’s Catalogue on the Death of Actaeon”, Phoenix 38, 299– 307. Johansen, F.H./Whittle, E.D. (1980), Aeschylus: The Suppliants, vol. II, Copenhagen. Jones, W.H.S. (1935), Pausanias: Description of Greece, Cambridge MA. Kidd, D. (1997), Aratus: Phaenomena, Cambridge. Kilinski II, K. (2013), Greek Myth and Western Art: The Presence of the Past, Cambridge. Kirk, G.S. (1985), The Iliad: A Commentary-Volume I: Books 1–4, Cambridge. Kossatz-Deissmann, A. (1978), Dramen des Aischylos auf westgriechischen Vasen, Mainz am Rhein. Kovacs, G.A. (2013), “Stringed Instruments in Fifth-Century Drama”, in: G.W.M. Harrison/V. Liapis (eds), Performance in Greek and Roman Theatre, Leiden, 477–499. Krumeich, R. (2002), “Euaion ist Schön: zur Rühmung eines zeitgenössischen Schauspielers auf attischen Symposiengefäßen”, in: S. Moraw/E. Nölle (eds), Die Geburt des Theaters in der griechischen Antike, Mainz am Rhein, 141–145. Lacy, L.R. (1990), “Aktaion and a Lost Bath of Artemis”, JHS 110, 26–42. Lamari, A.A. (2015), “Aeschylus and the and the Beginning of Tragic Reperformances”, in: A.A. Lamari (ed.), Reperformances of Drama in the
Fifth and Fourth Centuries BC. Authors and Contexts, Trends in Classics 7.2, Berlin, 189–206. Lane, N. (2007), “Staging Polydorus’ Ghost in the Prologue of Euripides’ Hecuba”, CQ 57, 290– 294. Lawrence, S. (2013), Moral Awareness in Greek Tragedy, Oxford. Leach, E.W. (1981), “Metamorphoses of the Actaeon Myth in Campanian Painting”, MDAI(R) 88, 307–327. Leo, G.M. (2015), Anacreonte: I Framenti Erotici, Rome. Llewellyn-Jones, L. (2005), “Body Language and Female Role Player in Greek Tragedy and Japanese Kabuki Theatre”, in: D. Cairns (ed.), Body Language in Greek and Roman Worlds, Swansea, 73–105. Macleod, C.W. (1982), Homer: Iliad – Book XXIV, Cambridge. Matheson, S.B. (1995), Polygnotos and Vase Painting in Classical Athens, Madison WI. Mercanti, E. (1914), “Rappresentanze del Mito di Atteone”, Neapolis 2, 123–134.

  Nikos Manousakis Mette, H.J. (1963), Der verlorene Aischylos, Berlin. Nervegna, S. (2014), “Performing Classics: The Tragic Canon in Fourth Century and Beyond”, in: E. Csapo/H.R. Goette/J.R. Green/P. Wilson (eds), Greek Theatre in the Fourth Century BC, Berlin, 157–187. Nikolopoulos, T. (2014), Ὀβιδίου Μεταμορφώσεων Βιβλίο Τρίτο, Athens. Olson, S.D. (2010), Athenaeus: The Learned Banqueters, vol. VI, Cambridge MA. Olson, S.D. (2012), The Homeric Hymn to Aphrodite and Related Texts, Berlin. Page, D.L. (1955), Sappho and Alcaeus: An Introduction to the Study of Ancient Lesbian Poetry, Oxford. Paschalis, M. (2014), “Ovidian Metamorhosis and Nonnian poikilon eidos”, in: K. Spanoudakis (ed.), Nonnus of Panopolis in Context: Poetry and Cultural Milieu in Late Antiquity with a Section of Nonnus and the Modern World, Berlin, 97–138. Peck, A.L. (1970), Aristotle: Historia Animalium, vol. II, Cambridge MA. Race, W.H. (1997), Pindar: Olympian Odes, Pythian Odes, Cambridge MA. Radt, S. (1985), Tragicorum Graecorum Fragmenta: Aeschylus, vol. 3, Göttingen. Radt, S. (1999), Tragicorum Graecorum Fragmenta: Sophocles, vol. 4, Göttingen. Renner, T. (1987), “A Papyrus Dictionary of Metamorphoses”, HSCP 82, 277–293. Richardson, N.J. (1974), The Homeric Hymn to Demeter, Oxford. Richardson, N.J. (1993), The Iliad: A Commentary - Volume VI: Books 21–24, Cambridge. Robertson, M. (1992), The Art of Vase-Painting in Classical Athens, Cambridge. Roisman, J./Worthington, I./Waterfield, R. (2015), Lives of Ten Orators: Texts from Pseudo-Plutarch, Photius, and the Suda, Oxford. Shapiro, A. (1987), “Kalos-Inscriptions with Patronymic”, ZPE 68, 173–186. Schultz, R. (1910), Aidos, PhD diss., University of Rostock. Séchan, L. (1926), Études sur la Tragédie Grecque dans ses Rapports avec la Céramique, Paris. Sommerstein, A.H. (1990), The Comedies of Aristophanes: Lysistrata, Warminster. Sommerstein, A.H. (2008), Aeschylus: Fragments, Cambridge MA. Sommerstein, A.H. (2010a), Aeschylean Tragedy, London. Sommerstein, A.H. (2010b), “Notes on Aeschylean Fragments”, Prometheus 36, 193–212. Sommerstein, A.H. (2013), “Aeschylus’ Semele and its Companion Plays”, in: G. Bastianini/ A. Casanova (eds), I Papiri di Eschilo e di Sofocle, Florence, 81–94. Sommerstein, A.H./Talboy, T.H. (2012), Sophocles: Selected Fragmentary Plays, vol. II, Oxford. Sourvinou-Inwood, C. (2003), Tragedy and Athenian Religion, Oxford. Stephen, I. (1996), Pindar: Selected Odes -Olympian One, Pythian Nine, Nemeans Two & Three, Isthmian One-, Warminster. Stephens, S.A. (2015), Callimachus: The Hymns, Oxford. Sutton, F.D. (1987), “The Theatrical Families of Athens”, AJPh 108, 9–26. Swift, L. (2015), “Stesichorus on Stage”, in: P.J. Finglass/A. Kelly (eds), Stesichorus in Context, Cambridge, 125–144. Thorton, B.S. (1997), Eros: The Myth of Ancient Greek Sexuality, Boulder CO. Todisco, L. (2003), La Ceramica Figurata a Soggetto Tragico in Magna Grecia e in Sicilia, Rome. Trendall, A.D./Webster, T.B.L. (1971), Illustrations of Greek Drama, Edinburgh. Vahtikari, V. (2014), Tragedy Performances Outside Athens in the Late Fifth and Fourth Centuries BC, Helsinki. Webster, T.B.L. (1967), Monuments Illustrating Tragedy and Satyr Play, London. Webster, T.B.L. (1972), Potter and Patron in Classical Athens, London. West, M.L. (1985), The Hesiodic Catalogue of Women, Oxford.

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Wilamowitz-Möllendorff, U. von (1913), Sappho und Simonides: Untersuchungen über Griechische Lyrik, Berlin. Williams, F. (1978), Callimachus: Hymn to Apollo, Oxford. Wilson, P. (2009), “Thamyris the Thracian: The Archetypal Wandering Poet?”, in: R. Hunter/ I. Rutherford (eds), Wandering Poets in Ancient Greek Culture: Travel, Locality and PanHellenism, Cambridge, 46–79. Wright, M. (2017), “A Lover’s Discourse: Erōs in Greek Tragedy”, in: R. Seaford/J. Wilkins/ M. Wright (eds), Selfhood and the Soul: Essays on Ancient Thought and Literature in Honour of Christopher Gill, Cambridge, 219–242.

Martin J. Cropp

Euripides or Critias, or Neither? Reflections on an Unresolved Question Fragmentation — the survival of a text only in later quotations, paraphrases and other references — inevitably poses questions about the value of the information that has reached us, which may be removed from the original by many hundreds of years and can be inaccurate, misleading, inconsistent, or in some cases simply irrelevant. 1 None of these questions is more fundamental than the question of authorship. How confident can we be that the ascriptions of text and content to a particular author or work that we find in our testimonia are correct, and how far can we go in supplementing or rejecting these ascriptions, or in resolving their uncertainties and disagreements? Editors of fragmentary texts constantly confront these questions, and their responses can have far-reaching consequences. The ascriptions adopted by editors, even if accompanied by suitable caveats, carry a certain authority and risk being taken for granted at least by less cautious readers. The point is well illustrated by the case of the tragedies Rhadamanthys, Tennes and Pirithous and the satyr-play Sisyphus, which in antiquity were generally ascribed to Euripides. In 1875 the youthful Wilamowitz declared that they were in fact a tetralogy composed by a younger contemporary of Euripides, the oligarch Critias, who is named once in our testimonia as possibly the author of Pirithous, and once as the author of a speech by the character Sisyphus which others ascribed to Euripides. This opinion has never gone unquestioned: Wilamowitz himself, returning to the subject fifty-two years later, was moved to cry, “Will the truth now prevail?” 2 Recent sceptics notably include Christopher Collard and Nikolaus Pechstein, who focus respectively on Pirithous and Sisyphus

 1 This is a revised version of the paper which I gave at the 12th Trends in Classics International Conference, Fragmented Parts, Coherent Entities: Reconsidering Fragmentation in Ancient Greek Drama, Thessaloniki, 24–27 May, 2018. Warmest thanks to the Aristotle University of Thessaloniki for its hospitality and to the members of the organizing committee, especially Anna Lamari and Anna Novokhatko, for their work in presenting such a congenial and productive conference. This discussion complements my edition of the fragments and testimonia of Tennes, Rhadamanthys, Pirithous (Cropp 2019, 180–234), which includes texts, English translations and commentary. 2 Wilamowitz 1927, 292.

  Martin J. Cropp but also address the wider issues. 3 Wilamowitz’s ascriptions however have generated the kind of authority that I have just mentioned. They were adopted by Hermann Diels in his edition of the Presocratics (first published in 1903), by Bruno Snell in his edition of the minor tragedians (first published in 1971), and by recent editors including Richard Kannicht in his magisterial edition of the Euripides fragments. 4 Diels and Snell both began by citing a statement in a brief biography of Euripides found in some Byzantine manuscripts which declares the three tragedies spurious. I have summarized all the relevant testimonia in an Appendix to this paper, using the ascriptions and fragment-numbers of TrGF there as throughout. Briefly, the evidence of title lists, hypothesis collections and nearly all ancient quotations shows that the tragedies Tennes, Rhadamanthys, Pirithous and a satyr-play Sisyphus were normally included in the Euripidean corpus, while the combined evidence of two versions of the Byzantine Life shows that these three tragedies and an unnamed satyr-play were considered spurious (νοθεύεται, Life A) or disputed (ἀντιλεγόμενα, Life B). Critias is named as alternative author of fr. 2 (from Pirithous) and fr. 19 (the much-discussed atheist speech, which I shall refer to as the Sisyphus-fragment). Nothing connects him with Tennes or Rhadamanthys except an assumption that the four inauthentic or disputed plays were produced together at the City Dionysia. Nothing connects him with a Sisyphus except the possibilities (a) that the Sisyphus-fragment is correctly ascribed to him by Sextus Empiricus and (b) that this fragment came from a satyr-play named Sisyphus. This evidence (except for the papyri and the fuller version of Pirithous fr. 1 which were published later) 5 led Wilamowitz to assert that Critias had indeed produced a tetralogy at the City Dionysia comprising the three tragedies and a satyrplay named Sisyphus. 6 This production, he supposed, was later forgotten, or the

 3 Collard 2007 (1995) with bibliography pp. 64–68 (cf. Collard/Cropp 2008, 630–635); Pechstein 1998, 185–191. Earlier e.g. Kuiper 1907, 354–365 (cf. 1888, 362–365); Schmid 1940, 180; Hoffmann 1951, 142f.; Lesky 1972, 525f.; Dihle 1977, 28–30 (followed by Scodel 1980, 124f.); Sutton 1981, 35; 1987, 7–10. 4 Kannicht below, note 36. See also Diggle 1998, 172; Jouan/Van Looy 1998, XV. 5 P.Oxy. 2078 was published in 1927, but Wilamowitz does not seem to have addressed it before his death in 1931. The commentary of Ioannes Logothetes, which includes a fuller version of fr. 1 than that known from Gregory of Corinth, was published by Rabe in 1908 and discussed by Wilamowitz only in 1927 (see also Kuiper 1908a). 6 Wilamowitz (1875, 166) originally dated this production in the period 411–406 to suit his assumption that Pirithous was parodied in Aristophanes’ Frogs at the Lenaea of 405 (on which see further below, pp. 246–247). Later he preferred a date before 411 (Wilamowitz 1920, I.118 n. 1; 1921, 71).

Euripides or Critias, or Neither? Reflections on an Unresolved Question  

memory of it suppressed, but texts of the plays survived and in due course reached the Alexandrian Library under the name of Euripides. Scholars there became aware of the didascalic record of Critias’s production and restored the plays to him, with some uncertainty about Sisyphus since Euripides was known to have produced a Sisyphus with the Trojan trilogy of 415; but in fact the text of Euripides’ Sisyphus was totally lost, the two brief quotations ascribed to it (Euripides frr. 673–674) were from a different satyr-play of Euripides, perhaps Syleus, and the Sisyphus that reached Alexandria (and in his opinion was the source of fr. 19) was Critias’s Sisyphus. (An alternative to this last step is to assign all the extant Sisyphus material to Critias, as Kannicht now recommends: see below, p. 242 with n. 36.) The most distinctive feature of this narrative was the supposition that the four plays had constituted a tetralogy, 7 i.e. that they had been produced together at the City Dionysia and were so recorded in the Athenian Didascaliae. Earlier editors had often accepted Sextus’s attribution of the Sisyphus-fragment to Critias while retaining the ancient ascriptions of frr. 673–674 to Euripides’ Sisyphus. 8 The three tragedies had usually been ascribed to Euripides, but with reservations for Pirithous in view of Athenaeus’s comment on fr. 2, and for all three after Elmsley’s publication of version A of the Life which named them as spurious. 9 Wilamowitz reasserted the unEuripidean character of the Sisyphus-fragment 10 and multiplied arguments against Euripides’ authorship of the Pirithous fragments on grounds of content and style. 11 He also made a couple of points about the language of the Rhadamanthys fragments, but these are inconsequential 12 and in reality the ascriptions of Rhadamanthys and Tennes to Critias depend entirely on the tetralogy theory.  7 “Tetralogy” here means simply a set of four plays, not necessarily a thematically connected set. 8 e.g. Valckenaer 1767, 208f.; Bach 1827, 72ff.; Matthiae 1829, 323; Wagner 1844, 344 and 1848, 102ff.; Nauck 1856, 598ff. (and in his 1889 edition, where Wilamowitz’s theory of 1875 is simply noted); cf. Welcker 1842, 1007ff. 9 The version in ms. Ambrosianus L 39 was published by Elmsley 1821, 193–195 (five other texts are now known, cf. Kannicht in TrGF 5, p. 45). Bach (1827, 77–86) and Kayser (1845, 235f., 242– 251) argued at length in favour of ascribing Pirithous to Critias: see also e.g. Matthiae 1829, 302; Wagner 1844, 307f., 336, 353; Nauck 1856, 431, 445, 456, 597. Welcker discussed Pirithous in his Euripides volume (1839, 589–592) but otherwise ascribed it to Critias (1839, 438, 876; 1842, 1007– 1009). 10 Wilamowitz 1875, 166. 11 I comment on these below, pp. 245–246. 12 Wilamowitz claimed that the word πρόσχωρος (fr. 16.1) was “frequent” in Aeschylus and Sophocles but “constantly avoided” by Euripides. In fact it is found once in Aeschylus and three

  Martin J. Cropp The language and content of the fragments have been extensively and inconclusively debated, 13 but the question of how they and the relevant testimonia were transmitted and can be understood has not been examined so thoroughly, although Wilamowitz’s narrative has provoked some cogent objections. 14 The narrative is seductively simple and decisive, but closer consideration reveals some improbable features. First, we have to accept that a production by Critias at Athens’ leading dramatic festival was generally forgotten in the decades that followed. Wilamowitz suggested that the memory of the production was “obliterated partly by chance, partly by ill feeling [towards the author]”, 15 but it seems a little unlikely that the production was simply forgotten when Critias was such a well-known, if widely detested, figure; 16 and if we suppose that the record of his production was actively suppressed after the restoration of the democracy, we then have to ask how it survived and became known to later scholars. Secondly, we have to accept that, even as the memory of the production was lost or suppressed, texts of the plays themselves continued to circulate. This would be surprising in itself, but the narrative asserts, thirdly, that these texts, or at least the copies that reached Alexandria, came to be identified as texts of Euripides. It is true, as Wilamowitz pointed out, that plays by a lesser tragedian were more likely to be ascribed to a more famous one than vice versa, and that booksellers were motivated to make such changes in order to increase their sales, 17 but it is not so likely that this happened to an entire tetralogy, or that exactly the same thing happened to each of four plays individually if (ex hypothesi) they were no longer recognized as a tetralogy. And again these arguments seem to underestimate the interest that texts of Critias would have retained in their own right.  times in Sophocles, while the verb προσχωρεῖν is found once in Sophocles and once in Euripides. He also objected to the word πάτωρ in fr. 17.4, but this was a mistaken conjecture of Dindorf. 13 The debate on style is inevitably inconclusive: see especially Davies 1989, 26–28; Pechstein 1998, 293–295; Cipolla 2003, 254f. See also note 40 on Rhadamanthys and p. 242 with notes 52– 54 on Pirithous. 14 See especially Hoffmann 1951, 139–145; Gauly et al. 1991, 108f.; Pechstein 1998, 188–190; Collard 2007, 59–64 (cf. Collard/Cropp 2008, 630–635). Kuiper’s methodological arguments (1907, 356–365) were largely refuted by Wilamowitz 1907 (1994), 211–214; cf. Alvoni 2011, 121–124. 15 partim casu partim invidia…oblitterata (Wilamowitz 1875, 166). 16 But not so detested as to discourage Plato from giving him leading roles in three of his dialogues (Charmides, Timaeus, Critias). 17 Wilamowitz 1907 (1994), 216; 1920, 118 n. 1. On these and other motives for falsification see Speyer 1971, 131–149. On forgeries directed towards the Alexandrian and Pergamene library collections, Montana 2015, 90 with n. 124.

Euripides or Critias, or Neither? Reflections on an Unresolved Question  

Lastly, we have to accept that Alexandrian scholars learned that Critias had produced a tetralogy comprising the relevant plays and restored to him the texts with these titles that bore Euripides’ name, but nevertheless retained them in the Euripidean corpus. Wilamowitz stated that they restored them to Critias unequivocally except for a slight hesitation over Sisyphus, 18 but that is inaccurate. The summaries of the Life of Euripides show that the plays were included in the Euripidean corpus but noted as spurious or doubtful. Evidence that Critias might have been named as their likely author if they were not by Euripides is very slight: a lexicographer’s comment on Pirithous from three centuries later, and a doxographer’s attribution of the Sisyphus-fragment to Critias. The question of Sisyphus is especially problematic since (a) the Sisyphus-fragment may not have been part of the text which reached Alexandria as Euripides’ Sisyphus (see below, pp. 248– 250); (b) it seems unlikely that the satyr-play from Euripides’ well-known production of 415 would have disappeared during the fourth century while the satyr-play from a long-forgotten production by Critias survived; and (c) a didascalic record of a Sisyphus produced by Critias would not have proved that the play transmitted as Euripides’ Sisyphus was not the Sisyphus produced by Euripides in 415. 19 The fact that the Euripidean corpus established at Alexandria included some plays that were judged spurious or doubtful merits some attention. The phenomenon is not unusual in itself: according to the Byzantine Life of Sophocles, Aristophanes of Byzantium identified seventeen (or perhaps just seven) “spurious” plays within the Sophoclean corpus. 20 There are comparable records for Aeschylus (a genuine and a spurious Aitnaiai) 21 and for comic poets, 22 not to mention historians and orators for whom there were no records comparable with the dramatic Didascaliae and the scope and motives for confusion and misrepresentation were greater. 23 The brief statements about inauthenticity in our remnants of the Life of Euripides are no doubt distilled from a much fuller statement in their ultimate Hellenistic source, and here a comparison with the Life of Aristophanes is illuminating. According to its fullest transmitted version, the comic poet “wrote  18 Wilamowitz 1875, 166: Alexandrinos tandem grammaticos tragoedias quidem uno ore ei restituisse, in satyrica paullo haesisse... 19 Cf. Pechstein 1998, 188. 20 Sophocles T 1.76f. TrGF (Bergk conjectured ζʹ (7) for mss. ιζʹ (17) in order to reconcile the totals of 130 and 123 plays given respectively by the Life and the Suda). 21 Aeschylus T 78 TrGF (the ancient catalogue of titles transmitted in some Byzantine mss.). 22 See the entries for Old Comedy in general and for Epicharmus, Magnes and Aristophanes in the anonymous treatise On Comedy, Prolegomena de comoedia III Koster (1975, 7–10). 23 See e.g. Dion. Hal. On Deinarchus §§1, 9–13; Dover 1968, 22–27, 148–161; Canfora 1990, 45– 50, 102–104. Also Socratic dialogues, Diog.Laert. 2.121–125, 3.60–62, 64.

  Martin J. Cropp 44 plays, of which 4 are disputed (ἀντιλέγεται) as not being his: these are Poiêsis, Nauagos, Nêsoi, Niobos, which some have said were by Archippus”. 24 Briefer summaries make the same distinction without naming the disputed plays or mentioning Archippus, 25 or do not make it at all. 26 But in a Byzantine treatise On Comedy we read simply “plays numbering 44, of which 4 are spurious (νόθα)”. 27 The brief statements in the extant versions of the Life of Euripides must reflect a similar process of simplification. What they indicate is only that the original Life noted the plays as spurious or doubtful, not that they were known decisively to be spurious as the statement about the tragedies in version A quoted by Diels and Snell (τούτων νοθεύεται τρία) seems to suggest. Critias might possibly have been named as an alternative author, but the rarity of evidence linking him with any of these plays suggests otherwise. 28 The disputed plays probably entered the Euripidean corpus via Callimachus’s Pinakes, 29 which necessarily assigned works to authors. Callimachus sometimes commented on questions of authenticity, 30 and he may or may not have done so in these cases. Either way the plays will have been either questioned or (more likely) rejected by Aristophanes of Byzantium, as for the Sophoclean corpus, probably in his comments On the Pinakes of Callimachus 31 as well as in his Hypotheses to the plays of the tragic poets. The Hypotheses seem to have ordered the plays alphabetically (as the Pinakes presumably did), rather than in

 24 Proleg. de com. XXVIII.66f. Koster (= Aristophanes T 1.59ff. PCG): ἔγραψε δὲ δράματα μδʹ, ὧν ἀντιλέγεται δʹ ὡς οὐκ ὄντα αὐτοῦ· ἔστι δὲ ταῦτα Ποίησις, Ναυαγός (i.e. Διόνυσος ναυαγός), Νῆσοι, Νίοβος (i.e. Δράματα ἢ Νίοβος), ἅ τινες ἔφασαν εἶναι τοῦ Ἀρχίππου. 25 See Proleg. de com. XXIXa.47ff. (ἀντιλεγόμενα/ἀμφιβαλλόμενα), XXXIIa.6ff. (ἀμφιβάλλονται ὡς νόθα), XXXIIb.5f. (ὀβελίζονται). 26 Proleg. de com. XXX (= Aristophanes T 2 PCG) says simply “44 dramas” and in its longer version lists 42 titles including all the disputed ones. 27 Proleg. de com. III (n. 22 above), 41. 28 The attributions to Archippus of plays in the Aristophanic corpus may have been due to the comic poets’ practice of producing their plays under each other’s names, a practice not generally shared by tragedians so far as we know: cf. Halliwell 1989. Collaborations within families (as possibly between Sophocles and Iophon, Ar. Frogs 79f., and in posthumous productions) are exceptional cases. On Euripides’ supposed collaborators see below, p. 241 with n. 35. 29 Πίνακες τῶν ἐν πάσῃ παιδείᾳ διαλαμψάντων καὶ ὧν συνέγραψαν ἐν βιβλίοις κʹ καὶ ρʹ (Tables of those distinguished in every form of learning, and of their writings, in 120 books, frr. 429–453 Pfeiffer). 30 See Callimachus frr. 437, 442, 449 Pfeiffer with his comments following fr. 453, and Pfeiffer 1968, 128, 287f.; Montana 2015, 107–109. 31 Πρὸς τοὺς Καλλιμάχου Πίνακας, frr. 368–369 Slater; cf. Pfeiffer 1968, 133, 193. On the scope and purpose of this work, Slater 1976.

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chronological order of productions (as in Aristotle’s Didascaliae and in Callimachus’s special Pinax of dramatic productions which used Aristotle’s work). 32 They also seem to have separated satyr-plays from tragedies, and since this separation is found in version B of the Life of Euripides (and implicitly in version A’s omission of the satyr-play) it seems likely that the original Life reflected Aristophanes’ opinions on the matter of authenticity. Were those opinions justified? The question cannot be answered with any confidence when we have so little of the relevant texts. Besides the work of Aristotle and Callimachus, Aristophanes was presumably aware of the Lycurgan texts of the canonical tragedians, even if the tradition that Ptolemy III appropriated the originals for the Alexandrian Library is unreliable. 33 It seems likely that the three tragedies and one unnamed satyr-play were initially suspected because they were not attributed to Euripides in the Didascaliae as edited by Aristotle and (therefore) not amongst the Lycurgan texts. If so, considerations of content or style might then have swayed opinions in either direction. Andromache was accepted as Euripidean despite not appearing in the Didascaliae, while Rhesus was retained in the corpus (with some uncertainty) mainly because a Rhesus of Euripides did appear in them. 34 On the other hand, Euripides’ reputation for plagiarism and presenting others’ work as his own, though comic in origin, was sometimes taken seriously and could have led to mistaken denials of a play’s authenticity. 35  32 Πίναξ καὶ ἀναγραφὴ τῶν κατὰ χρόνους καὶ ἀπ’ ἀρχῆς γενομένων διδασκάλων (Table and register of dramatic poets, in chronological order from the beginning, frr. 454–456 Pfeiffer); cf. Pfeiffer 1968, 129, 131f.; Caroli 2006, 8f.; Montanari 2009, 400f.; Meccariello 2014, 77–79. On Aristotle’s influence on Peripatetic and Alexandrian research on tragedy in general, Montanari 2009, 390– 394. 33 Galen, In Hippocr. Epidem. III comm. 2.4, p. 79.23ff. Wenkenbach (CMG = Sophocles T 157 TrGF; cf. Montanari 2009, 413. Galen’s anecdote is severely questioned by Bagnall 2002, Johnstone 2014. 34 Schol. Eur. Andr. 445 (= Callimachus fr. 451 Pfeiffer): εἰλικρινῶς δὲ τοὺς τοῦ δράματος χρόνους οὐκ ἔστι λαβεῖν· οὐ δεδίδακται γὰρ Ἀθήνησιν. ὁ δὲ Καλλίμαχος ἐπιγραφῆναί φησι τῇ τραγῳδίᾳ Δημοκράτην (“It is not possible to find the timing of the play exactly, for it was not produced at Athens. Callimachus says the tragedy bears the name of Democrates”). Hypoth. II Eur. Rhes.: τοῦτο τὸ δρᾶμα ἔνιοι νόθον ὑπενόησαν, Εὐριπίδου δὲ μὴ εἶναι· τὸν γὰρ Σοφόκλειον μᾶλλον ὑποφαίνειν χαρακτῆρα. ἐν μέντοι ταῖς Διδασκαλίαις ὡς γνήσιον ἀναγέγραπται… (“Some people have suspected this play of being spurious and not by Euripides, for it shows rather the stamp of Sophocles; but it is listed as genuine in the Didascaliae”). It is notable that Rhesus is not amongst the tragedies named as spurious in the Life. 35 For Euripides’ “collaborators” (chiefly Socrates and Cephisophon) see TrGF Euripides T 51– 54. Athenaeus (7.276a, 10.453c–e) records the strange allegation that Euripides’ Medea was modelled on Callias’s Alphabetic Tragedy. Dicaearchus’s assertion that Euripides “reworked” Neophron’s Medea (Hypoth. 1 Eur. Med., 25f.) was probably a mistaken inference from comedy,

  Martin J. Cropp If Aristophanes judged our four plays spurious, his judgments must be taken seriously but they are not necessarily decisive and would have remained subject to the same kind of uncertainty amongst scholars that we see in the Rhesus hypothesis and the Life of Aristophanes. Some such account will explain well enough how these plays came to be included in the Euripidean corpus while being regarded as spurious or doubtful, but it is less easy to see why this happened if, as Wilamowitz assumed, a didascalic record of a production by Critias comprising the very same titles had come to light. In that case the extant texts of the three tragedies could have been assigned to Critias rather than Euripides, or at least we might expect to see him named more often in our testimonia than we actually do. The difficulty is avoided to some extent in a reformulation of Wilamowitz’s theory by Richard Kannicht, which differs significantly from the original. Kannicht suggests that the didascalic record of the production of these four plays was itself ambivalent (inter Critiam et Euripidem fluctuasse), and that the Alexandrians chose to assign them to Euripides (rather than to Critias as Wilamowitz supposed). 36 This accounts better for the fact that the plays were subsequently associated primarily with Euripides, but such an ambivalence in the didascalic record itself needs to be explained (Kannicht says it happened incerta de causa), and the near-disappearance of Critias’s name from the later record remains a problem. It also leaves open the possibility (as Wilamowitz’s theory did not) that the ascriptions to Euripides were correct and doubts about the plays’ authenticity not justified. On this account, too, the corpus of 92 certainly or possibly Euripidean titles known to the Alexandrians 37 would have included two satyr-plays named Sisyphus (the Sisyphus of 415 and the Sisyphus of the disputed tetralogy), but there is no hint of this duplication  prompting the later belief that the play was entirely Neophron’s work (Diog. Laert. 2.134, Suda ν 218: cf. Librán Moreno 2011). See in general Halliwell 1989, 517 (A2), 520; Schorn 2004, 227–233 (Socrates); Lefkowitz 2012, 89f.; Colomo 2011, 112–116; Bagordo 2013, 198f. on Teleclides fr. 41 PCG. 36 TrGF 5.659: “ipse persuasus sum tetralogiam Pirithoum Rhadamanthum Tennem Sisyphum satyricum Critiae fuisse, in didascaliis incerta de causa inter Critiam et Euripidem fluctuasse, ab Alexandrinis corpori Euripideo insertam esse, ubi Sisyphus tandem similiter atque Rhesus locum fabulae Euripideae quae οὐκ ἐσῴζετο occupaverit”. Cf. Kannicht 1996, 24 (“…die Zweifel über den Autor von Peirithous, Rhadamanthys und Tennes dürften ihren Ursprung wohl am ehesten in einer Unklarheit der betreffenden Didaskalie gehabt haben (hier kommen wir über die Vermutung nicht hinaus)”) and 27 (“Wir haben…offenbar anzunehmen, dass in Wahrheit eine vollständige Tetralogie zwischen Euripides und Kritias strittig war”). Kannicht takes the logical step (considered also by Snell) of ascribing what are now Eur. frr. 673–674, as well as the Sisyphusfragment, to Critias’s Sisyphus: cf. Kannicht 1996, 27. 37 See the Life of Euripides quoted in the Appendix below, pp. 251–252.

Euripides or Critias, or Neither? Reflections on an Unresolved Question  

in our testimonia (unless we infer it from the divergent ascriptions of the Sisyphus-fragment). 38 The uncertainties of the tetralogy theory in either of these forms suggest to me that, despite appearances, its basic premiss may be mistaken — that the plays were not after all produced together at the City Dionysia, and that there was therefore no didascalic record. This would account at least as well for the fact that the ascription of these plays to Euripides came to be denied and Critias only mentioned ambivalently in connection with Pirithous and the Sisyphus-fragment. And since tetralogies were staged only at the City Dionysia, it would follow that the plays were not a tetralogy and were produced in other contexts, at various times, and not necessarily all by the same poet. 39 In the remainder of this paper I shall discuss very briefly where this hypothesis might lead us and how we might assess the evidence for each of the plays (such as it is) if we consider them individually. For Tennes and Rhadamanthys we know only that the plays were noted as spurious or doubtful, probably by Aristophanes of Byzantium and possibly earlier in the Pinakes of Callimachus, and possibly for the reasons discussed above (absence from the Didascaliae compounded by considerations of content and/or style). The text-fragments of Rhadamanthys (frr. 16–18) are not noticeably unEuripidean 40 but that does not get us very far. There is however one feature that might tell against its authenticity: the play’s subject-matter is strikingly obscure. According to the hypothesis-fragment (fr. 15), it culminated in the deaths of Zeus’s sons Castor and Polydeuces (the Dioscuri) and an appearance ex machina of the goddess Artemis telling Helen to establish a cult for her brothers and announcing the deification of Rhadamanthys’s daughters. 41 This story had no  38 Cf. Wilamowitz 1875, 166. Wilamowitz did not offer a list of all the 92 titles. Kannicht does so, but his 92 titles include only one Sisyphus (Kannicht 1996, 23f., cf. TrGF 5.1.80). He counts 21 tetralogies produced at the City Dionysia, one posthumous trilogy (IA, Alcmeon at Corinth, Bacchae) with no satyr-play, two tragedies not produced at Athens (Andromache, Archelaus), and the three disputed tragedies without the disputed satyr-play: thus 84+3+2+3 = 92. The numbers can of course be massaged in various ways: for example, we do not know that Archelaus was never produced at Athens as Kannicht assumes. 39 Cf. Pechstein 1998, 189. 40 See above, n. 12 on Wilamowitz’s objections to the language of the Rhadamanthys fragments. The idea that the priamel fr. 17 is a declaration of Critias’s oligarchic principles is mistaken: see Cropp 2019, 230f., 232 with note 65. 41 PSI XII.1286, col. ii.1–8: ... Πο]λυδεύκους, ἀνηιρέθη μονομαχήσας. [Ῥ]αδαμάνθυος δ’ ἐπὶ μὲν τῆι νίκηι [χ]α̣ί̣[ρ]οντος, ἐπὶ δὲ ταῖς θυγατράσιν ἀ[λγ]οῦντος Ἄρτεμις ἐπιφανεῖσα π̣ρ[οσέ̣]ταξε τὴν μὲν Ἑλένην ἀ[μφοτέροις] το̣ῖς ἀδελφοῖς τοῖς τεθνη̣[κόσιν] τιμὰς καταστήσασθαι, τ̣[ὰς θυγα]τέρας δ’ αὐτοῦ θεὰς ἔφησε γεν̣[ήσεσθαι: “... Polydeuces (having died?) he (i.e. Castor) was killed in

  Martin J. Cropp known impact on the mythical or literary traditions. No other source connects Rhadamanthys with the deaths of the Dioscuri (they were more commonly said to have died in combat with their cousins Idas and Lynceus after abducting the latter’s destined brides, the daughters of Leucippus). 42 No other source mentions that Rhadamanthys had daughters, let alone daughters who were deified. We might guess that the story was connected with a local cult similar to the betterknown cult of the Leucippides, 43 but in any case the plot seems unlikely for a tragedy composed for production at Athens in the late fifth century. A fourth-century composition falsely ascribed to Euripides is at least a plausible alternative. The same might be said of Tennes. Its single surviving verse is of even less help (fr. 21, “Alas, there is no righteousness in the present generation!”), but the papyrus hypothesis-ending (fr. 20) is readily associated with the mythology of the island of Tenedos and its eponymous hero Tennes, which appears with variations in later sources. 44 The young Tennes, son of Cycnus (ruler of the mainland territory opposite Tenedos) but sired by Apollo (the dominant god of both mainland and island), 45 rejects the advances of his stepmother, who then complains to her husband that he has assaulted her. Cycnus believes her and throws Tennes and his sister (who has defended her brother) into the sea in a chest which floats across the narrow strait to the island. They are rescued, and Tennes in due course becomes the island’s ruler, naming it Tenedos, establishing a polis and laws, and honoured with a cult after his death. Cycnus later learns the truth and kills his wife and her accomplice. In some accounts he attempts a reconciliation which Tennes rejects, cutting the mooring-ropes of his father’s boat with a double-axe (pelekus) when he tries to land on the island. Both are later killed by Achilles as the Achaeans arrive to lay siege to Troy. 46 The hypothesis-ending shows that the tragedy concerned Tennes’ expulsion and survival, Cycnus’s regrets, and a speech of Apollo commanding Cycnus to

 single combat. And as Rhadamanthys was rejoicing at the victory, but grieving for his daughters, Artemis appeared and instructed Helen to establish rites honouring (both?) her dead brothers, and declared that his daughters would become goddesses”. 42 See for example Gantz 1993, 323–328; Fowler 2013, 420–424. 43 For the Leucippides and their cult and associated myths see Larson 1995, 64–69; Calame 2001, 185–191; Fowler 2013, 422. 44 Conon, Nar. 28; Diod. Sic. 5.83; Apollod. Epit. 3.24; Plut. Mor. 297d–e; Paus. 10.14.2–4; Schol. D Il. 1.38; Tzetzes on Lycoph. Alex. 232 (the story is cryptically sketched in Alex. 232–242). 45 e.g. Il. 1.37f. 46 Il. 11.624–627 recalls Achilles’ sacking of Tenedos, and the Cypria probably included the fighting there and Tennes’ death at Achilles’ hands (cf. Apoll. Epit. 3.25). Aeschylus may have produced a Tennes about these events (cf. Radt in TrGF 3.343 and 479–480).

Euripides or Critias, or Neither? Reflections on an Unresolved Question  

punish his wife and name the island Tenedos. 47 The god probably foretold Tennes’ future and heroization, and the naming of the island by Cycnus suggests that in this account the two were reconciled (the axe-episode cannot have been included since the play’s action was set on the mainland and ended with the revelation of Cycnus’s error). 48 The play thus incorporated some well-worn mythical and dramatic motifs (a divinely begotten youth, a “Potiphar’s Wife” situation, the youth expelled from his homeland to become the founding hero of a new polis) with others that were specific to Tenedos and aetiologically related to its history and cults: for example, Tennes and his sister seem to have originated in a pair of pre-Greek deities who appear as a double-headed male-female figure on Tenedian coinage, as does the double-axe, a Bronze Age symbol of authority. The story as a whole seems designed to define the island’s close but autonomous relationship with the nearby mainland communities, while incidentally eliding the role of the Aeolian Greeks who in a competing account had settled the whole area, including Tenedos, after the Trojan War. 49 A tragedy incorporating this story would have been primarily of local interest. It might have had an Athenian angle since Athens had a strategic interest in Tenedos and the island was usually aligned with Athens between the 470s and the 330s. 50 A production by an Athenian poet is therefore not out of the question, but this could also have been a local fourth-century production claiming Euripides’ authority — a common motive for politically coloured forgeries of this kind. 51 The third disputed tragedy, Pirithous, is much better attested than the other two and certainly widely associated with Euripides. Wilamowitz argued that some features of the vocabulary, style and content of the fragments are unEuripidean, but his arguments are not compelling. The parodos and the papyrus fragments (the latter not known to Wilamowitz) contain a number of rare or unique poetic words, but these are rare because of their contexts — the mystic chorus’s cosmological hymn and the exotic crimes and punishments of Pirithous and his

 47 P.Oxy. 27.2455 fr. 14 col. xiii (= fr. 20): five very incomplete lines, variously restored, then: ... τὸ̣ν Τ[έ]ννην ἤκουσεν̣ ἐ̣πὶ̣ τ̣ὴ̣ν̣ ἀ̣ντιπέρα νῆσον σεσῶσθαι· προει̣πό[ν]τος δ’ Ἀπόλλωνος τὴν μὲν νῆσο̣ν Τ̣ένεδ̣ον π̣ροσηγόρευσεν, [τ]ὴν δὲ ψευσα[μέν]ην̣ γ̣υ̣ν̣αῖκα ἀπέ̣κτεινεν: “... he heard that Tennes had safely reached the island opposite. At Apollo’s command he named the island Tenedos and killed the wife who had deceived him”. 48 A reconciliation is implied in Tzetzes’ scholia on Lycoph. Alex. 232, where Cycnus is said to have joined his children on the island and to have been killed with them by Achilles. 49 See further Cropp 2019, 213f. 50 Rutishauser 2001. 51 Cf. Speyer 1971, 131–133, 142–145.

  Martin J. Cropp father Ixion. 52 Such words are just as likely to have been used by Euripides as by any other contemporary poet, if not more so. Wilamowitz’s complaints about the style of the dialogue between Aeacus and Heracles (fr. 1) were somewhat exaggerated, and his assumption that Euripides was not capable of some careless composition (while Critias was) is questionable. 53 As for content, the claims that Euripides could not have voiced the “Anaxagorean” cosmology of fr. 4 or the “Socratic” doctrine of fr. 10 are now generally recognized as unsound. 54 Wilamowitz’s assertion of a relationship between Pirithous and Aristophanes’ Frogs is also unpersuasive. In Pirithous Heracles enters the Underworld and is confronted by Aeacus. In Frogs Dionysus posing as Heracles enters the Underworld and on reaching Hades’ palace is confronted by a doorkeeper who is identified in most manuscripts as Aeacus but is not named in the text and is quite unlike the Aeacus of mythical tradition. 55 Wilamowitz inferred that the editors who gave the doorkeeper this name must have had in mind the Aeacus of Pirithous, who must therefore have behaved like Aristophanes’ doorkeeper, obstructing and brawling with Heracles. Pirithous must therefore have been produced not

 52 parodos: fr. 2 πλημοχόας, εὐφήμως; fr. 3 ἀκάμας, περίφοιτᾷ, ὠκυπλάνοις, Ἀτλάντειον, τηροῦσι; fr. 4 αὐτοφυῆ, αἰολόχρως, ἐνδελεχῶς, ἀμφιχορεύει, ῥύμβος, ἄκριτος. Some other lexical points (fr. 1.2 ἐγκονεῖν, fr. 11.1 τρόπος “disposition”, fr. 11.3 ῥήτωρ “politician”) were rebutted by Kuiper (1908a, 338; 1908b; 1907, 377f.). Papyrus fragments: fr. 4a.13 ἀπρούπτως, fr. 4a.15 ὀνειρατώδης, fr. 5.15 οἰστρήλατος, fr. 5.16 ἄπυστος, fr. 5.18 διασπαράσσω, fr. 6 ἀχάλκευτος. fr. 4a.17f. πέπταται…ἀχλὺς (a mist spread over the eyes) and fr. 5.11 μίσγοιτο (of sexual intercourse) are Homeric reminiscences. In general see Kuiper 1907, 371–373; Pechstein 1998, 190 n. 13; Alvoni 2011, 126f.; Cropp 2019, 221–231 (commentary on these fragments). 53 Wilamowitz 1907 (1994), 215; 1927, 229 (“tragische aufgeputzte Trivialität”); cf. Cropp 2019, 223. Repeated verses such as Pirithous fr. 1.9 = Wise Melanippe F 481.1 are found elsewhere in Euripides (cf. Harsh 1937). Wilamowitz’s assumption that this dialogue opened the play and thus contravened Euripides’ practice (1907 [1994], 214) was mistaken: cf. Sutton 1987, 33f.; Collard/ Cropp 2008, 637f.; Cropp 2019, 221. 54 See respectively Wilamowitz 1875, 162 with 1907b, 215f.; 1875, 165. That fr. 4 is inconsistent with other cosmological statements of Euripides is immaterial since this is not a matter of the poet’s personal beliefs (cf. Kuiper 1907, 381–385 amongst others). fr. 10 is not a Socratic statement (“Only the virtuous man can be happy”); it says only that fortune favours people with good sense (…ὡς τοῖσιν εὖ φρονοῦσι συμμαχεῖ τύχη). Wilamowitz also asserted arbitrarily that the constellation Ursa Minor (fr. 3.3) would have been known to Critias but not to his older contemporary Euripides (1907, 216). 55 Traditionally Aeacus’s piety in life led to his becoming one of the judges of the dead in the Underworld: ps.-Apollodorus 3.12.6, cf. Pl. Ap. 41a, Grg. 523–524, Isoc. 9.13–15, LIMC “Aiakos” nos 1–3 (S. Italian vases, later 4th C.). His role as gatekeeper of Hades is first attested explicitly in the works of Lucian (Dial. mort. 6.1, 11.2, 13.3 etc.) nearly six hundred years after Frogs.

Euripides or Critias, or Neither? Reflections on an Unresolved Question  

long before Frogs, 56 and Aristophanes could not have modelled this scene on a play of Euripides because Euripides was to be his target later in Frogs. 57 This reasoning is obviously circular: there is no evidence that the Aeacus of Pirithous behaved like Aristophanes’ doorkeeper, nor is this at all likely; and the assumption that the catabasis of Dionysus–Heracles in Frogs was modelled on that of Heracles in Pirithous is unneeded since the pattern of Heracles’ catabasis was much older. 58 Some scholars persuaded by Wilamowitz’s argument have been tempted to use the plot of Frogs as a template for the reconstruction of Pirithous, 59 but that is unjustified. Our uncertainty about Pirithous rests essentially on the doubt recorded in the Life and the suggestion of (probably) the lexicographer Pamphilus that it might have been Critias’s work. 60 The suggestion may have been an educated guess made because Euripides’ authorship was doubted and (say) something in the text was reminiscent of Critias’s thought or style. 61 At any rate, only this slender thread connects the play with the name of Critias. As for the doubts about Euripides’ authorship, these are difficult to assess. The play so far as we know it — an Athenian myth imaginatively reworked with the rescue of Pirithous, a broadly Anaxagorean doctrine in the cosmological fragments, and a generally accomplished tragic style — is very likely from the late fifth century and seems quite possibly Euripidean. If there was no didascalic record, denials of its authenticity may have been justified by evidence unknown to us, or they may have been due to misjudgment or misinformation of the kind I have mentioned earlier. That leaves open the possibility that this was a work of Euripides which was not produced at one of the major Athenian festivals. Both Sophocles and Euripides seem to have produced tragedies at other venues in Attica, at least occasionally. 62 These will often have been plays already produced in the City, but that need not  56 Wilamowitz 1875, 171f., cf. Alvoni 2008, 40–42. On this dating see above, n. 6. 57 Wilamowitz 1907, 214: “Es ist…unmöglich, dass er diese Figuren von Euripides nimmt, den er angreifen will. Nicht das mindeste Bedenken hat das, wenn das Drama von Kritias gegeben war, was dann ja kurz vorher geschehen war”. 58 See especially Lloyd-Jones 1967. 59 Wilamowitz 1875, 172; Sutton 1987, 67–70; Dobrov 2001, 133–156. Sutton and Dobrov both attribute Pirithous to Euripides. Dobrov interprets Frogs as a comic “contrafact” of Pirithous and includes Euripides frr. 868, 910, 912, 913, 964 and TrGF adesp. fr. 658 in the latter. 60 See Appendix, pp. 248–249 under Pirithous. 61 Cf. Hypoth. 2 Eur. Rhes. quoted in n. 34 above, and Slater 1976, 234 with n. 2 on Alexandrian scholars’ reliance on intuition in the absence of documentary information. 62 Sophocles at Eleusis, IG I3 970 = TrGF DID B 3; Sophocles at Halai Aixonides, IG II2 3091 = TrGF DID B 5; Euripides at Anagyrous, IG I3 969 = TrGF DID B 2 (Euripides T 62). Details and discussion: Csapo 2010, 89–95; Csapo/Wilson 2015, 319–328; Lamari 2017, 35–45.

  Martin J. Cropp always have been so, especially at major centres such as Peiraieus or Eleusis. 63 Eleusis, the site of Heracles’ descent to the underworld and capture of Cerberus after his initiation into the Lesser Mysteries, 64 would have been an appropriate setting for Pirithous with its new and improved version of that story. As I noted earlier, the satyr-play Sisyphus presents special complications because of the uncertain status of the Sisyphus-fragment (Critias fr. 19 in TrGF) which is attributed to Critias by Sextus (quoting the whole text) but to Euripides by ps.-Plutarch/Aetius (quoting parts of it). 65 One of the few things that can be said confidently about this speech is that it presents a sophistic argument, characteristic of the late fifth century, about the origin of the belief that all human wrongdoing is perceived and subject to punishment by gods who exist unseen in the heavens. It does not necessarily come from a play named Sisyphus, 66 nor from the play otherwise attested as Euripides’ Sisyphus, nor from a play that was ever publicly performed. It does however seem to have been associated with Critias at least as early as the end of the fourth century when, according to the first-century Epicurean philosopher Philodemus, Epicurus “reproached for their complete madness those who eliminate the divine from existing things”, including Prodicus, Diagoras, Critias and others. 67 Philodemus’s list seems to have been a prototype of the catalogues of alleged atheists found in later sources (including Sextus and ps.-Plutarch citing the Sisyphus-fragment) and probably codified by Cleitomachus of Carthage in the late second century BC. 68 Dihle argued that Epicurus need not have had the Sisyphus-fragment in mind and could have cited Critias as

 63 A dubious anecdote of Aelian has Socrates visiting Peiraieus to see new tragedies of Euripides (Aelian, VH 2.13 = Eur. T 47a TrGF). 64 See Eur. HF 610–613 with Bond 1981, 218f. and refs. there. 65 see Appendix, p. 250 and above, p. 236. 66 This is an inference based on the assumptions (a) that the play was named after its principal character and (b) that its principal character was Sisyphus. Pechstein (1998, 117, 191, 289ff.) finds a possible alternative in one of Euripides’ two plays named Autolycus. 67 Philodemus, On Piety 1, lines 519–530 Obbink 1996 (523–530 = Epicurus, Περὶ φύσεως fr. 27(2) Arrighetti): καὶ πᾶσαν μ[ανίαν Ἐ]πίκουρος ἐμ̣[έμψα]το τοῖς τὸ [θεῖον ἐ]κ τῶν ὄντων [ἀναι]ροῦσιν, ὡς κἀ[ν τῶι] δωδεκάτω[ι Προ]δίκωι καὶ Δια[γόραι] καὶ Κριτίαι κἄ[λλοις] μ̣έμφ̣[εται] φὰ̣ς π̣α[ρα]κόπτε̣ι̣ν καὶ μ̣[αίνεσ]θαι, καὶ βακχεύουσιν αὐτοὺς [εἰ]κά[ζει…: “Epicurus reproached for their complete madness those who eliminate the divine from existing things, as in Book 12 he reproaches Prodicus, Diagoras and Critias among others, saying that they rave like lunatics, and he likens them to Bacchant revellers…” (tr. Obbink, slightly adapted). 68 See especially Winiarczyk 1976, also e.g. Obbink 1989, 217f.; 1996, 351; Sedley 2013, 329f.; Whitmarsh 2015, 208f. Sedley suggests that Theophrastus was Epicurus’s source.

Euripides or Critias, or Neither? Reflections on an Unresolved Question  

an atheist simply because of his lawless political record, 69 but this is now implausible: the text of Philodemus’s statement, as read by Obbink, 70 makes it clear that Epicurus was attacking specific doctrines which denied the existence of gods or seemed to imply such a denial. 71 He might conceivably have had in mind some other text of Critias, 72 but (as Dihle himself noted) nothing relevant is otherwise associated with him; and since the Sisyphus-fragment was cited later as the evidence for Critias’s atheism, it is reasonable to infer that it was Epicurus’s evidence as well. Critias’s association with the Sisyphus-fragment, then, looks considerably stronger than that of Euripides, whose atheist credentials are slight and who is linked with the speech only much later by ps.-Plutarch/Aetius and derivatives. He may have been mistakenly identified with the speech simply because he was the best-known author of a Sisyphus. 73 All this, however, leaves the origin of the Sisyphus-fragment undetermined. Possibly it was already quoted in isolation in Epicurus’s time as an example of Critias’s atheism; 74 if so, a complete play-text, if there ever was one, might no longer have existed — and if it did, it cannot have been a text no longer ascribed to Critias and bearing the name of Euripides instead, as Wilamowitz’s theory requires. Either way, there is no need to connect the Sisyphus-fragment or its source with Euripides’ Sisyphus as represented by frr. 673–674 and the related testimonia. Nor is it quite certain that the author must therefore have been Critias, although it is not easy to account for the attribution if it had no real basis. 75

 69 Dihle 1977, 31f., followed by Yunis 1988, 45f. Against this, Winiarczyk 1987, 37, 42; Davies 1989, 25; Cipolla 2003, 267f. Both sides are sceptically reviewed by Pechstein 1998, 295–302. 70 See Philodemus lines 519–523 (note 67 above) with Obbink 1989, 216f. and 1996, 349f. Dihle and Yunis were of course not aware of this reading. 71 On this point see amongst others Obbink 1996, 352–355; Sedley 2013, 329–332. 72 One might well wonder whether his only evidence was a speech delivered by a mythical criminal who was eternally punished in Hades, but these aspects could have been overlooked once the speech was detached from its context. 73 For sources for Euripides’ supposed atheism see Winiarczyk 1984, 171f. Two lines of the Sisyphus-fragment (vv. 33–34) are ascribed to Euripides in Chrysippus fr. 1009 von Arnim, but the source of this fragment (actually ps.-Plutarch/Aetius again, Mor. 879f.) names only “the Stoics” and its attribution to Chrysippus in particular is unjustified (cf. Dihle 1977, 37 n. 14). 74 Sedley 2013, 335–337 argues that the speech, or a larger text containing it, will have been circulated privately and anonymously from the start because of the risks that open atheistic statements faced in late fifth-century Athens. The detachment of the speech from its author and dramatic context is however resisted by Whitmarsh 2014, 113–115 with n. 34. 75 Sedley 2013, 337 suggests that the attribution “may have originated from a feeling that the author of such a seditious passage must be a playwright of appropriate date who was also a person of suitable moral badness”.

  Martin J. Cropp To sum up: there are no certainties here, only some reasons for doubting that the Alexandrians’ doubts about these plays were based on documentary evidence of their production as a single tetralogy, which must then be assigned either to Euripides or to Critias. If there was no such evidence, there are no grounds for attributing Rhadamanthys or Tennes to Critias, and only marginal grounds for attributing Pirithous to him. The grounds for attributing these plays to Euripides are stronger insofar as their texts apparently reached Alexandria under his name, but fact that his authorship was then denied, at least by some scholars, for reasons that we cannot assess must leave matters in doubt (my own sense is that Pirithous has a better chance of being by Euripides than the other two). Sisyphus is a different matter because it may not have been the disputed satyr-play mentioned in the Life of Euripides and may not have been the source of the Sisyphus-fragment; so it may well be that Critias was responsible for the Sisyphus-fragment and Euripides for the Sisyphus known in Alexandria. All in all, the best editorial policy is perhaps that of Nauck and those before him (p. 237 above) who ascribed the Sisyphus-fragment to Critias while printing the fragments of Sisyphus and the three tragedies under Euripides’ name, with suitable warnings about the status of the tragedies.

Appendix: The Testimonia Euripides Pirithous – ten book-fragments, Critias frr. 1–4, 6, 10–14, cited variously by Satyrus (c. 200 BC), Plutarch, Athenaeus, Clement of Alexandria, Stobaeus and others; 76 – a narrative hypothesis quoted in two Byzantine rhetorical commentaries (see Critias fr. 1); and probably: – an inscribed list of Euripidean play-titles (IG II2 2363, c. 100 BC = Euripides T 7a); 77  76 Stobaeus cites fr. 10 and fr. 12 from “Euripides’ Pirithous”, fr. 11 simply from “Pirithous”. 77 Generally known as the Piraeus Catalogue. The titles in lines 43–46 were probably Pl[eisthenes], [Pa]lamedes, P[eliades] or P[olyidos], Peleus, P[eirithoos], [Pro]tesilaos: cf. Pechstein 1998, 34–36.

Euripides or Critias, or Neither? Reflections on an Unresolved Question  

parts of a complete papyrus text (P.Oxy. 2078 + 3531, 2nd C. AD = Critias frr. 4a, 5, 7–9). 78

Rhadamanthys – all three book-fragments, cited by Strabo (1st C. BC = Critias fr. 16), the “Antiatticist” Lexicon (fr. 18) and Stobaeus (fr. 17); – end of a narrative hypothesis from a Euripidean collection (PSI 1286, 2nd C. AD = Critias fr. 15). Tennes – the only book-fragment, Critias fr. 21, cited by Stobaeus; – a list of Euripidean play-titles (P.Oxy. 2456, 2nd C. AD = Euripides T 8); – end of a narrative hypothesis from a Euripidean collection (P.Oxy. 2455 fr. 14, 2nd C. AD = Critias fr. 20). Sisyphus – both book-fragments explicitly ascribed to the play (Euripides, Sisyphus frr. 673–674); – the didascalic record for 415 BC (cited by Aelian, VH 2.8 = Euripides, Sisyphus test. ii); – the lists of play-titles cited above for Pirithous and Tennes; – part of a narrative hypothesis, as for Tennes (P.Oxy. 2455 fr. 7 = Euripides, Sisyphus test. *iii). 79

Not Euripides –

Two abridgements of an ancient Life of Euripides found in Byzantine manuscripts (TrGF Euripides T 1.IA.28–29, 1.IB.57–58): 80 IA: “His plays totalled 92, of which 78 are preserved. Three of these are spurious (νοθεύεται): Tennes, Rhadamanthys, Pirithous”; 81

 78 The papyrus presumably circulated as a text of Euripides: cf. Collard 2007, 61. 79 The Sisyphus hypothesis may be represented in fr. 5 rather than fr. 7: see Kannicht ad loc. 80 On the Hellenistic source of the Byzantine summaries see Schorn 2004, 27–31. 81 τὰ πάντα δ’ ἦν αὐτοῦ δράματα ϙβʹ, σῴζεται δὲ οηʹ. τούτων νοθεύεται τρία, Τέννης Ῥαδάμανθυς Πειρίθους.

  Martin J. Cropp IB: “His plays totalled 92, and 67 plays of his are preserved, plus 3 that are disputed (ἀντιλεγόμενα); and 8 satyr-plays, and of these also 1 is disputed”. 82

and probably: – the Roman scholar M. Terentius Varro (1st C. BC) stated that Euripides “wrote 75 tragedies”, i.e. probably 78 [plays] minus 3 [tragedies], cf. IA above; 83 – the Marmor Albanum, an inscription accompanying a seated statue of Euripides (2nd C. AD? = TrGF Euripides T 6), has an unfinished alphabetic list of his play-titles which may have been meant to include all the authentic titles without the four disputed ones. 84 – the biographical entry for Euripides in the Suda (10th C.) credits him with 22 productions in all, i.e. probably 88 plays (= 92–4). 85

Critias or Euripides Pirithous – Athenaeus 11, 496a (late 2nd C. AD) quotes an explanation of the term πλημοχόη (a type of small ceramic jug) by the lexicographer Pamphilus (1st c. AD) and adds: “The author of Pirithous mentions them, whether this is Critias the tyrant or Euripides, as follows…” (Critias fr. 2 is then quoted). 86 The quotation

 82 τὰ πάντα δ’ ἦν αὐτοῦ δράματα ϙβʹ, σῴζεται δὲ αὐτοῦ δράματα ξζʹ καὶ γʹ πρὸς τούτοις τὰ ἀντιλεγόμενα, σατυρικὰ δὲ ηʹ, ἀντιλέγεται δὲ καὶ τούτων τὸ αʹ (i.e. “one of the eight”, not “the one that accompanied the three tragedies”: cf. Kannicht 1996, 27 n. 12; Cropp 2019, 219). 83 Varro fr. 298 Funaioli, from Aul. Gel. 17.4.3: “Euripiden quoque M. Varro ait, cum quinque et septuaginta tragoedias scripserit, in quinque solis vicisse”. 84 Musée du Louvre, Ma 343 (colour photo Euripides_Louvre_Ma343.jpg accessed 9 Feb. 2020). The list was in two columns of which the first is only partially preserved (its last eight titles are lost) and the second was never completed (it stops at ΟΡΕΣΤΗΣ, so that titles beginning with the letters Π through Χ are missing). Titles which Euripides used twice (Hippolytus etc.) are listed once each. Pechstein assumes that the second column would have contained the same number of titles as the first column, i.e. 34, and so would not have allowed for the four disputed plays, but the assumption of symmetry is not altogether reliable; there was room in the second column for at least 40 titles, and even if symmetry was required the total might have been an odd number. Some asymmetry is in fact visible, as the eleven extant titles in col. 2 (ΚΡΗΤΕΣ–ΟΡΕΣΤΗΣ) occupy the same height as the first ten titles in col. 1 (ΑΛΚΗΣΤΙΣ–ΑΥΓΗ). 85 Suda ε 3695 (= TrGF Euripides T 3) at end: ἐπεδείξατο δὲ ὅλους ἐνιαύτους κβʹ (so mss. AV). See note 38 above for Kannicht’s interpretation of the numbers in the biographical sources. 86 μνημονεύει αὐτῶν καὶ ὁ τὸν Πειρίθουν γράψας, εἴτε Κριτίας ἐστὶν ὁ τύραννος ἢ Εὐριπίδης, λέγων οὕτως ....

Euripides or Critias, or Neither? Reflections on an Unresolved Question  

presumably comes from Pamphilus, the comment on disputed authorship from either Pamphilus or Athenaeus. Sisyphus(?) – Sextus Empiricus (adv. math. 9.54, late 2nd C. AD?) quotes the famous atheist speech Critias fr. 19 in full and attributes it to Critias, whereas the pseudoPlutarchan Placita Philosophorum (an epitome of a doxographic work usually ascribed to Aetius) quotes parts of it as from Euripides and names Sisyphus as the speaker. 87 Neither names the play or says whether it was a tragedy or a satyr-play.

Critias –

Four gnomic fragments from unidentified plays (so possibly from one or more of the plays in question here) are ascribed by Stobaeus simply to Critias (Critias frr. 22–25).

Bibliography Alvoni, G. (2008), “Eracle ed Eaco alle Porte dell’Ade (Critias fr. 1 Sn.–K.)”, Philologus 152, 40– 48. Alvoni, G. (2011), “Ist Critias Fr. 1 Sn.K. Teil des ‘Peirithoos’-Prologs? Zu Wilamowitzens Memorandum über die ‘Peirithoosfrage’”, Hermes 139, 120–130. Bach, N. (1827), Critiae tyranni carminum aliorumque ingenii monumentorum quae supersunt, Leiden. Bagnall, R. (2002), “Alexandria: Library of Dreams”, Proceedings of the American Philosophical Society 146, 348–362. Bagordo, A. (2013), Fragmenta Comica: Kommentierung der Fragmente der griechischen Komödie. 4: Telekleides, Mainz. Battegazzore, A./Carlini, A. (1989), “Critias”, Corpus dei papiri filosofici greci e latini (CPF) I.1* (Academici–Cyrenaici), 442–466, Florence. Bond, G.W. (1981), Euripides: Heracles, Oxford. Bremer, J.M./W. Calder (1994), “Prussia and Holland: Wilamowitz and two Kuipers”, 
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 87 [Plut.] Mor. 880E. On the shadowy figure of Aetius see most recently Mansfeld 2016, esp. 164– 168.

  Martin J. Cropp Canfora, L. (1990), The Vanished Library, transl. M. Ryle (orig. Italian, 1986), Berkeley. Caroli, M. (2006), “La numerazione dei drammi greci nella tradizione manoscritta antica e medievale”, Segno e testo 4, 3–49. Cipolla, P. (2003), Poeti minori del dramma satiresco, Amsterdam. Collard, C. (2007), “The Pirithous Fragments”, in: C. Collard (ed.), Tragedy, Euripides and Euripideans: Selected Papers, Bristol (orig. 1995), 56–68. Collard, C./Cropp, M. (2008), Euripides: Fragments. Oedipus–Chrysippus etc, Cambridge MA. Colomo, D. (2011), “5093. Rhetorical Epideixeis”, in: D. Colomo/J. Chapa (eds), The Oxyrhynchus Papyri, vol. 76, London, 84–171. Cropp, M.J. (2019), Minor Greek Tragedians. Fragments from the Tragedies with Selected Testimonia. I. The Fifth Century, Liverpool. Csapo, E. (2010), Actors and Icons of the Ancient Theater, Chichester. Csapo, E./Wilson, P. (2015), “Drama outside Athens in the fifth and fourth centuries BC”, in: A.A. Lamari (ed.), Reperformances of Drama in the Fifth and Fourth Centuries BC: Authors and Contexts, Berlin (Trends in Classics 7), 316–395. Davies, M. (1989), “Sisyphus and the invention of religion”, BICS 36, 16–32. Diggle, J. (1998), Tragicorum Graecorum Fragmenta Selecta, Oxford. Dihle, A. (1977), “Das Satyrspiel ‘Sisyphos’”, Hermes 105, 28–42. Dobrov, G. (2001), Figures of Play. Greek Drama and Metafictional Poetics, Oxford/New York. Dover, K.J. (1968), Lysias and the Corpus Lysiacum, Berkeley. Elmsley, P. (1821), Euripidis Bacchae, Oxford. Finglass, P.J. (2015), “Ancient Reperformances of Sophocles”, in: A.A. Lamari (ed.), Reperformances of Drama in the Fifth and Fourth Centuries BC: Authors and Contexts, Berlin (Trends in Classics 7), 207–223. Fowler, R.L. (2013), Early Greek Mythography, II. Commentary, Oxford. Gantz, T.N. (1993), Early Greek Myth, Baltimore/London. Gauly, B. et al. (1991), Musa Tragica: die griechische Tragödie von Thespis bis Ezechiel, Göttingen. Halliwell, F.S. (1989), “Authorial collaboration in the Athenian comic theatre”, GRBS 30, 515– 528. Harsh, P.W. (1937), “Repetition of lines in Euripides”, Hermes 72, 435–449. Hoffmann, H. (1951), Chronologie der attischen Tragödie, PhD diss., Hamburg. Johnstone, S. (2014), “A New History of Libraries and Books in the Hellenistic Period”, CA 33, 347–393. Jouan, F./Van Looy, H. (1998), Euripide, Tome VIII.1. Fragments 1re partie, Paris. Kannicht, R. (1996), “Zum Corpus Euripideum”, in: C. Mueller-Goldingen/K. Sier (eds), ΛΗΝΑΙΚΑ: Festschrift für Carl Werner Müller, Munich, 21–31. Kayser, W.C. (1845), Historia Critica Tragicorum Graecorum, Göttingen. Koster, W. (1975), Scholia in Aristophanem I.1a. Prolegomena de Comoedia etc, Groningen. Kuiper, K. (1888), Wijsbegeerte en Godsdienst in het Drama van Euripides, Haarlem. Kuiper, K. (1907), “De Pirithoo fabula Euripidea”, Mnemosyne 35, 354–385. Kuiper, K. (1908a), “De Euripideae fabulae Pirithoi fragmento nuper reperto”, Mnemosyne 36, 335–341. Kuiper, K. (1908b), “De vocabuli τρόπος vi atque usu per saecula VI et V”, Mnemosyne 36, 419– 434. Lamari, A.A. (ed.) (2015), Reperformances of Drama in the
 Fifth and Fourth Centuries BC: Authors and Contexts, Trends in Classics 7.2, Berlin.

Euripides or Critias, or Neither? Reflections on an Unresolved Question  

Lamari, A.A. (2017), Reperforming Greek Tragedy. Theater, Politics and Cultural Mobility in the Fifth and Fourth Centuries BC, Berlin. Larson, J. (1995), Greek Heroine Cults, Madison WI. Lefkowitz, M. (20122), The Lives of the Greek Poets, Baltimore. Lesky, A. (19723), Die tragische Dichtung der Hellenen, Göttingen. Librán Moreno, M. (2011), “Neofrón 15 T 1–3 Sn.-K. y la Medea de Eurípides”, Lexis 29, 113–129. Lloyd-Jones, Η. (1967), “Heracles at Eleusis”, Maia n.s. 19, 206–229. Mansfeld, J. (2016), “Theodoret of Cyrrhus’s Therapy of Greek Diseases as a source for the Aëtian Placita”, The Studia Philonica Annual 28, 151–168. Matthiae, A. (1829), Euripidis Tragoediae et Fragmenta, vol. 9, Leipzig. Meccariello, C. (2014), Le Hypotheseis Narrative dei Drammi Euripidei. Testo, contesto, fortuna, Rome. Montana, F. (2015), “Hellenistic Scholarship”, in: F. Montanari/St. Matthaios/A. Rengakos (eds), Brill’s Companion to Ancient Greek Scholarship, 2 vols, Leiden, 60–183. Montanari, F. (2009), “L’esegesi antico di Eschilo da Aristotele a Didimo”, in: J. Jouanna/ F. Montanari (eds), Eschyle à l’aube du théâtre occidental, Vandoeuvres, 379–433. Nauck, A. (1856), Tragicorum Graecorum Fragmenta (Second edition: 1889), Leipzig. Obbink, D. (1989), “The atheism of Epicurus”, GRBS 30, 187–223. Obbink, D. (1996), Philodemus on Piety, Part 1, Oxford. Pechstein, N. (1998), Euripides Satyrographos: ein Kommentar zu den euripideischen Satyrspielfragmenten, Stuttgart/Leipzig. Pfeiffer, R. (1968), History of Classical Scholarship: from the beginnings to the end of the Hellenistic age, Oxford. Rabe, H. (1908), “Aus Rhetoren-Handschriften”, RhM 63, 127–151. Rutishauser, B. (2001), “Island strategies: the case of Tenedos”, REA 103, 197–204. Schmid, W. (1940), Geschichte der griechischen Literatur, Ι.3.1, Munich. Schorn, S. (2004), Satyros auf Kallatis. Sammlung der Fragmente mit Kommentar, Basel. Scodel, R. (1980), The Trojan Trilogy of Euripides, Göttingen. Sedley, D. (2013), “The Atheist Underground”, in: V. Harte/M. Lane (eds), Politeia in Greek and Roman Philosophy, Cambridge, 329–348. Slater, W.J. (1976), “Aristophanes of Byzantium on the Pinakes of Callimachus”, Phoenix 30, 234–241. Speyer, W. (1971), Die literarische Fälschung im heidnischen und christlichen Altertum, Munich. Sutton, D.F. (1981), “Critias and atheism”, CQ 31, 33–38. Sutton, D.F. (1987), Two Lost Plays of Euripides, New York/Bern etc. TrGF (1971–2004), B. Snell/R. Kann nicht/S. Radt, Tragicorum Graecorum Fragmenta, Five volumes in six, Göttingen. Valckenaer, L.C. (1767), Diatribe in Euripidis perditorum dramatum reliquias, Leiden. Wagner, F.W. (1844, 1848), Poetarum Tragicorum Graecorum Fragmenta, vol. 2: Euripides (1844), vol. 3: Minores, Adespota (1848), Breslau. Welcker, F.G. (1839, 1842), Die griechischen Tragödien mit rücksicht auf den epischen Cyclus, vols 1–2 (1839), 3 (1842), Bonn. Whitmarsh, T. (2015), Battling the Gods: Atheism in the Ancient World, New York/London. Wilamowitz-Moellenfdorff, U. von (1875), Analecta Euripidea, Berlin. Wilamowitz-Moellenfdorff, U. von (1907), “Response to Kuiper 1907”, in: J.M. Bremer/W. Calder Mnemosyne 47 (1997), 211–216; cf. Alvoni (2011), 120–130. Wilamowitz-Moellenfdorff, U. von (1920), Platon, 2 vols, Berlin.

  Martin J. Cropp Wilamowitz-Moellenfdorff, U. von (1921), “Melanippe”, Sitzungsberichte de Preussichen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 63–80 (= KS I, 440–460). Wilamowitz-Moellenfdorff, U. von (1927), “Lesefrüchte 223”, Hermes 62, 291f. (= KS IV, 446f.). Wilamowitz-Moellenfdorff, U. von (1929), “Lesefrüchte 254”, Hermes 64, 463f. (= KS IV, 481f.). Winiarczyk, M. (1976), “Der erste Atheistenkatalog des Kleitomachos”, Philologus 120, 32–46. Winiarczyk, M. (1984), “Wer galt im Altertum als Atheist?”, Philologus 128, 157–183. Winiarczyk, M. (1987), “Nochmals das Satyrspiel ‘Sisyphos’”, WS 100, 35–45. Yunis, H. (1988), “The Debate on Undetected Crime and an Undetected Fragment from Euripides’ Sisyphus”, ZPE 75, 39–46.

Ioanna Karamanou

Fragmented Intergeneric Discourses: Epinician Echoes in Euripides’ Alexandros This survey sets out to explore Euripides’ intergeneric interplay with epinician poetry in the Alexandros, which was staged in 415 BC alongside the Palamedes, the Trojan Women and the satyr play Sisyphus. Research on this drama, which is one of the best preserved fragmentary tragedies, has benefited enormously from papyrus finds providing a large number of fragments from the play (P.Stras. 2342–2344) and a major part of its narrative hypothesis (P.Oxy. 3650, col. i). The available fragmentary material could thus offer scope for a considerable range of interpretative possibilities, not least because the Alexandros may be perceived both as a self-contained play and as part of a production which has been widely and plausibly considered to bear the features of a “connected” trilogy. 1 The Alexandros treats the recognition of the long-lost royal son Alexandros / Paris with his natal family and his return to the Trojan palace. According to the hypothesis (P.Oxy. 3650, col. i), when Alexandros was born, Hecabe had him exposed due to an ill-omened dream alluding to the disaster that the newborn child would bring to Troy. The child was raised by a herdsman, who named him Paris. Hecabe still grieving over his exposure persuaded Priam to establish athletic games in his memory. When twenty years had passed, the boy excelled among his fellow herdsmen, who accused him of arrogance before Priam as a judge. After defending himself, Alexandros was granted permission to participate in his own funeral games. Having been crowned winner, he infuriated his brother Deiphobus and his companions, who realizing that they had been defeated by a herdsman demanded that Hecabe should kill him. When Alexandros re-appeared onstage, Cassandra recognized him at a state of prophetic frenzy foretelling of the future disaster. Hecabe was prevented from killing him. His foster-father arrived and because of the danger was compelled to tell the truth. Alexandros thus returned to the Trojan palace. This play features an athletic contest as a pivotal element of its dramatic plot. I shall point out that Euripides chooses to employ epinician vocabulary, imagery

 1 The unity of the trilogy of 415 BC has plausibly been supported by Scodel 1980, esp. 64–121. See also Menegazzi 1951, 190–191; Pertusi 1952, 251–273; Webster 1966, 208–213; Barlow 1986, 27–30; Ritoók 1993, 109–125; Hose 1995, 33–57; Kovacs 1997, 162–176; Falcetto 2002, 21–37; Collard Cropp/Gibert 2004, 47–48; Sansone 2009, 193–203; Torrance 2013, 238–245; Karamanou 2016, 355–367 and 2017, 31–37 (with further bibliography on this matter).

  Ioanna Karamanou and ideology to describe this competition and I shall seek to investigate the dramatic meaning of the use of epinician elements and their ramifications for the development of the plot. We may start with fr. 61d K. (fr. 15 Kar.). 2 The paragraphoi in ll. 5–9 and 14– 15 of the papyrus text point to a stichomythic dialogue consisting of questions and answers with regard to the outcome of the athletic games, which is suggestive of a messenger scene.

(ΧΟ.) vel (ΕΚ.) (ΑΓΓΕΛΟC) (ΧΟ.) vel (ΕΚ.) (ΑΓΓ.) (ΧΟ.) vel (ΕΚ.) (ΑΓΓ.)

(ΧΟ.) vel (ΕΚ.) (ΑΓΓ.) (ΧΟ.) vel (ΕΚ.)

10–12 ll.] τε.[ 10–12 ll.]ο̣ υδ[ ..]o..[± 7 ll.]νcυ̣[ τ̣ ύχηι δ[ίδω]μ̣ι πά[ντα –x – ᴗ – κρείccω πεφυκὼc [ – ᴗ – x – ᴗ – ἦ καὶ cτέφουcιν αὐτὸ[ν –x – ᴗ – καί φαcιν εἶν̣ α̣ί̣ γ’ ἄ̣ξιον [ x – ᴗ – ὁ δ’ ὧδε μορφῆι διαφερ[ –x – ᴗ ἅ̣πα̣νθ’, ὅc’ ἄ̣νδρα χρη[ ᴗ – x – ᴗ – ± 10 ll.]γαν βουκ[ολ 2–3 ll.]δ.[ ․ ]δ̣[ ἀγῶνα ποῦ κ[ρίνουcι; – x – ᴗ – Πρία̣μοc τίθη̣c̣ιν [ – ᴗ – x – ᴗ – εἰc̣ τόνδε νικη.[ – ᴗ – x – ᴗ – κ̣α̣[ὶ] πρ̣ο̣ [. . .]αιδ[


; ;

10 ; ;


(Eur. fr. 61d K.) (traces of three lines) (Chorus-leader or Hecabe) (Messenger) (Cho.) / (Hec.) (Mess.) (Cho.) / (Hec.) (Mess.) (traces of one line) (Cho.) / (Hec.) (Mess.) (Cho.) /(Hec.) (traces of one line)

[I assign everything] to fortune[ Being better by nature[ Are they really crowning him[ ? And they deem him worthy[ Is he/ Being so exceptional in appearance[ ? Everything that a man must[ ]herdsman[ Where [do they judge] the contest [ Priam is setting [ To this man […] victory [awards ?


 2 The text and translation of the fragments of the Alexandros follow Karamanou 2017, henceforth abbreviated as Kar.

Fragmented Intergeneric Discourses: Epinician Echoes in Euripides’ Alexandros  

This messenger scene comprises a succinct report of offstage events, which is usually embedded in an introductory dialogue between the messenger and his interlocutor. These brief announcements are followed by detailed messengerspeeches. The likeliest addressee of the messenger speech seems to be Hecabe, who would naturally be very eager to hear news from the games held in memory of her lost child. She also needs to be informed of the outcome of the contest, in order to participate in the next scene, which involves a formal debate between her two sons, Hector and Deiphobus, concerning their defeat by the unknown herdsman. Nonetheless, there is no clear evidence as to whether the messenger was involved in a dialogue with Hecabe right from the outset, that is, in the present fragment, or briefly reported the events in a dialogue with the chorus-leader, who then presumably summoned Hecabe out of the palace to listen to the messenger’s rhēsis. 3 According to the hypothesis, Alexandros won in running, pentathlon and possibly in a fighting event (P.Oxy. 3650, col. i, 21–22). The closest extant dramatic parallel to this report of the athletic contest would be the false messengerspeech describing Orestes’ participation in the athletic games in Soph. El. 680– 763. 4 As we shall see, the use of epinician vocabulary in the messenger’s report echoes the victor’s proclamation by the herald in epinician poetry. 5 Line 4 of the present fragment preserves the addressee’s reaction to the herdsman’s victory at the athletic competition. The speaker, that is, Hecabe or the chorus-leader, attributes this outcome to fortune, which suggests the unexpectedness of Alexandros’

 3 For the former possibility, see the similar opening dialogues between messengers and dramatic characters in Med. 1121–1230, Heracl. 784–866, Andr. 1070–1165, El. 761–858, Hel. 1512– 1618, Phoen. 1066–1263 (and Mastronarde 1994, 446), Or. 852–956, Bacch. 660–774; for the latter possibility, see Hipp. 1153–1254, IT 1284–1419 (this was proposed by Schadewaldt ap. Snell 1937, 37 and was accepted by Jouan/van Looy 1998–2003, I 51, Kannicht 2004, I 192, Collard/ Cropp/Gibert 2004, 78–79 and by Di Giuseppe 2012, 115–116). Scodel (1980, 31) favoured Hecabe’s onstage presence before the messenger’s arrival, on the basis of Ennius Alexander fr. 19 Jocelyn / 15 Manuwald possibly presenting the Queen to be awaiting a report about the athletic contest. This would entail that she was the messenger’s interlocutor in the dialogue of the present fragment. Though one might argue that Ennius may have not necessarily followed Euripides’ arrangement of the episode so closely, it is worth noting in support of this suggestion that there is a series of Euripidean parallels involving characters anxiously awaiting news, which are to be reported by the arriving messenger (Med. 1116–1117, Andr. 1047–1069, El. 751–760, Or. 844– 851), as in the Ennian fragment. 4 See also Di Giuseppe 2012, 115. 5 See e.g. Pind. Ol. 13.100, Pyth. 1.32–133; Kampakoglou 2018, 202, n. 79.

  Ioanna Karamanou victory, 6 as well as a possible doubt about his abilities. This statement seems to be refuted in the next line by the messenger, who asserts Alexandros’ superiority over his rivals. In more specific terms, the messenger stresses Alexandros’ supremacy in the athletic contest by employing κρείccων in the sense of “better”, “superior”. 7 This epithet recurs in the ensuing agon between Hector and Deiphobus (fr. 62b.33 K.) with regard to Alexandros’ superiority and worth. At the same time, the epithet κρείccων also denoting “better in point of rank” (LSJ9) from an aristocratic viewpoint in conjunction with πεφυκώc might create an ironic ambiguity, 8 by alluding to Alexandros’ inherent excellences due to his high birth. The well informed audience would be able to perceive both levels of interpretation. The twofold meaning of this line could be suggestive of the tension between the aristocratic values commending the innate excellences of the noble and the civic values of late-fifth century defining nobility on the basis of worth and usefulness. The latter are praised in the choral ode of fr. 61b K. The association of athletic victory with the winner’s physis evidently derives from epinician poetry, which upholds the aristocratic system of values, as it emerges from several Pindaric passages, such as Ol. 9.100 (τὸ δὲ φυᾷ κράτιστον ἅπαν), Ol. 2.86 (σοφὸς ὁ πολλὰ εἰδὼς φυᾷ), Nem. 3.40. 9 Likewise, in the arbitration scene in Menander’s Epitrepontes (322–329) the victory in an athletic competition is regarded as likely to reveal the noble nature of the exposed child. In l. 6 of the same fragment there is a reference to Alexandros’ crowning, which recurs in fr. 62d, col. ii, 6 K., as will be discussed below. Naturally enough, the victor’s crowning is a key epinician element (Pind. Ol. 1.100, 2.74, 3.18, 4.11, Pyth. 1.37, 8.57, Nem. 2.22, Isthm. 1.21, Bacchyl. 1.158, 2.10, 4.16). Euripides appropriates the idea of the victory wreath as an indicator of excellence deployed to describe athletic, military or civic virtue. 10 In the present case, as possibly in  6 See Collard/Cropp/Gibert 2004, 79. Fortune is given dramatic prominence in the Alexandros as a mechanism of the plot through its identification with divine will (fr. 62 K.) and its underlying association with time (fr. 42 K.). For this idea, see De Romilly 1968, 119–131; Dunn 2007, 88–92 and 1996, 143–151; Hose 2008, 157–169; Giannopoulou 1999–2000; Matthiessen 1964, 180–185. 7 See similarly Eur. fr. inc. 972.2 K. σφάλλουσιν ἡμᾶς κρείσσονες πεφυκότες and the parallel syntax in the same position of the trimeter in Med. 301 κρείσσων νομισθείς. Cf. also Heracl. 25, Andr. 765, El. 227, Archelaus frr. 244.1 and 261.2 K. 8 As observed by Scodel 1980, 89. 9 Cf. Donlan 1978, 95–101; Kurke 1991, 85–107; Carey 1995, 88–90; Nicholson 2005; Silk 2012, 349; 354–361; Morgan 2008, 31–35; Podlecki 1984, 237–243. 10 See Supp. 315 (and Collard 1975, II 191), El. 163, 614 (cf. Denniston 1939, 126–127), 887, HF 335 (and Bond 1981, 153), 1334, IT 12, Phoen. 858, Or. 924, Erechtheus fr. 360.34 K. (cf. Collard/Cropp/Lee 1995, ad loc.), Antiope fr. 219.1 K., Autolycus fr. 282.18–24 K., fr. inc. 853.4 K., fr. inc. 1052.5 K., Soph. Aj. 465, Phil. 841. Cf. also Thuc. 2.46.1, Lycurg. Leocr. 12.51 and within comic

Fragmented Intergeneric Discourses: Epinician Echoes in Euripides’ Alexandros  

Hyps. fr. 757.935 K., the verb στέφω (“to crown”) is literally used with regard to the crowning of the winner in a funeral athletic contest. However, as we shall see below, the imagery of the crown is ironically brought into play later on, in order to delineate Alexandros’ shift from glorious winner to helpless victim. Alexandros’ outstanding beauty, which is stressed in l. 8, recurs within the context of this trilogy, that is, in the agon of the Trojan Women (987 κάλλος ἐκπρεπέστατος) and is widely reported in ancient sources. Similarly, in Soph. El. 685 Orestes’ radiant appearance as he enters the athletic contest arouses the audience’s admiration. 11 According to the aristocratic system of values, physical beauty was related to aretē (“virtue”) as a mark of the high-born. The notion of physis comprises the element of appearance, which is, as expected, a feature of athletes (Autolycus fr. 282.10 K. λαμπροὶ δ’ ἐν ἥβῃ καὶ πόλεως ἀγάλματα, Ar. Eq. 556–557). 12 The emphasis on appearance is a topos in epinician poetry. 13 Fr. 54 K. (fr. 17 Κar.) was evidently delivered after Alexandros’ athletic victory, to judge from the use of the idiom ἦν ἄρα in the first line; this is a colloquialism denoting that a fact or truth has only just been recognized, which, in this case, would verify Alexandros’ worth despite his seemingly humble status. 14 κακόν τι παίδευμ’ ἦν ἄρ’ εἰς εὐανδρίαν ὁ πλοῦτος ἀνθρώποισιν αἵ τ’ ἄγαν τρυφαί· πενία δὲ δύστηνον μέν, ἀλλ’ ὅμως τρέφει μοχθεῖν τ’ ἀμείνω τέκνα καὶ δραστήρια. (Eur. fr. 54 K.) Wealth and too much luxury are, after all, a bad instruction in manly virtue. Poverty is miserable, but, for all that, it breeds children who are better at toiling and effective.

 contexts in Ar. Eq. 1250–1254 (where standard epinician vocabulary, such as στέφανος, νικητήριον, καλλίνικος, is employed). See Blech 1982, 109–180; Zeitlin 1970, 655–660; Foley 1985, 177– 188 (with further bibliography); Swift 2010, 121–172. 11 See Finglass 2007, ad loc. 12 See Holwerda 1955, 62–65. Cf. also Kampakoglou 2018, 207. 13 Pind. Isthm. 7.22 σθένει τ’ ἔκπαγλος ἰδεῖν τε μορ-/φάεις, ἄγει τ’ ἀρετὰν οὐκ αἴσχιον φυᾶς, Οlymp. 9.94, Νem. 3.20, Νem. 11.13–16, Οlymp. 8.19f., 14.5–7. See Donlan 1978, 106–107; Nisetich 1978, 140–142; Race 1990, 187–192; Robertson 2003, esp. 70–72; Potter 2012, 89–93; Di Giuseppe 2012, 118. 14 On this idiom, see Denniston 19542, 36–37; Stevens 1976, 62–63. For the placement of this fragment, see Kovacs 1984, 53; Huys 1995, 353; Collard/Cropp/Gibert 2004, 80; Di Giuseppe 2012, 122.

  Ioanna Karamanou This gnomic fragment could belong to the messenger-speech as a generalizing evaluation of the themes reported therein. This type of moralizing coda, which occurs widely in Euripidean messenger-speeches, emerges from the dramatic circumstances and also forms a marker of the messenger’s focalization. 15 The key notion of this fragment is euandria (“manliness”), which is closely associated with the concept of andreia. It is an aristocratic ideal conveying traditional excellences, such as virtue in war, courage and physical strength, which were regarded as features of the noble class in archaic Greek thought. Naturally enough, athletics form a locus for the demonstration of manly virtue until Late Antiquity. 16 The traditional features of euandria are occasionally commended in Euripidean drama, as in HF 475 and Archelaus fr. 237 K. 17 Nonetheless, from midfifth century onwards, euandria also develops into a moral feature of the good citizen, comprising the quiet values of prudence and justice which the citizen displays through his civic conduct and not by birth alone. This notion gradually becomes a feature of Athenian political self-representation, to quote the opening words of Gorgias’ Encomium of Helen (D–K82 B11.11) asserting that euandria (“manly excellence”) is the adornment of a city (κόσμος πόλει μὲν εὐανδρία, Χen. Mem. 3.3.12f.). Accordingly, in Euripides’ Electra (367–385) Orestes is challenging the aristocratic claim to excellence by attributing moral qualities to manly virtue (euandria) in the light of the farmer’s integrity. In a similar manner, the farmer mentioned in the messenger’s report of the trial in Or. 917–922 is described as ἀνδρεῖος ἀνήρ, as he leads a prudent and blameless life. 18 In the present fragment wealth is considered to inhibit the development of manly virtue. This view clashes with the aristocratic ideal, according to which athletic participation was restricted to the upper class of the wealthy and the noble. These lines are thus suggestive of the contradiction between the traditional sense of euandria and the lowly status of the character displaying this manly virtue. At the same time, the audience would be in a position to perceive the irony

 15 Cf. similarly Med. 1224–1230, Heracl. 863–866, Supp. 726–730, Hel. 1617–1618, Bacch. 1150– 1152 and the Phrygian’s monody in Or. 1500–1502. See de Jong 1991, 74–76, 191–192; Bassi 1899, 68–70; Erdmann 1964, 82–86; Rutherford 2012, 202–203. 16 See, for instance, Dio Chrys. Or. 29.8–10, Luc. Anach. 25, 36. Cf. Crowther 1985, 285–291; Reid 2011, 58–80; König 2005, 30–35, 132–157; Kyle 19932, 36–37, 40. 17 Cf. also Di Giuseppe (2012, 125, n. 160) citing Supp. 913–915 (on which, see Storey 2008, 66– 68 and Morwood 2007, 214) and fr. inc. 1052.5–7 K. 18 See Donlan 1999, 150–152; Adkins 1960, 176–177; Gregory 1991, 124.

Fragmented Intergeneric Discourses: Epinician Echoes in Euripides’ Alexandros  

concerning the ambiguity arising from Alexandros’ high birth despite his seemingly humble status. 19 Fr. 62a K. (fr. 18a, col. i Kar.) preserves remnants of the beginning of an interesting agon formally signposted as an ἅμιλλα λόγων between Hector and his brother Deiphobus before their mother Hecabe as a judge. 20 (ΧΟ.)


].ο̣[ καὶ μὴν ὁρῶ τόν]δ̣’ Ἕκτορ’ ἐξ ἀγωνίω[ν cτείχοντα μό]χθων cύγγονόν τε, παῖδε cώ, Δηίφοβον,] ε̣ ἰc δ’ ἅμιλλαν ἥκουcιν λόγων. αἰνῶ μὲν οὐ]δέν’, ὅcτιc ἐcτὶ δυcχερήc, αὖθιc δὲ τοῖ]c̣ κακοῖcι μαλθάccει φρέναc̣. ἐγὼ δέ γ’, ὅc]τιc cμίκρ’ ἔχων ἐγκλήματα μεγάλα νο]μίζει καὶ cυνέcτηκεν †φόβω[ι. πῶc γάρ, κα]cίγνηθ’ Ἕκτορ, οὐκ ἀλγεῖc φρέ̣ να̣[c δούλου παρ’] ἀ̣νδρὸc ἆθλ’ ἀπεcτερημέν[οc; μάτην ἀθυ]μ̣εῖc, Δηίφοβε· τί γάρ με δεῖ x – ᴗ –; οὐ] καιρὸc ὠδίνειν φ[ρέν]αc. x – ᴗ – x ]. ῥ̣α̣ιδίωc φέρειc τάδε· x – ᴗ – x Φρ]υξὶν ἐμφανὴc ἔcηι. ]c̣ νέον φῦcαι με̣ [ βο]ύ̣λεται δ’ οὐ cωφρ[ ]νεζευχθοι[ κ]αθεcτηκεν̣ [ ]εγω γὰρ ουχω̣[ ].πρόcθεν λ[ ]πηδ.[





(Eur. fr. 62a K.) (Chorus-leader)

(Deiphobus) (Hector)

And now I see] Hector [here coming] from the athletic toils and his brother, Deiphobus,] your two sons, and they have got involved in a contest of words. I approve of] no one who is tough, but then] softens his disposition towards the base. And I of no one] who having insignificant complaints regards them as [major] and is agitated with †fear.

 19 On the quiet virtues which andreia encompasses, see Pl. La. 196c 10–201b 5, Resp. 429a 8– 430b 9, Phdr. 68c 5–69c 3, Symp. 219d, Cra. 413d 7–414a 3, Grg. 507b 4–507c 7, Arist. Eth. Nic. 1115a 4–1117b 22, Pol. 1260a 19–24, VV 1250b 3–6. Cf. Bassi 2003, 37–56; Balot 2014, 7–10, 251– 261; Schmid 1992, 59–176; Rabieh 2006, esp. 68–94, 161–170. 20 For the substantiation of this scene as an agon, see Karamanou 2011.

  Ioanna Karamanou (Deiphobus) (Hector) (Deiphobus) (Hector) (Deiphobus)

And how], my brother Hector, are you not feeling pain in your spirit, when you have been deprived of prizes [by a slave]? You vainly distress yourself], Deiphobus. Why do I need [ This is not] the time to afflict my spirit. ] you are bearing these things softly ] you will be conspicuous to the Phrygians ] to be young by nature [ ] does not want to [show moderation. ] to be yoked [ ] is established [ ] for I do not/ shall not ]before[

The objective of this formal debate, which takes place after Alexandros’ athletic triumph, is Hector’s disagreement with his brother’s intention to have the unknown herdsman eliminated. Deiphobus resents the encroachment on his royal status by the socially inferior herdsman who deprived him of the prize at the games, which the prince regards as his legitimate privilege and rightful possession. His ethical stance follows the archaic requirements of a shame culture, according to which a man pursues the expressed ideal norm of society concerning the acknowledgement of one’s honour, whilst internalizing the anticipated judgements of others on himself. 21 Athletic victory, in particular, is a specific indicator of status and prowess involving a community’s recognition of an individual’s standing within that community. From this ideological viewpoint, the main concern of the participants is to demonstrate their superiority, in order to live up to a socially imposed code of excellence, according to which failure incurs public shame. 22 Deiphobus’ emotion could be best described as phthonos (“envy”, “grudge”), which involves the resentment one feels against people who rise above themselves, violating the status rules of a highly class conscious society. 23 The emotion of phthonos is also

 21 The term “shame culture” was coined by Dodds 1951, 28–63. See also Hammer 2007, 155–158; Redfield 19942, 113–116; Adkins 1960, 154–158, 185–189. 22 See Durand 1999, 76–111, 165–185; Hawhee 2004, 15–43; Miller 19912, 105–113; van Wees 2011, 2–6. 23 Arist. Rh. 1387b22–1388a24, Eth. Eud. 1233b19f., Eth. Nic. 1108b3–5; see Ben-Ze’ev 2003, 106– 112; Konstan 2003, 13–14 and 2006, 125–128.

Fragmented Intergeneric Discourses: Epinician Echoes in Euripides’ Alexandros  

related to timē (“honour”), as expressed in Deiphobus’ possible criticism of Hector for being conspicuous to the Trojans as inferior to a slave in l. 14. 24 Accordingly, as I have argued in an earlier publication, 25 in l. 8 φθόνω[ι could be preferable to φόβωι; the latter cannot be justified by its context, since the notion of fear does not emerge at all from Deiphobus’ words or Hector’s reaction to his brother’s attitude. Instead, the dominant ideas of this introductory dialogue are Deiphobus’ indignation at the herdsman’s victory and his grief for the loss of the prize by a socially inferior, which are basic attributes of phthonos. It is thus possible that φθόνω[ι could be the lectio difficilior substituted by the much commoner and palaeographically similar φόβω[ι. The emotion of phthonos is commonly felt by the defeated (see Phoen. 545 φθόνον ἔχει νικώμενον) and is closely related to athletic prowess being directed against the glory achieved by victory. The notion of phthonos is incorporated into the rhetoric of praise for the victor in epinician poetry. In Pindar fame is won not only in the praise of the successful competition of the athlete but also in the deprecation of the phthonos of others. 26 Euripides revisits and refigures this epinician emotion by incorporating it into tragic ideology. Deiphobus’ feeling of phthonos due to his defeat by the herdsman is inherently associated with honour and rests upon an ideal self-image which is challenged and an awareness of the standards under which he is liable to be criticized. His envy is brought into contrast with Hector’s sōphrosynē (fr. 62a.7–8, 11–12, 16 K.) and sense of justice towards the herdsman’s well-earned victory (fr. 62b.10–13 K.). 27 Hector’s moderation and justice are civic virtues and attributes of a quiet moral behaviour commended in democratic Athens. Hence, the Euripidean agon between Hector and Deiphobus seems to showcase the continuing existence of the competitive ideology of ancient athletics alongside civic excellences in late fifth-century Athens. 28 As Laura Swift aptly pointed out, despite the anxiety expressed towards aristocratic values, the Athenian polis seems to have aimed at assimilating elite culture rather

 24 On the association of envy with honour, see Arist. Rh. 1387b28–1388a7. Cf. Walcot 1978, 11, 18–20, 38–39; Bulman 1992, 27–28; Marquez 2005, 44–45. 25 Karamanou 2011, 44–45. 26 See esp. Parth. fr. 94a.8f. Sn.-M. παντὶ δ’ ἐπὶ φθόνος ἀνδρὶ κεῖται/ ἀρετᾶς, Ol. 1.47–51, 6.74– 76, 8.55, Pyth. 1.81–86, 2.88–92, 3.71, 7.19–20, 11.29–30, Nem. 4.39–41, 8.21–23, Isthm. 1.41–45, 2.43, 5.22–25; cf. also Bacchyl. 3.63–71, 5.187–189. See Goldhill 1991, 138–139, 147, 158–159; Mackie 2003, 16–19; Most 1985, 109–110 and 2003, 127–128, 133–141; Kirkwood 1984, 171–173, 177–179; Kurke 1991, 178–182, 195–218; Boeke 2007, ch. 3. 27 Karamanou 2011, 44–45. 28 On the coexistence of competitive and co-operative excellences towards the end of the fifth century, see e.g. Cairns 1993, 265–342; Adkins 1960, 156–168.

  Ioanna Karamanou than eliminating it. 29 This practice may additionally emerge from the trend of epinician poetry to honour not only the laudandus, but also his achievements as beneficial to the community as a whole. From this viewpoint, the epinikion would not be restricted to elite recipients, but it could assume a collective character appealing to a wider audience. 30 Euripides’ refiguration and incorporation of epinician ideology into this agon could thus serve to showcase its dialogue with the values of the democratic polis. Fr. 62d, col. ii K. (fr. 18b, col. ii Kar.) comprises a stichomythic conversation between Deiphobus and Hecabe involving their plotting against Alexandros. (margo) (ΕΚΑΒΗ)

κεῖ̣̣ ν̣ο̣ ν̣ μέν, ὄνθ’ ὅc ἐcτι, θαυμάζειν Φρύγαc, Πριάμου δὲ νικ….γ̣εραίρεcθαι δόμουc. (ΔΗΙΦΟΒΟC) πῶc οὖν .[3–4 ll.].ε̣ ι̣ τ̣ α‫ׅ‬ ̣ ῦ̣τ̣ ά̣ γ̣' ὥcτ' ἔχειν καλῶc; (ΕΚ.) ………….ι̣δε‫ׅ‬ χειρὶ δεῖ θανεῖν. (ΔΗ.) οὐ μὴν ἄτ̣ρ̣ω̣τόc γ’ εἶcιν εἰc ῞Αιδου δόμουc. (ΕΚ.) ποῦ νῦν [ἂ]ν̣ ε̣ἴη καλλίνικ’ ἔχων cτέφη; (ΔΗ.) πᾶν ἄcτ̣υ̣ πληροῖ Τρωικὸν γαυρούμενοc. (ΕΚ.) [±7 ll. δ]εῦρ’, εἰc βόλον γὰρ ἂν πέcοι. ‫ ׅ‬γ’ ὅτ[ι κρ]ατεῖ τῶν cῶν τέκνων. (ΔΗ.) [± 8 ll.]ι̣δηιc x — ᴗ — x — ᴗ ἁ]μ̣μάτων ἔcω x — ᴗ — x — ᴗ ]ε̣ι̣ν cε βούλομαι x — ᴗ — x ἐc]τὶ δοῦλοc, ἀλλ’ ὅμωc ]..λ̣[.].δ’ ἐμοῖc ]… φόνον ]ω̣ν ἅπαξ ]αύcεται ] ]α̣ ]. ] ]





(Eur. fr. 62d, col. ii K.) (upper margin) (Hecabe

that the Trojans admire him, being who he is, while Priam’s house is not honoured [with victory]. (Deiphobus) So, how […], so that things go well?

 29 Swift 2010, 43–55. 30 See Crotty 1982, ch. 2; Kurke 1991, esp. 223–227; Swift 2010, 111–114.

Fragmented Intergeneric Discourses: Epinician Echoes in Euripides’ Alexandros  

(Hec.) (Deiph.) (Hec.) (Deiph.) (Hec.) (Deiph.)

…………he has to die by … hand. He will certainly not go uninjured to the house of Hades. Now, where could he be, bearing the victory wreath? He is filling the whole city of Troy with his pride. ] here, for he can fall into the net. ] that he prevails over your children. ] within the knotted cords ] I want you to [ ] he is a slave, but still ] my [ ] assassination ] once …he] will [cease / regret] (Traces of five lines)

At this point Hecabe has been persuaded by Deiphobus that the herdsman enjoying the glory of victory constitutes a threat to the royal rights of her own sons. In more specific terms, ll. 1–2 involve an eloquent contrast between the herdsman’s victory and the fame of which Priam’s oikos has been deprived. Fame and honour are standard indicators of status and prowess within epinician contexts commending aristocratic values. In more specific terms, in l. 2 the term γ̣εραίρεcθαι (“to be honoured”) is commonly used in epinician poetry to denote the particular honour conferred upon the athletic victor. 31 The tragic irony is palpable, since Hecabe is unaware that Alexandros is only seemingly lowbοrn and that the prize actually remains within the royal family, as the athletic victor is her long-lost son. In l. 6 there is a further reference to the wreath of victory (καλλίνικα cτέφη). In this case, the imagery of the crown is ironically deployed, as it precedes the attack against the glorious winner in the next column of this fragment. Likewise, in the Trojan Women, the third tragedy of this production, the same imagery is ironically brought into play, with the purpose of underscoring the ambiguity between real and apparent victory (Tro. 353, 784, 937, 1223). 32 This ambiguity, which is conveyed through the crown imagery, seems to provide a further conceptual link between the first and the third tragedy of the “Trojan trilogy”. In a similar manner, in Hec. 660 the wreath imagery is subverted, in that the title-heroine is presented as the undisputed victor of a contest for misfortune. 33

 31 See Pind. Ol. 3.2, Nem. 11.5, Isthm. 2.17 εὐάρματον ἄνδρα γεραίρων,᾿Ακραγαντίνων φάος, 8.62, Bacchyl. 2.13 γεραίρουσ’ ἐπινικίοις, 4.3, 6.14. 32 See Scodel 1980, 118–119; Croally 1994, 131–133, Biehl 1989, 351. 33 See Gregory 1999, 127.

  Ioanna Karamanou The subversive nuances of this passage are further enhanced through the use of the term καλλίνικος, which is a Pindaric epithet par excellence (Pyth. 1.32, 11.46, Nem. 3.19, Isthm. 1.12, 5.54) and also occurs in the next column of this fragment (col. iii, 11) describing the victory ode and anticipating the murder attempt against Alexandros. Likewise, in Phoen. 1374 καλλίνικος is ironically employed during the fratricide. It conveys a similarly ironic sense in Medea’s plotting scene (Med. 765) and in the messenger-speech reporting Pentheus’ shift from glorious king to victim (Bacch. 1147, 1161). 34 This epithet, which is regularly attached to Heracles, bears sinister nuances within the context of his horrific deeds in the homonymous play (HF 959–962, 1046), 35 as Alexandros Kampakoglou most recently pointed out in his survey of the Euripidean treatments of athletic victory from the viewpoint of tragic reversal. 36 Accordingly, ll. 7–8 involve a clear opposition between Alexandros’ exultation over his victory and his imminent defeat by falling into the ambush set by Hecabe and Deiphobus. At the same time, a contrast is drawn in spatial terms between the public realm of male action, where Alexandros is boasting for his triumph, and the private sphere of the oikos controlled by the female (that is, the would-be murderess Hecabe), where he is to meet his death. The third column of this fragment (fr. 62d, col. iii K./ fr. 18b, col. iii Kar.) preserves the part of the text subsequent to the plotting scene of the previous column and comprises the beginning of at least seven choral lines (ll. 2–8) signposted with coronides in ll. 2 and 6 and an ensuing dialogue (ll. 9–21) indicated with paragraphoi in ll. 9, 12, 14 and 21. (margo)



δούλου̣ ῥ̣[ μεταβολ[ὰ νικων̣ τ̣ [ cιν παραε̣ θ̣ [ οἶκον εξ.[ δέcποινα̣ [ πὶ δεσποτ̣ [ φύλλοιc ν̣ [ ποῦ μ̣οι π̣[


 34 See Buxton 1982, 165–166; Segal 19972, 135–136; Stinton 1990, 291. 35 See Swift 2010, 146–147. 36 He also stressed the sinister overtones of Alexandros’ victory by reviving the occasionally held historicizing association between Alexandros and Alcibiades, who was crowned Olympic victor in the year before the staging of the Euripidean play (Kampakoglou 2018, 202–218).

Fragmented Intergeneric Discourses: Epinician Echoes in Euripides’ Alexandros  

῾Εκάβη φρα̣[ τὴν καλλ̣[ίνικον πρέcβυc πε̣ [ ῾Εκάβην δὲ̣ β[ oρ[.] φε̣ ρ̣[ εκ̣..[ δι..[ δο..[ cτ[ πρ[ αρ [ απ̣.[




(Eur. fr. 62d, col. iii K.) (upper margin)



of a slave [ A shift [ win[ner … house [ My lady [ to the master(s) [ with leaves[ Where[ Hecabe [tell me the victory [ode The aged man [ but Hecabe [ (Remains of eight lines)

The first speaker in the dialogue is evidently an arriving character who seems to be looking for Hecabe (l. 10). This character is likely to be Alexandros, whose arrival has been expected by Deiphobus and Hecabe (col. ii, 8), while his appearance at this point of the plot is reported in the hypothesis (P.Oxy. 3650, col. i, 25– 26). 37 Additionally, the reference to the leaves (probably the leaves of victory) in l. 8 and the kallinikos song in l. 11 reinforce the possibility of the crowned victor’s onstage appearance. Moreover, the arrival of the intended victim in search of someone is congruent with Euripidean staging practice, to judge from the parallel intrigue scenes in HF 701–706, 712 and Antiope fr. 223.19–23 K. 38 In such cases the  37 See Collard/Cropp/Gibert 2004, 84–85; Collard/Cropp 2008, I 36; Di Giuseppe 2012, 151. 38 Cf. also Collard/Cropp/Gibert 2004, 85; Bond 1981, 248.

  Ioanna Karamanou would-be victim encounters a character, who manages to lure him inside the stage-building, with the purpose of his falling into the ambush. In the present situation this role is likely to have been undertaken by Hecabe, as suggested in col. ii, 8. Accordingly, the remnants of ll. 14–21 might belong to a dialogue between Alexandros and Hecabe (as indicated by the paragraphoi in ll. 14 and 21), during which she may have trapped him into entering in the palace, where Deiphobus is presumably awaiting. 39 The remnants of the choral lines (ll. 2–8) seem to comment on the imminent reversal of Alexandros’ good fortune, esp. in l. 2. In this fragment too the consistent use of epinician vocabulary is remarkable. In l. 8 there is a probable reference to the leaves of victory crowning the winner (φύλλοιc), which echoes the φυλλοβολία of triumphant athletes, that is, the scattering of leaves upon the victor, as attested, for instance, in Pind. Pyth. 9.123–124 and Bacchyl. 11.17–21. This imagery is also employed in Euripides’ Autolycus fr. 282.24 K., with the purpose of subverting athletic ideology in favour of civic virtues. 40 In the present line it also has a potentially subversive function, as the winner is about to fall into the ambush set by his opponents. Likewise, this term bears a sinister nuance in Hipp. 806–807 pointing to Theseus’ misfortune despite his earlier victory and in Hec. 574 describing the scattering of leaves upon Polyxena’s corpse, as if she had won an athletic victory (according to schol. vet. Hec. 573 Schwartz). 41 In l. 11 we encounter again the term kallinikos; this time it probably refers to “the song of victory”, whose epinician character was conveyed through singing and dancing (Pind. Ol. 9.1–4, Pyth. 5.106f., Nem. 4.16 and schol. vet. Pind. Ol. 9.1, Nem. 3.1 Drachmann). 42 It was originally performed by people welcoming or escorting Olympic victors. The reference to the victory ode evidently corresponds to this particular dramatic situation, as Alexandros is reported above to have been celebrating his victory all over Troy (col. ii, 7). The victory ode is employed to celebrate the triumph over one’s enemies in El. 865 43 and Erechtheus fr. 370.6 K. Conversely, in HF 680–681 and Med. 45 it conveys sinister overtones anticipating the impending disaster. 44 In the present case, it similarly bears ironic resonances, as  39 See Collard/Cropp/Gibert 2004, 85. 40 See Mangidis 2003, 30–33; O’ Sullivan/Collard 2013, 391, n. 13. 41 See Collard/Cropp/Gibert 2004, 85; Gregory 1999, 114–115. 42 Cf. Jouan/Van Looy 1998–2003, I 73, n. 65; Collard/Cropp/Gibert 2004, 85. On the kallinikos song, see also Ar. Ach. 1227–1234, Av. 1764 (and Dunbar 1995, 769–770); cf. Agócs 2012, 213–216; Papadopoulou 2005, 79, 147–151; Lawler 1948, 254–258. 43 See Cropp 20132, 204; Sonnino 2010, 335–336. 44 On the Heracles, see Swift 2010, esp. 132–133; Kampakoglou 2018, 192–193. On the Medea, see Mastronarde 2002, ad loc.

Fragmented Intergeneric Discourses: Epinician Echoes in Euripides’ Alexandros  

this scene paves the way for a catastrophic event, which will only be averted in the nick of time. Overall, the investigation of Euripides’ engagement with epinician imagery and vocabulary in the Alexandros demonstrates a dialogue between the competitive ideology of ancient athletics and late fifth-century civic and moral values. This juxtaposition also occurs within an agonistic context aiming to underscore this conceptual polarity. At the same time, epinician elements are brought into play to imbue the dramatic situation with subversive, ironic and sinister nuances, serving the twists and turns of the tragic plot. Euripides’ dialogue with and refiguration of epinician poetry could bring forward the dialectic, as well as the tension between the traditional criteria of excellence and the quiet moral virtues of democratic Athens.

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Fragmented Intergeneric Discourses: Epinician Echoes in Euripides’ Alexandros  

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  Ioanna Karamanou O’Sullivan, P./Collard, C. (2013), Euripides: Cyclops and Major Fragments of Greek Satyric Drama, Oxford. Papadopoulou, Th. (2005), Heracles and Euripidean Tragedy, Cambridge. Pertusi, A. (1952), “Il significato della trilogia troiana di Euripide”, Dioniso 15, 251–273. Podlecki, A.J. (1984), The Early Greek Poets and Their Times, Vancouver. Potter, D. (2012), The Victor’s Crown: A History of Ancient Sport from Homer to Byzantium, Oxford. Rabieh, L.R. (2006), Plato and the Virtue of Courage, Baltimore. Race, W.H. (1990), Style and Rhetoric in Pindar’s Odes, Atlanta. Redfield, J.M. (19942), Nature and Culture in the Iliad, North Carolina. Reid, H. (2011), Athletics and Philosophy in the Ancient World: Contests of Virtue, London/New York. Ritoók, Z. (1993), “Zur Trojanischen Trilogie des Euripides“, Gymnasium 100, 109–125. Robertson, G.I.C. (2003), “The Andreia of Xenocles: Kouros, Kallos and Kleos”, in: R.M. Rosen/ I. Sluiter (eds), Andreia: Studies in Manliness and Courage in Classical Antiquity, Leiden, 59–76. Rosen, R.M./Sluiter, I. (eds) (2003), Andreia: Studies in Manliness and Courage in Classical Antiquity, Leiden. Rosen, R.M./Sluiter, I. (eds) (2008), Kakos: Badness and Anti-value in Classical Antiquity, Leiden. Rutherford, R.B. (2012), Greek Tragic Style: Form, Language and Interpretation, Cambridge. Sansone, D. (2009), “Euripides’ New Song: The First Stasimon of Trojan Women”, in: J.R.C. Cousland/J.R. Hume (eds), The Play of Texts and Fragments: Essays in Honour of Martin Cropp, Leiden, 193–203. Schmid, W.T. (1992), On Manly Courage: A Study of Plato’s Laches, Carbondale. Scodel, R. (1980), The Trojan Trilogy of Euripides, Göttingen. Segal, C.P. (19972), Dionysiac Poetics and Euripides’ Bacchae, Princeton. Silk, M.S. (2012), “Reading Pindar”, in: P. Agocs/C. Carey/R. Rawles (eds), Reading the Victory Ode, Cambridge, 347–364. Snell, B. (1937), Euripides Alexandros und andere Strassburger Papyri mit Fragmenten Griechischer Dichter (Hermes Einzelschr.5), Berlin. Stevens, P.T. (1976), Colloquial Expressions in Euripides, Wiesbaden. Stinton, T.C.W. (1990), Collected Papers on Greek Tragedy, Oxford. Storey, I.C. (2008), Euripides: Suppliant Women, London/New York. Swift, L. (2010), The Hidden Chorus: Echoes of Genre in Tragic Lyric, Oxford. Torrance, I. (2013), Metapoetry in Euripides, Oxford. Van Wees, H. (2011), “Rivalry in History: An Introduction”, in: N. Fisher/H. van Wees (eds), Competition in the Ancient World, Swansea, 1–36. Walcot, P. (1978), Envy and the Greeks, Warminster. Webster, T.B.L. (1966), “Euripides’ Trojan Trilogy”, in: M. Kelly (ed.), For Service to Classical Studies: Essays in Honour of F. Letters, Melbourne/Canberra/Sydney, 207–213. Zeitlin, F. (1970), “The Argive Festival of Hera and Euripides’ Electra”, TAPhA 101, 645–669.

Massimo Giuseppetti

Wink or Twitch? Euripides’ Autolycus (fr. 282) and the Ideologies of Fragmentation In his essay entitled The Thinking of Thoughts Gilbert Ryle begins his discussion of the concept of “thick description” with a theoretical situation: 1 Two boys fairly swiftly contract the eyelids of their right eyes. In the first boy this is only an involuntary twitch; but the other is winking conspiratorially to an accomplice. At the lowest or the thinnest level of description the two contractions of the eyelids may be exactly alike. From a cinematograph-film of the two faces there might be no telling which contraction, if either, was a wink, or which, if either, was a mere twitch. Yet there remains the immense but unphotographable difference between a twitch and a wink. For to wink is to try to signal to someone in particular, without the cognisance of others, a definite message according to an already understood code. It has very complex success-versus-failure conditions. The wink is a failure if its intended recipient does not see it; or sees it but does not know or forgets the code; or misconstrues it; or disobeys or disbelieves it; or if anyone else spots it. A mere twitch, on the other hand, is neither a failure nor a success; it has no intended recipient; it is not meant to be unwitnessed by anybody; it carries no message. It may be a symptom but it is not a signal.

In some cases, fragments of ancient Greek drama present us with similar interpretive challenges. Fragmentation, in fact, may be considered an essential characteristic of drama. Its fictitious characters act in fictitious situations, and without the guidance provided by a narrator their interactions are often temporary and rapidly evolving. Their words, whether short gnomic utterances or long memorable speeches, reflect and depend upon their circumstances, which thus play a fundamental part in channeling semantic interactions. The interconnection of word and context is thus essential for the interpretation of dramatic texts, as is the cognizance of the storyline. But when all is left is a fragment — a papyrus scrap or a quotation in a later work — how can we make sense of it? The loss of the original context and, in the case of quotations, the possibly distorting effects resulting from recontextualisation only compound the interpretive uncertainties faced by the modern reader. Decontextualised fragments from ancient drama can be potentially very misleading, both in themselves and with respect to the play of

 1 Ryle 2009, 494–495. Ryle’s essay was originally published in 1968; see Geertz 1973, 6–8.

  Massimo Giuseppetti which they are a part. 2 Here we may easily run the risk of taking a twitch for a wink, in Ryle’s terms, especially if we take into account the generic osmosis that characterises dramatic forms, comedy and satyr play often being, on many levels, secondary genres with respect to tragedy, in the sense that they use and presuppose tragedy for their effects. 3 My interest here is twofold. First, I aim at exploring at some length the possible responses, both ancient and modern, to a text’s fragmentary conditions. As we shall see, modern readers often follow interpretive procedures that to some extent overlap with the strategies adopted by ancient readers. Reading is always an inherently ideological act, but reading fragments implies a remarkable number of unspoken assumptions. How can we go beyond the inconspicuous but effective limitations imposed by such assumptions? My second interest provides an answer. However innovative Greek dramas may be, they tend to follow, in a somewhat reassuring fashion, generic stereotypes and structural patterns. The overall conventional nature of dramatic works maps well onto G. Ryle’s notion of “code”. If brought judiciously into play, this “code” may prove to be a valuable countermeasure to accidents of preservation and interpretive assumptions. The case study I shall consider in this paper is Euripides fr. 282, an expansive, artfully structured attack against athletes which originally was part of his satyr play Autolycus. This text has long featured in discussions of Euripides’ views on social conventions. Its interpretation, however, remains rather problematic. This difficulty is due to the fact that very little is known about the dramatic context of the fragment. As a result, commentators have for the most part based their readings of fr. 282 on larger scholarly narratives. The invective against the athletes has thus been associated with certain episodes of Euripides’ life or has been treated as a rhetorical piece, a particular instance of a broader conflict between physical and intellectual occupations. The dramatic character of this text, however, cannot be ignored without distorting its nature, and the cautious investigation of its possible function within the play is an essential requirement for any

 2 Dover 2000 offers a brilliant illustration of this problem. See also Lamari, this volume. 3 Paratragedy, as is well known, is a pervasive theme in comic plots; Demetrius, on the other hand, equates satyric drama with “a tragedy of humour” or “at play” (τραγῳδίαν παίζουσαν, Eloc. 169). As the bibliography on the intersections of dramatic genres is massive, I will limit myself here to a few recent collections: Medda, Mirto, and Pattoni 2006; Bakola, Prauscello, and Telò 2013; more specifically on satyr play see Lämmle 2013; Di Marco 2013; Shaw 2014; Griffith 2015.

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reliable interpretation. 4 In part this exploration will be tentative, of course, but, as I hope the following pages will show, it will provide some valuable insights into the nature of this particular episode in the framework of ancient anti-athletic discourse.

 Athenaeus’ voracious athletes In Athenaeus’ Learned Banqueters the theme of gluttony (ἀδηφαγία and πολυφαγία) is explored at length, especially in book 10. The first mythical example Athenaeus discusses is, unsurprisingly, Heracles (411b–412b), but he mentions also a number of gluttons who made history — Cambles, king of Lydia, and Mithridates, king of Pontus, for instance; as he writes, “entire ethnic groups”, like the Thessalians or the Boeotians, “were also mocked for being gluttons” (ἔθνη δὲ ὅλα εἰς πολυφαγίαν ἐκωμῳδεῖτο, 10.417b). 5 In this context athletes provide a fundamental link between myth and history. Heracles is indeed in several respects the mythical projection of the ideal athlete, in particular the “heavy athlete” (Schwerathlet) competing in boxing and wrestling. This category of sportsmen became known for its unique lifestyle and especially for its (demanding) dietary requirements. Athenaeus reviews a few outstanding cases of eating feats performed by such athletes: Theagenes of Thasos and Milo of Croton (412d–f), for instance, were both able to eat a bull all by themselves. He then observes that “[i]t comes as no surprise (οὐδὲν παράδοξον) that these men were gluttons; because all athletes in the course of their training are taught to eat a large amount of food” (413c). It is in this context that Athenaeus quotes a long excerpt from Euripides’ Autolycus I (fr. 282) in which athletes are portrayed as the worst evil Greece has ever suffered. This fragment is centered upon a stark contrast between athletes and actual men of worth. If the former are of no avail to either themselves or their city, only the latter deserve proper recognition for their service to public interest. But before having a closer look at Euripides’ fragment, it is perhaps best to dwell a bit longer on the context of its quotation in book 10 of the Learned Banqueters. Here there is in fact an important point to make regarding Athenaeus’ rhetorical concerns. His survey of the literary portrayal of athletic lifestyle is not always  4 See the general remarks on the fragmentation of dramatic texts in Dover 1974, 14–17. A case similar to Euripides fr. 282 is the speech on the (all too human) creation of the gods in the Sisyphus attributed to Critias (88 B 25 D–K = TrGF I 43 fr. 19) or Euripides (see Pechstein 1998, 289– 343). I hope to deal with this text elsewhere. 5 Here and elsewhere I use D.S. Olson’s translation of Athenaeus.

  Massimo Giuseppetti as penetrating or dispassionate as it appears to be at first glance. At times he (intentionally?) does not get the satirical tone of the texts he discusses, as is the case with the sepulchral epigram for Timocreon of Rhodes. 6 In other cases, our evidence suggests that his representation of things may be rather skewed. Let us consider the two athletes mentioned earlier, Theagenes of Thasos and Milo of Croton. Athenaeus is very scrupoulous about his sources about them, namely, Posidippus’ Epigrams (120 AB = HE 3126–9) and Theodorus of Hierapolis (FHG IV 513 fr. 1). In this regard he is clearly concerned with the display of his vast learning. Interestingly, however, when other writers like Pausanias refer to either Theagenes or Milo, they never mention their assumed prodigious appetites. 7 Conversely, Athenaeus’ sources for gluttonous athletes “do not include Eratosthenes’ Olympic Victors, which suggests it is likelier to have been concerned with more serious matters, such as those Pausanias discusses in connection with the Olympic victors he cites”. 8 Athenaeus has a marked penchant for piquant details and humorous narratives, and historical accuracy is not his most pressing preoccupation; besides, he is well aware that his literary selection casts an amusing light onto the world of sport, as his conspicuous debt to comedy suggests. 9 There is, however, something quite peculiar about the way Athenaeus frames Euripides’ fragment from the Autolycus, for in this case the learned narrator indulges in a glimpse of literary history. 10 He observes that the Athenian playwright has borrowed (εἴληφεν) his views on the athletes from the elegies of Xenophanes of Colophon; 11 he goes on to quote one of these elegies (fr. B 2 W.² = 152 Strobel– Wörrle), and concludes by adding that “Xenophanes also offers many other contentious comments about his own wisdom, attacking the idea of athletics as useless and worthless” (πολλὰ δὲ καὶ ἄλλα ὁ Ξενοφάνης κατὰ τὴν ἑαυτοῦ σοφίαν ἐπαγωνίζεται, διαβάλλων ὡς ἄχρηστον καὶ ἀλυσιτελὲς τὸ τῆς ἀθλήσεως εἶδος, 414c). That Euripides’ fragment is intertextually connected with Xenophanes’ elegy is beyond doubt. What needs stressing in this context, though, is the almost

 6 “Simonides”, Epigr. 37 Page (also preserved in AP 7.348 = FGE 831–832), with Page 1981, 252– 253; see also Martelli 2008. 7 Arafat 2000, 194. See, on Theagenes, Paus. 6.6.5, 6.11.2–9, 6.15.3; on Milo, Paus. 6.14.5–8 and Diod. Sic. 12.9.5–6. 8 Arafat 2000, 195. On Eratosthenes’ Olympic Victors see BNJ 241 frr. 4–8. 9 On the portrayal of heavy athletes and their voracity, especially in middle and new comedy, see Bruzzese 2004; for a broader picture of the comic discourse on food see Wilkins 2000. 10 For a brilliant study of ancient “quotation culture” see Wright 2016 on Euripides fr. 661 (from Stheneboea). 11 Athen. 10.413f–14c.

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imperceptible process of semantic simplification that fr. 282 undergoes in this page of the Learned Banqueters. Leaving aside for a moment the issues associated with first-person statements in archaic poetry, there is nothing intrinsically problematic in the claim that Xenophanes is confrontational about his own sophia — if anything, the use of a verb like ἐπαγωνίζομαι, with its obvious athletic overtones, wittily emphasises that the archaic poet and athletes are contenders in the same arena. 12 Less innocuous, nonetheless, are the interpretive implications of the link between the two texts, for the reader is invited to think that the two poets formulate similar ideas in similar fashion. Euripides’ fragment comes in fact from a dramatic piece, that is, a literary work in which different characters act and talk in situations that are just as crucial for the construction of meaning as the dramatic script itself. This is particularly relevant for satyr play (an important detail omitted by Athenaeus), as in this genre the gods and heroes of the epic tradition are cast in the strange world of satyrs. One may think that here, halfway between civilization and the wild, sport would be anything but a familiar activity (a mistaken assumption, as we shall see). What is the point, at any rate, of upbraiding the social prestige enjoyed by athletes? However one might answer this question, there is no doubting that fr. 282 cannot be simply read as Euripides’ own take on the matter — this is a speech that a particular character addresses to his/her interlocutor(s) in a certain situation. We will look at this problem in greater detail later. For the moment, it is important to note that Athenaeus’ cultured practice of linking texts and tracing imitations is not always neutral or without consequences in terms of scholarly standards. In this case, it expunges crucial aspects of how meaning is constructed in and through the texts he discusses. In that it equates “content” with “meaning”, it is ultimately a well-defined ideology of reading and interpretation. 13 As we shall see, to some extent this ideology still has a place in modern approaches to fragmentary texts and to our fragment in particular. If our goal is to get a better understanding of fr. 282 qua dramatic text, the first step we need to take is to investigate the play it originally belonged to: the Autolycus.

 12 Larmour 1999, 41–42. 13 This is not to say, of course, that Athenaeus was aware of the larger context of fr. 282 or that he has intentionally omitted crucial details about the text. In all probability he had had access to the excerpt from Autolycus only through other sources.

  Massimo Giuseppetti

 Hypotheses about Euripides’ Autolycus Euripides’ diatribe against athletes (fr. 282) comes from the play Autolycus. 14 This was a satyr play, as clearly indicated by Tzetzes and Pollux. 15 In Homer, Autolycus is Odysseus’ grandfather. Odysseys indeed owes him his name, for his grandfather had been cause of anger (ὀδυσσάμενος) to many (Od. 19.407–408). 16 He surpassed all men in thievery and in oaths (ὃς ἀνθρώπους ἐκέκαστο | κλεπτοσύνῃ θ’ ὅρκῳ τε, Od. 19.394–395), either because he was very dear to Hermes, or because the god was in fact his father, as in the Hesiodic Catalogue (frr. 64 and 67 M–W). A devious character bearing all the hallmarks of the trickster, Autolycus is at home in the world of the satyr play. 17 Athenaeus states that fr. 282 comes from Euripides’ “first Autolycus” (Εὐριπίδης ἐν τῷ πρώτῳ Αὐτολύκῳ λέγει κτλ., Ath. 10.413c = T iiia). The implication that there was a second play bearing the same title was long doubted. 18 A second-century AD writing exercise, however, has provided independent corroboration. 19 Little survives of the two plays. Apart from the long fragment preserved in Athenaeus’ Learned Banqueters (fr. 282), we know of just three other short fragments (none of which distinguishes between the two plays). In one fragment

 14 For the Greek text of the fragments and testimonia of Euripides’ Autolycus I follow R. Kannicht’s edition (TrGF 5, no. 15/16); the English translations are by C. Collard/M. Cropp (2008). 15 Tzetz. Chil. 8.452–453 (= T iv); Poll. Onom. 10.111 and 10.178 (= frr. 283–284); see also Diom. Ars gramm. 3.10.9 (= T ii). 16 On the naming of Odysseus in this passage and the interpretation of ὀδυσσάμενος in this context see Rutherford 1992, 185–186. 17 In the early tradition Autolycus possessed magical skills: he could take new appearances, for instance, and make himself or the things he stole invisible (see e.g. Pherecyd. BNJ 3 fr. 120; Hes. Cat. frr. 67a–b M–W; Ov. Met. 11.301–317). On the mythography about Autolycus in general see Pechstein 1998, 88–99; Mangidis 2003, 71–107. 18 Nauck, for instance, believed πρώτῳ to be a corruption of σατυρικῷ. See e.g. Schmid 1936; Steffen 1971, 213–214; Kannicht 2005, 1.342. 19 τὸ δρᾶμα̣ Ε̣ὐ̣[ρ]ι̣π̣(ίδου) | Αὐτόλυκος α̣[´], PVindob G 19766v (= T iiib), ll. 6–7 (new reading by Bastianini and Luppe 1989); see Kannicht 2005, I 342. A different interpretation in Mangidis 2003, 110–118, who argues that these sources refer to different performances of one play (more in general on the issue of dramatic, and especially tragic, reperformance see Lamari 2017, with bibliography). On the obscure reference to τὸ ᾱ in the Life of Euripides (= T A Ib.5) see Sutton 1974a, 51–52 and 1974b, 140–141, who argues (not very convincingly) that it should be understood as a reference to “the plays of the group beginning with A”, i.e. the two Autolycus plays (cf. Schmid 1936; Steffen 1971, 213). For another pair of Euripidean plays with identical namecharacters see Phrixus I and II, TrGF 76/77 T iia (P.Oxy. 2455 + 3652, third century AD).

Wink or Twitch?  

somebody defends “our father” (possibly Silenus) against a group who call him “ugly little man” (ἄωρον ἀνδρίον, fr. 282a). Another one is about donkeys carrying charcoal-baskets and bringing wood from a mountain (fr. 283), whereas the last one refers to “reins for horses” (fr. 284). For the narrative content of the play(s) the only source that explicitly refers to “Euripides’ satyr play Autolycus” is Tzetzes. In his portrayal Autolycus is an extremely talented thief who would steal one thing and return another of inferior value so that his thefts would go unnoticed. He would steal a very good horse and give back an ass, and “when he stole a marriageable young girl, he gave back again either a silenus or a satyr, some decrepit little old man, snub-nosed, toothless and bald, all snotty, one of the uglies — and her father thought of him as his daughter”. 20 A different version is found in Hyginus (without any explicit mention of Euripides). 21 Here Autolycus manages at first to steal some cattle from Sisyphus but ends up being outsmarted. Suspecting the theft, Sisyphus has marked the hooves of his cattle and eventually takes back all that Autolycus had stolen from him. The episodes told by Tzetzes and Hyginus clearly differ considerably from each other. Indeed there is hardly anything in their narratives that could point to a single play. 22 As a result, R. Kannicht has argued that Tzetzes and Hyginus preserve the two “versions” of the satyr play staged by Euripides. 23 Admittedly, the meagre evidence available allows for different hypotheses, none of which seems to be much more persuasive than the others. 24 In any case, there is no compelling reason to suspect that fr. 282 might have come from a dramatic genre other than a satyr play, i.e. a tragedy, as some have suggested. 25 Unfortunately, neither Tzetzes nor (a fortiori) Hyginus apparently provide any clear clue

 20 Tzetz. Chil. 8.435–453 (= T iv), with Masciadri 1987 and Pechstein 1998, 46–55. 21 Hyg. Fab. 201 (= T *va). 22 Pace Mangidis 2003, 110–118. 23 Kannicht 1991 and 2005, I 344. See also Van Looy 1998, 332–335. 24 See e.g. Sutton 1974a, 53 (fr. 282 belongs to Autolycus I; [Apd.] 2.4.9, where Autolycus teaches the young Heracles how to wrestle, may be relevant for its plot) and Sutton 1980, 59–60, 148– 150; Pechstein 1998, 39–40, 113–117 (see also Pechstein and Krumeich 1999a, 403), argues that all fragments come from Autolycus I, which is a satyr play, whereas Autolycus II is a prosatyric tragedy like the Alcestis. Autolycus is also the title of a comedy by Eupolis; the first version was presented about 420 BC (Ath. 5.216c–d; frr. 48–75 K–A) and its name character was an historical figure, an Athenian boy athlete. We do not know if it is related with Euripides’ satyr play; see Mangidis 2003, 134–141. 25 Angiò 1992 argues (unconvincingly) that the tragic allure of fr. 282 indicates that Autolycus I (which contained the fragment) was a tragedy. As a matter of fact, fr. 282 exhibits linguistic features more characteristic of satyr play than tragedy (see γνάθος, 5 and 17; νηδύς, 5; φοιτάω, 11;

  Massimo Giuseppetti as to the dramatic context of fr. 282. 26 Thus, the question remains how an invective against athletes can fit into a play centered on as devious a character as Autolycus. This query can only be resolved by reconstructing a plausible dramatic context for fr. 282, and in order to do this we need first to scrutinise the rhetorical structure and the arguments put forward in the fragment. As we shall see, the unconventional world inhabited by satyrs offers a highly relevant backdrop for the contentious subject of our fragment, and it may help us unlock, at least in part, its semantic potential.

 Sophoi against Athletes κακῶν γὰρ ὄντων μυρίων καθ᾿ Ἑλλάδα οὐδὲν κάκιόν ἐστιν ἀθλητῶν γένους. οἳ πρῶτον οἰκεῖν οὔτε μανθάνουσιν εὖ οὔτ᾿ ἂν δύναιντο· πῶς γὰρ ὅστις ἔστ᾿ ἀνήρ γνάθου τε δοῦλος νηδύος θ᾿ ἡσσημένος κτήσαιτ’ ἂν ὄλβον εἰς ὑπερβολὴν πατρός; οὐδ’ αὖ πένεσθαι κἀξυπηρετεῖν τύχαις οἷοί τ’· ἔθη γὰρ οὐκ ἐθισθέντες καλά σκληρῶς μεταλλάσσουσιν εἰς τἀμήχανον. λαμπροὶ δ’ ἐν ἥβῃ καὶ πόλεως ἀγάλματα φοιτῶσ’· ὅταν δὲ προσπέσῃ γῆρας πικρόν, τρίβωνες ἐκβαλόντες οἴχονται κρόκας. ἐμεμψάμην δὲ καὶ τὸν Ἑλλήνων νόμον, οἳ τῶνδ᾿ ἕκατι σύλλογον ποιούμενοι τιμῶσ’ ἀχρείους ἡδονὰς δαιτὸς χάριν. τίς γὰρ παλαίσας εὖ, τίς ὠκύπους ἀνήρ ἢ δίσκον ἄρας ἢ γνάθον παίσας καλῶς πόλει πατρῴᾳ στέφανον ἤρκεσεν λαβών; πότερα μαχοῦνται πολεμίοισιν ἐν χεροῖν δίσκους ἔχοντες ἢ δι’ ἀσπίδων χερί θείνοντες ἐκβαλοῦσι πολεμίους πάτρας; οὐδεὶς σιδήρου ταῦτα μωραίνει πέλας †στάς. ἄνδρας χρὴ σοφούς τε κἀγαθούς φύλλοις στέφεσθαι, χὤστις ἡγεῖται πόλει κάλλιστα σώφρων καὶ δίκαιος ὢν ἀνήρ,






 τρίβων, 12; Pechstein 1998, 39–40, 59–60, 64). Furthermore, as Collard and Cropp 2008, 280 remark, “[t]he length and rhetorical tone of fr. 282 are also not impossible for a satyr play (cf. the Cyclops’ speech defending his voracity, Cyc. 315–346)” See also Soph. fr. 149 (Lovers of Achilles). 26 Cf. the aporetic remarks of Sutton 1974b, 141; Sutton 1975, 206; Seaford 1991, 87; García Soler 2010, 153.

Wink or Twitch?  

ὅστις τε μύθοις ἔργ’ ἀπαλλάσσει κακά μάχας τ’ ἀφαιρῶν καὶ στάσεις· τοιαῦτα γάρ πόλει τε πάσῃ πᾶσί θ’ Ἕλλησιν καλά. (Eur. fr. 282 K.) Of countless bad things existing throughout Greece none is worse than athletes as a breed. First, they neither learn well how to manage a household, nor would they be able to learn — for how could a man who is a slave to eating and dominated by his belly acquire wealth to exceed his father’s? Moreover they cannot manage poverty or cope with misfortunes: because they have not learned good habits, a change towards difficulties is hard on them. They are splendid in their prime and go proudly about as ornaments to a city; but when old age in its harshness falls upon them, they fade away like cloaks that have lost their threads. I blame too the Greeks’ custom of gathering because of these men to value useless pleasures for the sake of a feast. Why — what man who has wrestled well, what man fleet of foot or that has thrown a discus or boxed a jaw well, has defended his ancestral city by winning a wreath? Are they going to fight enemies with a discus in their hands, or drive enemies from a fatherland by punching through shields with a fist? No one is this stupid †when standing† near a sword! Wreathing with leaves should be for men who are wise and brave, and for the man who leads a city best through being prudent and just, and whose words deliver it from evil acts by removing feuds and factions: such are the things good for every city and all Greeks. (Translation by C. Collard/M. Cropp)

The beginning of this long vituperation introduces the breed of athletes as the worst of the innumerable evils that Greece suffers (κακῶν ... μυρίων ... οὐδὲν κάκιόν ἐστιν ἀθλητῶν, 1–2). Its conclusion, on the other hand, praises those who are “wise and brave” (ἄνδρας ... σοφούς τε κἀγαθούς, 23), excellent leaders in their city (24–25), prudent and just (25). They should be crowned with wreaths, not athletes, for their actions are the “the things good for every city and all Greeks” (πόλει τε πάσῃ πᾶσί θ’ Ἕλλησιν καλά, 28). In this way, the last word of this text (καλά, 28) is the exact opposite of its very first word (κακῶν, 1). This establishes an ethical dimension that frames and informs the fragment as a whole. The rhetoric of the text operates on both the individual and the social level. The first part (1–12) analyses the faults that the athletic lifestyle involves, especially in terms of personal economic prosperity; the second part (13–23) criticises the social value commonly attached to athletic excellence and insists on its irrelevance to the well-being of the city; the third and final part of the diatribe (23–28) commends the true heroes that every city should celebrate — the wise and brave men whose words ward off feuds and factions. There is no doubting that this carefully structured text appropriates and varies the themes of the anti-athletic tradition, “striking in both its ubiquity and

  Massimo Giuseppetti its longevity”. 27 The arguments that commonly feature in such a polemical discourse are that (a) athletes are barely beneficial to their families and cities, 28 both in peace and in war, (b) and that other occupations provide much more valuable contributions to private and public well-being; the conclusion to be drawn (c) is that rewarding athletes with public honours is an ill-advised practice, for other categories are more deserving of civic recognition. The rhetorical effect of Euripides fr. 282 lies, on one hand, in the novel forms of criticism that it levels against athletes, some of which appear to reflect contemporary medical knowledge; 29 on the other hand, it hinges on the distinctive appropriation of traditional motifs. Let us now get a closer look at the intertextual grain of the fragment. Tyrtaeus fr. 12 W.² provides a first significant intertext for Euripides’ antiathletic invective. 30 In his elegy the poet contrasts “furious valour” (θούριδος ἀλκῆς, 9) with a number of qualities, including “prowess in running or in wrestling” (1–4 W.²). In his view, excellence (ἀρετή) is the best human prize (ἄεθλον) for a young man (13–14) — a claim that could be read also as a subtle criticism of more mundane honours. Here too the city’s survival, particularly in wartime, is

 27 Stewart 2017, 273. See also Marcovich 1978; Kyle 1987, 124–154; Müller 1995, esp. 88–108, 145–161; Pechstein 1998, 70–76; Papakonstantinou 2014. For a selection of relevant texts (besides those discussed below) see Ar. Eq. 535, Nub. 417; Eupolis fr. 129 K–A; [Hipp.] Alim. 34; Plat. Ap. 36d6–9, Resp. 404a5, 410b5, Leg. 832e1, 795e7; Xen. Mem. 3.12.1, Symp. 2.17; Isocr. 4.1–2, 15.250, Epist. 8.5; Timocles fr. 8 K–A; Dio Chrys. 9.10–13; Diog. L. 1.55–56, 6.27; Diod. 9.2.5; Plut. Phil. 3.2–5, Ages. 20.1; Gal. Adhort. 9–14. 28 The notion that athletes do not “learn well how to manage a household” (πρῶτον οἰκεῖν οὔτε μανθάνουσιν εὖ, 3), for instance, recalls a passage in Euripides’ Electra in which Orestes contrasts well-born men who “rule well both states and homes” (οἱ γὰρ τοιοῦτοι τὰς πόλεις οἰκοῦσιν εὖ | καὶ δώμαθ’, 386–387) with the “bodies empty of minds that are ornaments for the marketplace” (αἱ δὲ σάρκες αἱ κεναὶ φρενῶν | ἀγάλματ’ ἀγορᾶς εἰσιν, 387–388 — cf. πόλεως ἀγάλματα in fr. 282.10). As Cropp 1988, 125 remarks, “[t]his section is the most open to doubts”; Diggle brackets 386–390 in his edition of the Electra. Possibly they are an echo of fr. 282; see Pechstein 1998, 79–82 (against the hypothesis of interpolation). On the varia lectio πρῶτον οἰκεῖν at fr. 282.3 (Galen. Protr. 10 cod. A, now also P.Oxy. 3699; πρῶτα μὲν ζῆν Athenaeus) see Musso 1988. 29 As Pritchard 2012, 12–13 remarks, two negative features appear here for the first time: the athletes’ diet prevents them from acquiring more wealth than their fathers (3–6) and their habits makes it all but impossible for them to adapt if their circumstances decline (7–9). Papakonstantinou 2014, 325 notes how Hippocratic works dated to the classical period call attention to the excesses of athletic diets (e.g. Diet. sal. 7) in conjunction with over-specialization in training (Hipp. Aphor. 1.3; cf. Xen. Symp. 2.17; Aristot. Gen. anim. 768b29–33). 30 I quote from D. E. Gerber’s translation. On Tyrtaeus fr. 12 W.² in general see Schwinge 1997; Luginbill 2002; Sánchez-Mañas 2013; more specifically on the Euripidean parallels see Pechstein 1998, 73–74; Mangidis 2003, 49–54.

Wink or Twitch?  

the criterion by which human qualities are to be judged; against such a background, only valour provides the “common benefit” (ξυνὸν δ᾿ ἐσθλόν) for the city and all the people (15–16). As a result, whereas old age turns Euripides’ athletes into “cloaks that have lost their threads” (fr. 282.11–12), Tyrtaeus’ fighter (or, rather, victor: νικήσας, 36) “stands out among the townsmen” (ἀστοῖσι μεταπρέπει, 39), 31 honoured by all, young and old alike (37). But to the extent that it focuses on (the sociopolitical dimension of) “furious valour”, Tyrtaeus’ elegy appears to be at a substantial remove from Euripides’ fragment. By contrast, Xenophanes fr. 2 W.² — which, as we saw, Athenaeus considers as the “source” of fr. 282 — proves to be a closer intertext. 32 ἀλλ’ εἰ μὲν ταχυτῆτι ποδῶν νίκην τις ἄροιτο ἢ πενταθλεύων, ἔνθα Διὸς τέμενος πὰρ Πίσαο ῥοῆις ἐν Ὀλυμπίηι, εἴτε παλαίων ἢ καὶ πυκτοσύνην ἀλγινόεσσαν ἔχων εἴτε τὸ δεινὸν ἄεθλον ὃ παγκράτιον καλέουσιν, ἀστοῖσίν κ’ εἴη κυδρότερος προσορᾶν, καί κε προεδρίην φανερὴν ἐν ἀγῶσιν ἄροιτο, καί κεν σῖτ’ εἴη δημοσίων κτεάνων ἐκ πόλεως, καὶ δῶρον ὅ οἱ κειμήλιον εἴη — εἴτε καὶ ἵπποισιν· ταῦτά κε πάντα λάχοι, οὐκ ἐὼν ἄξιος ὥσπερ ἐγώ· ῥώμης γὰρ ἀμείνων ἀνδρῶν ἠδ’ ἵππων ἡμετέρη σοφίη. ἀλλ’ εἰκῆι μάλα τοῦτο νομίζεται, οὐδὲ δίκαιον προκρίνειν ῥώμην τῆς ἀγαθῆς σοφίης· οὔτε γὰρ εἰ πύκτης ἀγαθὸς λαοῖσι μετείη οὔτ’ εἰ πενταθλεῖν οὔτε παλαισμοσύνην, οὐδὲ μὲν εἰ ταχυτῆτι ποδῶν, τόπερ ἐστὶ πρότιμον, ῥώμης ὅσσ’ ἀνδρῶν ἔργ’ ἐν ἀγῶνι πέλει, τούνεκεν ἂν δὴ μᾶλλον ἐν εὐνομίηι πόλις εἴη· σμικρὸν δ’ ἄν τι πόλει χάρμα γένοιτ’ ἐπὶ τῶι, εἴ τις ἀεθλεύων νικῶι Πίσαο παρ’ ὄχθας· οὐ γὰρ πιαίνει ταῦτα μυχοὺς πόλεως.





(Xenoph. fr. 2 W.2) But if someone were to gain a victory by the swiftness of his feet or in the pentathlon, where there is the precinct of Zeus by Pisa’s stream in Olympia, or in wrestling or engaging in painful boxing or in that terrible contest which they call the pankration, he would have  31 On the motif of visibility/conspicuousness see below. 32 See, among others, Bowra 1938 = 1953, 15–37; Marcovich 1978; Giannini 1982; Lucas de Dios 1991; Harris 2009; on the echoes in fr. 282 see Pechstein 1998, 70–73; Mangidis 2003, 41–49; Egli 2003, 125–128; Harris 2009, 163–166.

  Massimo Giuseppetti greater renown (than others) in the eyes of his townsmen, he would gain a conspicuous front seat at the games, he would have food from the public store granted by the city, and a gift which would be a treasure for him — or if (he were to gain a victory) even with his horses, he would obtain all these things, although he is not as deserving as I. For my expertise is better than the strength of men or horses. But this custom is quite irrational and it is not right to give strength precedence over good expertise. For neither if there were a good boxer among the people nor one good at the pentathlon or in wrestling or again in the swiftness of his feet, the most honoured of the deeds of human strength in the contest, would there for that reason be better law and order in the city. Little would be the city’s joy, if one were to win while contending by the banks of Pisa; for this does not fatten the city’s treasury. (Translation by D.E. Gerber)

In this well-known elegy Xenophanes’ polemical target is not athletics per se or the sportsmen’s lifestyle. Rather, as in Euripides fr. 282, his criticism concerns primarily the public honours Olympic winners are showered with in their home cities, namely, glory (6), front seats (προεδρίην φανερήν, 7), food at public expense (8–9), and “a gift which would be a treasure” (9). Euripides fr. 282 includes some intriguing counterparts to the rewards listed by Xenophanes. Firstly, the splendor surrounding victors: if the archaic text emphasises their “visibility” (ἀστοῖσίν κ’ εἴη κυδρότερος προσορᾶν, 6), Euripides underscores that athletes, “splendid in their prime”, are “ornaments to a city” (λαμπροὶ δ’ ἐν ἥβῃ καὶ πόλεως ἀγάλματα | φοιτῶσ’, fr. 282.10–11) — the language employed clearly evokes the practice of dedicating statues to celebrate athletic victories. Secondly, Xenophanes stresses that victors may count on “food from the public store granted by the city” (καί κεν σῖτ’ εἴη δημοσίων κτεάνων | ἐκ πόλεως, 8–9), which corresponds (though in less straightforward fashion) to the meal (δαιτὸς χάριν) associated to the gathering of people (σύλλογον ποιούμενοι) in Euripides (fr. 282.14–15). 33 On a different level, both texts claim that the city’s material prosperity and political

 33 The interpretation of these lines is controversial. Some commentators think that the passage points to meals offered by the victors to the populace (Pechstein 1998, 65–66; see also Harris 2009, 164–165); others (e.g. O’Sullivan and Collard 2013, 389 n. 11) interpret it as a reference to athletes receiving meals at public expense (σίτησις; for the practice see e.g. Plat. Ap. 37a; Timocles fr. 8.16–19 K–A). Marcovich 1977, 54 (= 1991, 126), followed by Lämmle 2013, 398 n. 200 and Stewart 2017, 288, favours this interpretation but suggests the emendation τιμῶσ’ ἀχρείους [ἡδονὰς] δαιτὸς χάριν (15): “they honour these useless men after granting them the favour of free food”); he also understands σύλλογον ποιούμενοι as a reference to the assembly. This last suggestion is rather uncertain; a festival could be meant, and we know that civic honours were proclaimed during festivals (on such a custom see e.g. Wilson 2009). Moreover, the transmitted text makes sense as it is, for δαιτὸς χάριν (15) may simply refer to the public banquet(s) held on occasion of the celebrations. Cf. Mangidis 2003, 32.

Wink or Twitch?  

stability is of the utmost importance (Eur. fr. 282.18, 282.27–28; Xenoph. fr. 2.19, 2.22–23 W.²), even though Xenophanes does not mention war in this connection. If in this respect fr. 282 exhibits distinctively Tyrtaean overtones, it also displays harsher tones in deprecating the futility of athletic expertise in boxing or in discus-throwing in phalanx-based battles (fr. 282.16–23). But what is perhaps most striking about Xenophanes and Euripides is that both associate their critiques of social conventions (τὸν Ἑλλήνων νόμον, Eur. fr. 282.13; τοῦτο νομίζεται, Xenoph. fr. 2.13 W.²) about athletic prestige with the contention that “wisdom” is well worthy of larger appreciation: the former claims that his sophie is “better than the strength (ῥώμης) of men or horses” (11–12, cf. 14 and 19), the latter asks, more obliquely, that the “men who are wise and brave” (ἄνδρας χρὴ σοφούς τε κἀγαθούς, fr. 282.23) get more public recognition for their merits. The Autolycus fragment, then, does more than instantiate an especially sophisticated episode in the broader framework of the anti-athletic discourse. Euripides overtly appropriates the authority of the earlier poetic tradition while including new motifs and reshaping the argumentative strategy adopted by his predecessors. In doing so, he flags this speech as a new chapter in that discourse. No doubt this text was designed to strike its audience as a memorable piece, highly effective in terms of rhetorical strategy and vividness of imagery. There is one tricky aspect, however, that we need to address. Xenophanes fr. 2 W.² is clearly the expression of a broader professional strategy. With this elegy he aims at “advertising” his wisdom against the background of the emergence of the citystate in the seventh and sixth centuries. That age is characterised by a growing need for a new kind of intellectual leadership, and to secure his position in that arena Xenophanes has to contend with a fierce competition. 34 On several levels, his poem reflects very closely his concerns; it is, first and foremost, an articulation of Xenophanes’ own views on social criticism and personal ambitions. What about Euripides fr. 282? Is there any warrant for the assumption that the same communication structure is at work in the Autolycus fragment just as it is in Xenophanes? Before we consider how scholarship has dealt with this crucial problem, it is perhaps worth getting back for a moment to G. Ryle and his distinction between a wink and a twitch.

 34 See e.g. Lloyd 1979, 246–257; Martin 1993; Harris 2009; Stewart 2017.

  Massimo Giuseppetti

 What You See Is What You Get? As Ryle observes, the two boys both swiftly contract the lids of their right eyes, but what for one is merely an involuntary twitch, for the other is an intentional wink meant for an accomplice. Unlike the twitch, what characterizes the wink, he notes, is its deliberate nature; among other things, a wink is addressed to someone in particular, conveys a message, and presupposes an understood code. 35 In both cases the phenomenon is the same; the undetectable 36 differences are at the levels of (a) the intentions of the boys and (b) the awareness (and use) of a code of communication shared with somebody else. Now, this simple example may help us focus on the interpretive strategies we put in place when we deal with a textual fragment such as Euripides fr. 282. If we apply Ryle’s distinction to the level of literary interpretation and more specifically to the analysis of Euripides fr. 282, we can distinguish between two scenarios. The first scenario assumes that the speaker’s voice articulates Euripides’ own “thoughts”. In Ryle’s terms, this approach simply posits that what we see — a twitch — is all there is to see, i.e. a swift contraction of the eyelids. There is no need, here, to look for any “understood code”: we have immediate access to Euripides’ mind, so to speak. As a result, one may feel quite confident that fr. 282 encapsulates Euripides’ perspective on athletic lifestyle, or at any rate a rather faithful and straightforward reflection of a real situation. Let us consider a few approaches along these lines. The idea that fr. 282 articulates authorial views is, in a word, how Athenaeus, and a few other post-classical writers after him, read our fragment. After all, fr. 282 has survived precisely because ancient readers thought of it as a genuine piece of Euripidean ideas, both authoritative and unusual in its harshness. 37 Yet, surprisingly, also a significant number of modern commentators have followed this same style of analysis. According to Guggisberg, for instance, fr. 282 is noth-

 35 “The signaller himself, while acknowledging that he had not had an involuntary twitch but (1) had deliberately winked, (2) to someone in particular, (3) in order to impart a particular message, (4) according to an understood code, (5) without the cognisance of the rest of the company, will rightly deny that he had thereby done or tried to do five separately do-able things” (Ryle 2009, 495). 36 See Geertz 1973, 6–7. 37 See e.g. Diog. L. 1.56; Plut. De gen. Socr. 12 (Mor. 581f). On the echo in Eur. El. 386–90 see above, n. 28.

Wink or Twitch?  

ing but a conscious digression in which, in the manner of a comic parabasis, Euripides virtually speaks on his own behalf. 38 Others, more prone to biographical curiosities, recall in this connection two episodes in Euripides’ career. Aulus Gellius and the poet’s Life say that, when he was a boy, an oracular response predicted that he would be victor in the competitions. 39 His father then trained him as a wrestler, and a successful one, for his son won prizes at several contests. As is clear from the similar story Herodotus tells of Tisamenus (9.33), this narrative is undoubtedly a late fabrication. Denniston, nonetheless, believes that fr. 282 can be explained as Euripides’ “violent reaction” against his early training. 40 The other relevant athletic event in Euripides’ life is Alcibiades’ Olympic victories in the chariot races (in all likelihood in 416), which the poet celebrated in a wellknown epinician song. 41 From this piece of information scholars have drawn a number of assumptions. First, if in 416 Euripides is willing to praise Alcibiades’ victories, this can only mean that at the time he still has no reservations about athletic competitions per se. By reading fr. 282 as an assertion of authorial ideas, scholars can then consider it as the product of a later stage in the playwright’s career. 42 A different take on fr. 282, on the other hand, is provided by the “ritual” explanation. Athletics is a motif quite popular in satyr play. 43 Some scholars believe that the reason behind this is that athletic competitions of men or boys dressed as satyrs were included in the program of the festivals (Dionysia and Anthesteria) hosting dramatic performances. 44 There is no evidence to support such a claim, though, 45 and even if there were, the practical configuration of the festivals could not account for how athletics is specifically explored in each play. More to point, it is hard to see how the alleged ritual competitions could explain Euripides’ invective against athletes.

 38 Guggisberg 1947, 123–134 (thus also Iannucci 1998, 35–36). See also e.g. Kambitsis 1972, 62– 63; Lesher 1992, 56–57; Pechstein 1998, 71–73 (but cf. 76–77); Mangidis 2003, 65, 199. 39 Gell. 15.20 and Vita Eur. 2 (respectively TT 2 and 1.IA). 40 Denniston 1939, 97 (cf. Kyle 1987, 130–131). See Orac. Delph. 418 P–W = Q 159 Fontenrose (= Eur. T 34) and Wilamowitz 1889, 19–20. 41 Plut. Alc. 11 = PMG 755 (= Eur. T 91a); Thuc. 6.16.2. On the epinician song see Bowra 1960 = 1970, 134–148. 42 See Angiò 1992, 91–93, with reference to Di Benedetto 1971, 305. Cf. Denniston 1939, 97 on ἀγάλματ’ ἀγορᾶς at Eur. El. 388. 43 See below. 44 Seaford 1988, 40; 1991, 88–89. 45 Voelke 2001, 269; see also Larmour 1999, 174–177 and Pritchard 2012, 4–5.

  Massimo Giuseppetti More interestingly, fr. 282 often surfaces in the ongoing debate over the extent to which sport was an exclusively elite occupation in late archaic and early classical Greece. 46 Generally speaking, sport historians see in our text a reflection of mainstream views in classical Athens. 47 Yet the sociological analysis of these views is far from undisputed, and this has affected the interpretation of Euripides’ fragment in a variety of ways. For scholars arguing that athletics remained throughout the classical age an essentially aristocratic occupation, for example, fr. 282 instantiates a polemical attack against an older, aristocratic model of education. 48 For partial corroboration of this thesis some turn to Aristophanic comedy, which on several occasions voices the complaint that youth is more interested in rhetoric than in physical training, and that Euripidean drama is to blame for this corruption of the ἀρχαία παιδεία. 49 N. Pechstein has in fact suggested that Aristophanes may be responding to the extended fragment from Autolycus. 50 Somewhat surprisingly, others have argued for the opposite thesis, namely, that fr. 282 expresses outrage at the growing professionalization of sport and at the alleged “degeneration” brought about by the increasing numbers of lower-class athletes competing in the games. 51 Whichever side one takes in this scholarly dispute, the fact nonetheless remains that our fragment has virtually nothing to say about the existing wealth or social status of the athletes. 52 Possibly, this kind of approach best exemplifies the flaws of this first interpretive scenario. In most cases scholars exploit fr. 282 to extract, in almost positivistic fashion, Euripides’ take on contemporary developments in the social perception of sport. Yet, at the same time, modern reconstructions of that perception rely, in part, on how texts such as fr. 282 are understood. 53 The inherent risk, then, is that of circular reasoning: which explains quite well how the same text can be counted as “evidence” by opposing scholarly factions.

 46 See Angeli Bernardini 1980, 89–92; Kyle 1987, 128–131; Larmour 1999, 41–44; Visa-Ondarçuhu 1999, 239–243; Voelke 2001, 262–268; García Romero 2009; García Soler 2010; Pritchard 2012 and 2013, 139–163; Lämmle 2013, 353–354, 398; Papakonstantinou 2014; Stewart 2017. 47 E.g. Larmour 1999, 114. 48 Seaford 1991, 87–89; Iannucci 1998; Pritchard 2013, 153 (cf. Stewart 2017, 288–289). 49 See Aristoph. Nub. 1052–1055, Ran. 1069–1071, 1083–1088. 50 See Pechstein 1998, 83–85; Pechstein and Krumeich 1999a, 411. 51 See e.g. Angeli Bernardini 1980, 91–92. On the contrasting views of Euripides as “sports lover” or “hater” in previous scholarship see Pechstein 1998, 76–77. 52 Cf. Stewart 2017, 274. 53 As Pechstein 1998, 77 acutely remarks, extracting a positive view on sport per se from fr. 282 is a questionable interpretive procedure.

Wink or Twitch?  

 Satyrs, Athletes, and Sophoi in Autolycus It is now time to move on to the second interpretive scenario. What is distinctive about how Ryle conceptualises the wink is, as we saw earlier, its deliberate nature, the essential implication being that a wink presupposes an “understood code”. In the framework of literary interpretation, we have every reason to believe that an “understood code” is in fact at play. The critical aspect ignored by Athenaeus and by many of his modern counterparts is that it is a serious misconception to equate Xenophanes’ elegy with Euripides’ Autolycus fragment, for the latter is part of a dramatic script. Fr. 282 is clearly a speech delivered by a character in a certain situation. As a result, it reflects in the first place that situation along with the speaker’s moral qualities and his/her response to his/her immediate circumstances. Not only are we aware that an “understood code” is at play; to a significant degree we are familiar with that “code” as it corresponds to the set of generic conventions and expectations underlying ancient Greek drama. In a word, we have the cognitive tools to realise that the boy is winking, and we are (partially) aware of his covert communication system. If it is essential to unravel the possible “codes” underlying fr. 282, the first step in this direction is taking into account that Autolycus is a satyric drama. Quite interestingly, athletics is a very common theme in satyr plays, so common, in fact, that it requires some form of explanation. 54 Satyrs are imaginary creatures characterised by a half human, half animal nature. Qua Dionysus’ attendants, they enjoy the full range of hedonistic entertainment offered by the god: constantly drunk, they spend their time chasing nymphs and all other sorts of pleasures. Satyric plots, however, have them involved in heroic struggles in which they invariably end up defeated or out of place. The irreconcilability between their weak, flawed nature and the situations in which they happen to find themselves is one of the main sources of the genre’s humour. It is in this connection that athletics becomes a significant motif in satyr play. Athletics requires a kind of physical and ethical equipment (endurance, patience, determination) that satyrs are clearly lacking; if they ever attempt to change their ways and become sportsmen (as happens in Aeschylus’ Sacred Ambassadors or Isthmian Competitors), 55 they are inevitably bound to fail and go back to their carefree existence under Dionysus. As D. Pritchard has remarked, “[s]ince satyrs were the antithesis of courage

 54 See e.g. Pratinas’ Wrestlers, Aeschylus’ Sacred Ambassadors or Isthmian Competitors, and Achaeus’ Games; Sutton 1975; Voelke 2001, 261–272; Pritchard 2012. 55 See Aesch. frr. 78a–c and, more specifically, frr. 78a.11–12, 78a.18–22, and 78c.43–48.

  Massimo Giuseppetti and habituated only to the ‘ponoi’ of dancing, drinking, and fornicating, they were the most unlikely of athletes. Thus the poets of satyric drama saw choruses witnessing sporting contests or, better still, trying unsuccessfully to be sportsmen as ideal scenarios for bringing to the fore the true colours of the satyrs and hence entertaining theatre-goers”. 56 Thus when satyr play portrays athletic activities it is, for the most part, to bring out the incongruous nature of the satyrs or to contrast it with more heroic attitudes. We are here beginning to penetrate the “understood code” of fr. 282. The way athletics is generally handled in satyr plays strongly suggests that in Autolycus Euripides does not exploit this motif for its own sake or as a subject of personal reflections. Rather, the anti-athletic invective is first of all a variation on a generic stereotype. As such, it may well evoke other instances in which sport and sportsmen appear in satyr plays. From this point of view, the exceptionally negative light it casts on athletes is in part unsurprising in a genre whose main characters are, in many respects, far from ideal athletes. Moreover, as we saw earlier, the attack appropriates and innovates the traditional anti-athletic repertoire championed by Xenophanes and Tyrtaeus. If Euripides has turned a familiar topic into a piece of literary sophistication, it is crucial to stress that this is not a mere display of rhetorical cleverness on the poet’s part. The speech’s main purpose is to convey in a particularly elaborate, and thus persuasive, fashion a message that at the same time defines the speaker’s characterization and serves his/her agenda. The question, then, concerns the identity of such speaker and the nature of his/her agenda. Only a few scholars have discussed these issues at some length. Developing a suggestion of N. Pechstein, D. Pritchard has recently argued that the speaker is Autolycus himself. 57 Pechstein believes that Autolycus attacks the athletes because he himself had been criticised for neglecting athletics and relying instead on his rhetorical skills. Pritchard, on the other hand, thinks that fr. 282, rather than reflecting popular views, is mainly designed to characterise him as a villain: “The sheer number of complaints that Autolycus makes about athletes alone would have shocked the vast majority of theatre-goers. The Athenian dēmos simply abhorred public criticism of athletics or those who practised it. Autolycus’

 56 Pritchard 2012, 10. 57 Pechstein 1998, 84–85 (where he also notes that the speaker of fr. 282 is characterised as a “sophistic” figure); Pechstein and Krumeich 1999a, 411; Pritchard 2012, 13–16 (~ 2013, 152–156). In the context of a reconstruction of the play, Mangidis 2003, 190–200 has argued that the speaker of fr. 282 is Silenus, angered at his master Autolycus, who has recently turned to athletics.

Wink or Twitch?  

sustained attack appears, therefore, to have done more than prove his training in anti-logical argumentation: it helped to guarantee the audience’s poor judgement of his character”. 58 Both suggestions are in themselves valuable, but perhaps it is possible to go one step further. Tzetzes portrays Autolycus in Euripides’ satyr play as a master of rhetorical deception: he persuades his victims that he is returning to them what he has stolen. The detail that seems most relevant to the plot of Euripides’ play is about a “marriageable girl”: he convinces her father that he has his daughter back when in fact he has received a silenus or a satyr. 59 Perhaps the play is all about this erotic adventure; at the very least, it must have extended over a large portion of it. In either case, it is easy to imagine that before abducting the girl Autolycus airs his erotic plans, we do not know whether in a monologue or in an exchange with other characters. Be that as it may, there is one possibility that deserves further exploration. Fr. 282, as we have seen, includes criticism but also praise. It demolishes the social prestige enjoyed by athletes (1–23) and celebrates the “men who are wise and brave” (ἄνδρας ... σοφούς τε κἀγαθούς, 23). Pritchard may be right in supposing that “[c]ertainly very few would have accepted what Autolycus said of athletes”. 60 This, nevertheless, leaves two questions unanswered: (1) why does Autolycus choose this particular subject, and (2) why does he conclude his tirade with a positive note of praise, after all irrelevant to his negative characterization? Everything indicates that Autolycus’ speech, in all its parts, fully depends on the character’s dramatic situation; in other words, both his criticism and his praise are motivated by his circumstances in this part of the play. Let us consider his criticism first. His invective, one may suspect, is aimed at athletes because they are dangerous competitors in erotic pursuits. This idea can be found, albeit from a different point of view, in another satyr play, possibly by Sophocles. Here the chorus is talking with the father (Oeneus or [Sch]oeneus?) of the girl they want to marry (Soph. fr. **1030 = P.Oxy. 1083+2354). The satyrs introduce themselves as “sons of nymphs and ministers of Bacchus and neighbours of the god” (2–3); after that, they list their virtues, beginning with all sorts of athletic special-

 58 Pritchard 2012, 15. As another example of this type of characterization Pritchard cites Eur. El. 386–390 (see above, n. 28). On the function played by the athletic theme in the Electra as a whole (cf. 524–529, 614, 781–782, 824–825, 859–865, 880–885, 1174) see Arnott 1981 (but contrast Arnott 1981, 188–190 and Cropp 1988, 159). 59 Tzetz. Chil. 8.435–453 (= T iv) with Masciadri 1987, 3–4 (“die Beschreibung des Tzetzes hier ... auf echtes Material zurückgeht”); see also above, n. 20. 60 Pritchard 2012, 15.

  Massimo Giuseppetti ties: “fighting with the spear, contests of wrestling, riding, running, boxing, biting, twisting people’s balls” (9–11). 61 Athletic “talents”, then, can also be associated with (at least potentially) erotic situations in satyr play. Turning back to Euripides, we can hypothesise that, in dramatic terms, Autolycus’ invective may have been caused by an urge to discredit his possible competition, perhaps after someone had objected to his erotic plans. This situation furnishes also a suitable context for the last portion of fr. 282. Autolycus concludes his speech on a note of praise for the sophoi kai agathoi (23). As we saw above, the close association between the criticism of athletics and the tribute to sophie can be traced back to Xenophanes fr. 2 W.² Why is Autolycus adopting the same rhetorical strategy? 62 By following the conventions of the earlier debate on the relative value of different skills he may be pursuing a similar goal, namely, the promotion of a particular skill or occupation. 63 He characterises the sophoi kai agathoi (23) as competent speakers (μύθοις, 26) who benefit the city by removing fights and quarrels (27–28), a detail that points again to a different passage in Xenophanes (cf. οὔ τι μάχας διέπειν ... ἢ στάσιας σφεδανάς, fr. 1.21–23 W.²) but also to the Hesiodic portrayal of the king cherished by the Muses in the Theogony. 64 In this way he may be praising poets, intellectuals, or politicians, as commentators suggest. 65 But perhaps his purpose is first and foremost self-promotion. Since Homer Autolycus excels in the art of swearing deceptive oaths in

 61 See Pechstein and Krumeich 1999b. 62 Euripides appears to be particularly fond of this kind of stark contrasts. Contrast the debate between Zethus and Amphion about practical and intellectual life in Antiope (frr. 183–189, 193– 202, and perhaps also 191, 219–220), which in part draws on the contrast between brawn and brains (see e.g. Soph. Aj. 1250–1252). Fr. 201 in particular is very close to the first lines of fr. 282. See Mangidis 2003, 23–25. 63 On this rhetorical strategy see Stewart 2017, 160–166; more in general on the adversarial quality of much philosophical and scientific debate in ancient Greece see Lloyd 1990. 64 “All the populace look to him as he decides disputes with straight judgments; and speaking publicly without erring, he quickly ends even a great quarrel (μέγα νεῖκος) by his skill. For this is why kings are prudent (ἐχέφρονες), because when the populace is going astray in the assembly they easily manage to turn the deeds around, effecting persuasion with mild words (μαλακοῖσι παραιφάμενοι ἐπέεσσιν); and as he goes up to the gathering (ἀγῶνα) they seek his favor like a god with soothing reverence, and he is conspicuous among the assembled people” (Hes. Theog. 86–92, trans. G.W. Most). 65 See Di Benedetto 1971, 305; Giannini 1982, 67; Angiò 1992, 90; Iannucci 1998, 44; Pechstein 1998, 70; Larmour 1999, 42; Egli 2003, 127; Harris 2009, 166; Stewart 2017, 276. Some commentators see in this phrase Euripides’ own claim of superiority. The nexus σοφὸς καὶ ἀγαθός, often contrasted with καλὸς καὶ ἀγαθός, is in fact quite common, especially in Plato: see e.g. Euth.

Wink or Twitch?  

order to cover his thefts — what J. Redfield has in fact categorised as “the art of Autolycus”. 66 There is a good amount of humour and irony in the fact that a lying thief expresses admiration for the noble men whose words bring about civic concord. 67 Why would he do that? Perhaps because one of the implications of his speech is that he is one of those noble men: the trickster portrays himself as a public benefactor as he reviles one of the most popular categories of men (and does so with words that echo the authority of the archaic tradition). If the dramatic context of this statement is one of erotic competition, then Autolycus’ claim may imply a further note of self-interest: he maintains, in the manipulative fashion that is to be expected of him, that he is well above all other contenders. For all intents and purposes fr. 282 is a passionate expression of concern and an outstanding speech designed to impress the theatre’s audience. Its tone is so much serious, in fact, that some have doubted that the fragment may actually come from a satyr play. 68 After all, though, a wink is virtually indistinguishable from a twitch. The tone of moral rigour is essential to both Autolycus’ characterization and to the humorous effect of his speech. As a concluding remark, it is worth underscoring to which extent the interpretive scenario we have followed so far has helped us unearth the semantic potential inherent in our fragment. Well aware of the many ramifications of the long-standing Greek discourse on athletics, Euripides here evokes them only to have them delivered by a manipulative crook. In the case of fr. 282, fragmentation has proved to be almost as deceitful as Autolycus.

Bibliography Angeli Bernardini, P. (1980), “Esaltazione e critica dell’atletismo nella poesia greca dal VII al V sec. a. C. Storia di un’ideologia”, Stadion 6, 81–111. Angiò, F. (1992), “Euripide, Autolico, fr. 282 N.²”, Dioniso 62, 83–94. Arafat, K. (2000), “The Recalcitrant Mass: Athenaeus and Pausanias”, in: D.C. Braund/J. Wilkins (eds), Athenaeus and his World: Reading Greek Culture in the Roman Empire, Exeter, 191–202.

 282e5; see also Pind. Ol. 9.28; Aesch. Sept. 595; Soph. Phil. 118; Pechstein 1998, 68–69; cf. Giannini 1982, 67. For σοφὸς καὶ καλός (which “deserves recognition in its own right as a previously neglected idiom”: Panegyres 2019, 1021) see e.g. Hipp. Ma. 281a1. 66 Redfield 2003, 258. 67 We have thus no reason to suppose, as Sutton 1980, 148 does, that fr. 282 was followed at some point by a second speech defending athletes. 68 Angiò 1992, 87. See above, n. 25.

  Massimo Giuseppetti Arnott, W.G. (1981), “Double Vision: A Reading of Euripides’ Electra”, G&R 28, 179–192. Bakola, E./Prauscello, L./Telò, M. (eds) (2013), Greek Comedy and the Discourse of Genres, Cambridge. Bastianini, G./Luppe, W. (1989), “Una hypothesis euripidea in un esercizio scolastico (P. Vindob. G 19766 verso, Pack2 1989): l’Αὐτόλυκος πρῶτος”, Analecta Papyrologica 1, 31–36. Bowra, C.M. (1938), “Xenophanes and the Olympic Games”, AJPh 59, 257–279 (repr. in Bowra 1953, 15–37). Bowra, C.M. (1953), Problems in Greek Poetry, Oxford. Bowra, C.M. (1960), “Euripides’ Epinician for Alcibiades”, Historia 9, 68–79 (repr. in Bowra 1970, 134–148). Bowra, C.M. (1970), On Greek Margins, Oxford. Bruzzese, L. (2004), “Lo Schwerathlet, Eracle e il parassita nella commedia greca”, Nikephoros 17, 139–170. Collard, C./Cropp, M. (2008), Euripides: Fragments. 1: Aegeus–Meleager, Cambridge (MA)/ London. Cropp, M.J. (1988), Euripides: Electra, Oxford. Denniston, J.D. (1939), Euripides: Electra,Oxford. Di Benedetto, V. (1971), Euripide. Teatro e società, Turin. Di Marco, M. (2013), Satyriká. Studi sul dramma satiresco, Lecce. Dover, K.J. (1974), Greek Popular Morality in the Time of Plato and Aristotle, Oxford. Dover, K.J. (2000), “Frogments”, in: D. Harvey/J. Wilkins (eds), The Rivals of Aristophanes: Studies in Athenian Old Comedy, Swansea, xvii–xix. Egli, F. (2003), Euripides im Kontext zeitgenössischer intellektueller Strömungen: Analyse der Funktion philosophischer Themen in den Tragödien und Fragmenten, München. García Romero, F. (2009), “Alabanza y crítica del deporte en la literatura griega”, Materiales para la historia del deporte 7, 9–22. García Soler, M.J. (2010), “Euripides’ Critique of Athletics in Autolykus, fr. 282 N²”, Nikephoros 23, 139–153. Geertz, C. (1973), The Interpretation of Cultures: Selected Essays, New York. Giannini, P. (1982), “Senofane fr. 2 Gentili-Prato e la funzione dell’intellettuale nella Grecia arcaica”, QUCC 39, 57–69. Griffith, M. (2015), Greek Satyr Play: Five Studies, Berkeley. Guggisberg, P. (1947), Das Satyrspiel, Zürich. Iannucci, A. (1998), “Euripide (satiresco) e gli «sportivi»: note di lettura a Eur. fr. 282 N.²”, Quaderni del Dipartimento di Filologia, Linguistica e Tradizione Classica di Torino 11, 31– 48. Kambitsis, J. (1972), L’Antiope d’Euripide, Athènes. Kannicht, R. (1991), “De Euripidis Autolyco vel Autolycis”, Dioniso 61, 91–99. Kannicht, R. (2005), Euripides: Fragmenta (TrGF V), 2 vols, Göttingen. Kyle, D.G. (1987), Athletics in Ancient Athens, Leiden. Lamari, A.A. (2017), Reperforming Greek Tragedy: Theater, Politics, and Cultural Mobility in the Fifth and Fourth Centuries BC, Berlin/Boston. Lämmle, R. (2013), Poetik des Satyrspiels, Heidelberg. Larmour, D.H.J. (1999), Stage and Stadium: Drama and Athletics in Ancient Greece, Hildesheim. Lesher, J.H. (1992), Xenophanes of Colophon: Fragments, Toronto.

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Lloyd, G.E.R. (1979), Magic, Reason, and Experience: Studies in the Origin and Development of Greek Science, Cambridge. Lloyd, G.E.R. (1990), Demystifying Mentalities, Cambridge. Lucas de Dios, J.M. (1991), “Jenófanes 2: la inteligencia contra el deporte”, in: J.A. López Férez (ed.), Estudios actuales sobre textos griegos, Madrid, 57–73. Luginbill, R.D. (2002), “Tyrtaeus 12 West: Come Join the Spartan Army”, CQ 52, 405–414. Mangidis, I. (2003), Euripides’ Satyrspiel Autolykos, Bern/Frankfurt am Main. Marcovich, M. (1977), “Euripides’ Attack on the Athletes”, Živa Antika 27, 51–54 (repr. in 1991, 123–126). Marcovich, M. (1978), “Xenophanes on Drinking Parties and Olympic Games”, ICS 3, 1–26 (repr. in 1991, 60–84). Marcovich, M. (1991), Studies in Greek Poetry, Atlanta. Martelli, M.F.A. (2008), “Gli epigrammi AP 7.348 (= 37 FGE) e AP 13.30: la presunta attribuzione a Simonide”, Acme 61, 261–272. Martin, R.P. (1993), “The Seven Sages as Performers of Wisdom”, in: C. Dougherty/L. Kurke (eds), Cultural Poetics in Archaic Greece: Cult, Performance, Politics, Cambridge, 108–128. Masciadri, V. (1987), “Autolykos und der Silen. Eine übersehene Szene des Euripides bei Tzetzes”, MH 44, 1–7. Medda, E./Mirto, M.S./Pattoni, M.P. (eds) (2006), Κωμῳδοτραγῳδία: intersezioni del tragico e del comico nel teatro del V secolo a.C, Pisa. Müller, S. (1995), Das Volk der Athleten. Untersuchungen zur Ideologie und Kritik des Sports in der griechisch-römischen Antike, Trier. Musso, O. (1988), “Il fr. 282 N2 dell’Autolico euripideo e il P. Oxy. 3699”, SIFC 6, 205–207. O’Sullivan, P./Collard, C. (2013), Euripides’ Cyclops and Major Fragments of Greek Satyric Drama, Oxford. Page, D.L. (1981), Further Greek Epigrams: Epigrams before A.D. 50 from the Greek Anthology and Other Sources, Cambridge. Panegyres, K. (2019), “Καλὸς καὶ σοφός”, Mnemosyne 72, 1020–1028. Papakonstantinou, Z. (2014), “Ancient Critics of Greek Sport”, in: P. Christesen/D.G. Kyle (eds), A Companion to Sport and Spectacle in Greek and Roman Antiquity, Chichester, 320–331. Pechstein, N. (1998), Euripides Satyrographos. Ein Kommentar zu den Euripideischen Satyrspielfragmenten, Stuttgart. Pechstein, N./Krumeich, R. (1999a), “Autolykos”, in: R. Krumeich/N. Pechstein/B. Seidensticker (eds), Das griechische Satyrspiel, Darmstadt, 403–412. Pechstein, N./Krumeich, R. (1999b), “Oineus-Satyrspiel”, in: R. Krumeich/N. Pechstein/B. Seidensticker (eds), Das griechische Satyrspiel, Darmstadt, 368–374. Pritchard, D.M. (2012), “Athletics in Satyric Drama”, G&R 59, 1–16. Pritchard, D.M. (2013), Sport, Democracy and War in Classical Athens, Cambridge. Redfield, J.M. (2003), The Locrian Maidens: Love and Death in Greek Italy, Princeton (NJ). Rutherford, R.B. (1992), Homer: Odyssey. Books XIX and XX, Cambridge. Ryle, G. (2009), “The Thinking of Thoughts: What is Le Penseur Doing?”, in: id., Collected Essays 1929–1968, London/New York, 494–510. Sánchez-Mañas, C. (2013), “Excellence: Tyrtaeus’ Own View. A Literary Analysis of Fragment 9”, Erga-Logoi 1, 107–122. Schmid, W. (1936), “Zwei Auflagen von Euripides’ Αὐτόλυκος”, Philologische Wochenschrift 56, 766–768.

  Massimo Giuseppetti Schwinge, E.-R. (1997), “Tyrtaios über seine Dichtung (Fr. 9 G.-P. = 12 W.)”, Hermes 125, 387– 395. Seaford, R. (1988), Euripides: Cyclops, Oxford. Seaford, R. (1991), “Il dramma satiresco di Euripide”, Dioniso 61, 75–89. Shaw, C.A. (2014), Satyric Play: The Evolution of Greek Comedy and Satyr Drama, Oxford. Steffen, V. (1971), “The Satyr-Dramas of Euripides”, Eos 59, 203–226. Stewart, E. (2017), “‘There’s Nothing Worse than Athletes’: Criticism of Athletics and Professionalism in the Archaic and Classical Periods”, Nikephoros 27, 273–294. Strobel, B./Wöhrle, G. (2018), Xenophanes von Kolophon, Berlin/Boston. Sutton, D.F. (1974a), “The Evidence for a Ninth Euripidean Satyr Play”, Eos 62, 49–53. Sutton, D.F. (1974b), “A Handlist of Satyr Plays”, HSCPh 78, 107–143. Sutton, D.F. (1975), “Athletics in the Greek Satyr Play”, Rivista di Studi Classici 23, 203–209. Sutton, D.F. (1980), The Greek Satyr Play, Meisenheim am Glan. Van Looy, H. (1998), “Autolykos”, in: F. Jouan/H. Van Looy, Euripide. VIII: Fragments. 1: AigeusAutolykos, Paris, 330–340. Visa-Ondarçuhu, V. (1999), L’image de l’athlète d’Homère à la fin du Ve siècle av. J.-C, Paris. Voelke, P. (2001), Un théâtre de la marge: aspects figuratifs et configurationnels du drame satyrique dans l’Athènes classique, Bari. Wilamowitz - Moellendorff, U. von (1889), Einleitung in die griechische Tragödie, Berlin. Wilkins, J. (2000), The Boastful Chef: The Discourse of Food in Ancient Greek Comedy, Oxford. Wilson, P.J. (2009), “Tragic Honours and Democracy: Neglected Evidence for the Politics of the Athenian Dionysia”, CQ 59, 8–29. Wright, M. (2016), “Euripidean Tragedy and Quotation Culture: The Case of Stheneboea F661”, AJPh 137, 601–623.

Efstathia Papadodima

Barbarism and Fragmentation in FifthCentury Tragedy: Barbarians in the Fragments and “Fragmented” Barbarians In this paper I explore the theme of barbarism and the image of barbarians in fifth-century tragedy in relation to the issue or the notion of “fragmentation.” I use the term “fragmentation” both in a technical sense, to refer to the fragments of lost plays and their interplay with extant tragedies, and in a more abstract sense, to refer to the idea or concept of “fragmentation”, as opposed to the idea of a coherent entity or the idea of unity and wholeness (inspired by the conference’s title: “Fragmented Parts, Coherent Entities”). Given that the material associated with tragic barbarians is vast and diverse, I will attempt to make a few all-embracing points rather than pay truly close attention to any particular figure or text, much less inquire into all possible parallels or contrasts between the extant and fragmentary plays I will go through (or into all possible connections among a wider range of plays to which the particular extant and fragmentary plays I will mention might point). The fragments I will refer to have been, and are still being, seriously studied or reconsidered in their own right. I will limit myself to some observations concerning barbarism and the image of barbarians. Part 1 lays out a few remarks about the way in which barbarism is treated in extant and/or vs fragmentary tragedy, in an attempt to pinpoint whether the tragic fragments might make any substantial contribution to our understanding of the theme. Part 2 makes some observations about the inherently “fragmented” status/quality of tragic barbarians as a whole, regardless of whether these barbarian characters are found in extant or fragmentary tragedy. My point is that the treatment of barbarians in tragedy as a whole is marked by a certain degree of rather controversial “fragmentation”, which inevitably also affects the barbarians’ Greek counterparts — or primarily affects their Greek counterparts. The “fragmented” barbarians of fifth-century tragedy are largely supposed to highlight constituent fragments of the Self and probably establish a (sense of) unity, in the Greek world and in Greek self-perception, which more often than not proves frail.

  Efstathia Papadodima

 Barbarians in the Fragments (and/or vs Extant Tragedy): Some Basic Points Greek tragic theatre is a rich source for the study of ethnicity, 1 as primarily explored in terms of the Greek-barbarian opposition (although the genre’s interest in ethnicity and ethnicity’s very scope are not confined to that opposition). Many fifth-century tragedies feature foreign themes or characters of diverse statuses — “Easterners-Northerners”, historical-mythical, male-female — or offer more theoretical insights into the theme of ethnic or cultural differentiation. Thus, based on both extant and fragmentary tragic production, we might form a “typology” of barbarism as a literary theme, and there are several ways to go about it, e.g. by mapping out barbarism’s major uses and effects (ideological and otherwise), by isolating types of ethnic groups or barbarian individuals, by plot-types, by categories of ethnic stereotypes or by comparing the tragedians’ outlook and take on the topic. Even though the theme of ethnic identities in drama is intricate and multilayered, 2 we could readily detect two very basic, related but not necessarily interdependent, aspects of barbarism and of the Greek-barbarian interaction, which underlie both extant and fragmentary tragedy: the first aspect refers to the two groups’ (mutual) hostility or “antagonism”, while the second aspect refers to the explicit or implicit interest in the two groups’ distinct essence or relative value. Indeed, most tragic contexts which bring Greeks and barbarians into contact present or presuppose some form of confrontation or clash between the two peoples, whether physical or mental. At the same time, tragic barbarians (especially of extant tragedy) are standardly represented in a dangerous, grave or disadvantegeous position, or as the defeated ones, in quite pragmatic terms — whether they are male monarchs (Xerxes, Darius, Polymestor, Theoclymenus, Thoas, Rhesus) or female slaves of war and suppliants (the Trojans, the Danaïds, the Phoenicians). What about the tragic fragments? It is self-evident that the fragments provide us with (some) additional material about barbarian peoples, places, and stories,

 1 I here use the term “ethnicity” quite loosely. For detailed discussions about proposed definitions and extensions of terms such as “ethnic identity”, “cultural identity” etc. in the ancient world see Hall 1997, 47; 2002, 198–220. Contrast Harrison 2002, 4, n. 19. See also McInerney 2001, 51–73. 2 Bibliography on the topic is rich and diverse. See notably Bacon 1961; Hall 1989; Saïd 2002, 62–100; Papadodima 2013, upon which I draw several thoughts and remarks.

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which might occasionally enrich and deepen our understanding of particular extant plays. The other way round, extant dramas may shed some light on fragmentary ones. Beyond the tragic genre, Aristophanic comedy (and its versatile relationship with tragedy) is interesting in this latter respect. We might simply mention the poet’s “utilization” of two popular foreign (or quasi-foreign) figures featuring in fragmentary tragedies, who, as usually in Aristophanes, primarily come to highlight Greek/Athenian problems and animosities or divisions. These characters are Tereus (in Birds) 3 and Telephus (in Acharnians and Women at the Thesmophoria). 4 A more challenging question is whether the fragments do, or could, make any substantial, qualitative rather than quantitative, difference or contribution to our understanding of a theme which is by definition controversial and context-dependent. I would argue upfront that the contribution of the fragments is quite limited in this respect, not only because the lack of context/material makes  3 The Tereus bird claims that he has taught the other birds how to communicate (ἐδίδαξα τὴν φωνήν), since up to this point the birds have only been speaking in a barbarian, that is, unintelligible fashion (βαρβάρους ὄντας πρὸ τοῦ [199–200]). The presumed unintelligibility of barbarian tongue is commonly expressed through the swallow/bird-metaphor in tragedy (e.g. Aesch. Ag. 1050–1051, Soph. Ant. 1001–1002). Ironically enough, it is a notoriously savage Thracian, as portrayed in Sophocles’ Tereus, and one who actually cuts off a person’s tongue, who undertakes to teach the birds how to speak. The treatment of the figure of Tereus in Birds additionally highlights the very relationship and tension between fragmentary tragic plays that concern the eponymous hero, namely the plays by Sophocles and Philocles (the tetralogy Pandionis, of which we know virtually nothing). The Tereus bird in Aristophanes mocks another bird’s costume by saying: “he is the son of Philocles’ hoopoe, but I am his grandfather” (279–283), thus pointing to an intergenerational conflict and antagonism. See Wright 2016, 99–100. 4 As represented in Euripides’ lost Telephus (438 BC), Telephus was a Mysian king, Greek by birth (the son of Heracles and Auge), who employed various tactics and arguments in order to gain the Acheaen army’s assistance. The tragic hero’s ambivalent “ethnic” status, of which he himself appears fully conscious (14), as well as his proving his “Hellenicity” to the Greeks, are an integral part of the story and of his eventual rescue (healing), rather than a more abstract matter of debated identities or (self-)identification. Two of the most characteristic and popular tragic episodes associated with Telephus (his persuasion/deception and enforcement attempts) are parodied in Aristophanes, namely the hero’s disguise as a beggar and his seizing baby Orestes and holding him as “hostage” at sword-point. Accordingly, Dicaeopolis in Acharnians tries to make the Acharnians pay attention to him and support his goal (to put an end to the war — a purely intra-Hellenic affair) by being dressed like “Mysian Telephus” (in effect a miserable beggar), after borrowing the play’s “rags” by Euipides himself, and threatening to use his knife against a charcoal basket. Dicaeopolis resorts to this course of action after having rejected Euripides’ other possible disguise-suggestions, which allude to some of the poet’s fragmentary plays (like Bellerophon). The Inlaw in Women at the Thesmophoria attempts to escape the women by grabbing and threating to kill one of the women’s baby, in reality a wine skin.

  Efstathia Papadodima broader conclusions risky or impossible (unless we are inclined to rest heavily on speculations), but also because barbarians per barbarians are presented as more “fragmented” than their Greek counterparts, even in extant tragedy. I define “fragmented” here in a much looser sense, as opposed to “coherent”, “whole” or “consistent”. Three of the most evident ways in which extant and fragmentary tragedy may complement, but also complicate, one another when it comes to barbarism and the Greek-barbarian relationship are the following. (1) First, in “intra-barbarian” terms, the dialogue between extant and fragmentary tragedy may offer a more developed image of recurrent individual characters of foreign origin, who hold an important place in the tragic corpus (like Hecuba or Cassandra [Euripides’ Hecuba, Alexandros, Trojan Women]); of specific types of barbarians of a more “sketchy” nature (like the greedy and savage Thracians Tereus [Sophocles’ Tereus] and Polymestor [Euripides’ Hecuba]); 5 and of the mythical stories/cycles and plot-types associated with barbarians (like the escape-plots of Euripides’ Helen, IΤ, and Andromeda, with their “exotic” barbarian captors on the fringes of the familiar or “civilized” world — Egypt, the land of the Taurians, Ethiopia). (2) Second, the dialogue between extant and fragmentary tragedy offers insights into the broader, conceptual Greek-barbarian relationship and presumed differentiation, in so far as certain (often “extreme”) types of barbarians of extant tragedy find their most representative Greek “counterparts” in the tragic fragments. (3) Third, with respect to the Trojans, a group which holds an important place in the tragic universe, the fragments might somewhat twist their predominant image/representation in extant tragedy, although the evidence is not substantial. I will briefly go through a few examples or particulars of these three points.

. Extant Barbarians and their Fragmented Counterparts Hecuba is a good example of the way in which the dialogue between extant and fragmentary tragedy may offer insights into issues of characterization, first, because she is a leading character in the most extensive fragmentary play with a Trojan subject and characters (Euripides’ Alexandros). Second, Alexandros represents a crucial episode of the queen’s life prior to and independently of her interaction with the Achaeans (and of the Trojan War). As such, the drama does not

 5 Such Thracians stereotypes are common in tragedy (see e.g. Hall 1989, 102–110) and classical literature. For the idea of Thracian greed see Tereus fr. 587; cf. Thuc. 2.97. For the Thracians’ proneness to excessive violence see also Thuc. 7.29.4–5, 7.30.3.

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reflect any sort of “ethnic tension” or clash, whereas the two extant plays involving Hecuba make heavy use of that tension or open animosity (Euripides’ Hecuba and, secondarily, Trojan Women). 6 All in all, through the combination of extant and fragmentary material, we may follow Hecuba’ course (as a mother) in both an intra-ethnic and an inter-ethnic environment. At the same time, the Hecubas of extant drama and of Alexandros share an important, constitutive feature, which boils down to the queen’s double status as the (quintessential) bereaved/ grieving and violent/vengeful mother, a status that seems to surpass or prove irrelevant to ethnic boundaries. In all three plays Hecuba is primarily defined by her relationship with her children, who are either dead/about to die or removed from their home environment, the family in all cases being fragmented and broken, forcibly or intentionally. In the two extant dramas, which take place on devastated or alien and “liminal” lands after Troy’s sack, Hecuba is faced with multiple blows and outrages by various agents; these blows generate immense grief as well as mood for vengeance. In Hecuba in particular, which thematizes the Greek-barbarian polarity far more extensively, these blows come from different “foreigners” — the queen’s Achaean conquerors/masters and her Thracian supposed allies, who themselves engage in confrontation. Among other channels, Hecuba struggles to defend her most crucial and defining interests, that is, her children’s life or honour, by rhetorically exploiting the Greek-barbarian opposition while confronting her masters (Odysseus) or while trying to persuade them to execute justice (Agamemnon). First, in order to avert Polyxena’s sacrifice by the Achaean army, she appeals to a law which she herself presents as distinctively Greek, that of isonomia, and which she tries to use to her own advantage (291–292), whilst “returning” Odysseus’ accusations about Trojans/barbarians being ungrateful towards their friends (328–331, 254–257). Second, in order to debunk Polymestor’s attempted justification of his unholy killing of his guest, Polydorus, in front of Agamemnon who is called to judge the case (i.e. that Polymestor’s motive for the murder was his wish to protect the Achaeans), she asserts that Greeks and barbarians have never, and could never, be friends (1119–1201). This somewhat contradicts her earlier invocations of the friendship that is expected to bind her with both Odysseus, on account of the help she once offered him, and Agamemnon, on account of the latter’s sexual relationship with Cassandra (824–825).

 6 Alexandros and Trojan Women, along with Palamedes, belong to the same trilogy, composed after Hecuba.

  Efstathia Papadodima In fact, rather than having a clear-cut polarity between Achaean victors, Trojan victims, and their Thracian allies, all three peoples involved manipulate the Greek-barbarian division (and the pertinent master-slave contrast) in quite selfserving and partial ways. 7 In the end, when any attempt on the queen’s part to get Agamemnon to punish the Thracian proves futile, Hecuba turns from a grieving mother to a brutal murderess, blinding Polymestor and murdering his sons. 8 In Trojan Women, Hecuba is once again the grieving mother who, after suffering great, successive losses, struggles to secure Helen’s killing, in the play’s famous agon (with Menelaus as judge). Among other, quite sober and calculated, arguments, the queen utilizes Troy’s popular image as an opulent tyranny 9 as a means for proving that Helen was beyond doubt guilty, a more than willing participant in her “abduction” (994–995, 1022–1028; cf. also Helen’s portrayal in Euripides’ Orestes). Hecuba’s image as a bereaved mother who turns vengeful (in order to protect or honour her children) may be complemented by Euripides’ Alexandros, set at the prosperous kingdom of Troy in somewhat happier, though not completely untroubled, times. The drama utilizes the exposed-child motif (referring to the exposure of Paris/Alexandros in the light of an oracle) and culminates in the familial recognition. 10 Since the play dramatizes a wholly intra-Trojan affair, the polarity that comes to the foreground and drives the action is that of social class and status. Hecuba mourns over her (supposed) dead baby (Paris), until the unidentified Trojan prince shows up as an unknown stranger of low standing and manages to beat Hecuba’s (other) royal sons in the games intended to commemorate his own supposed death, hence threatening their authority and privileges. In the context of that supposed polarity (low-born/high-born), a wrathful Hecuba appears inclined to kill, or at least to be implicated in a killing, in order to protect her acknowledged sons’ interests. A powerful queen/mother, Hecuba is now the intended and plotting murderess not of her enemy’s children (or of those who harmed her children), by way of avenging an irreversible outrage against her kin, but of her own — innocent — child, although unbeknownst to her (also reminding  7 Notably when Agamemnon treats guest-killing as a barbarian (Thracian) trademark (1247– 1249) and when Polymestor appeals to his friendly disposition towards the Achaeans in order to justify his crime. 8 Her “transformation” is of course much more complex. See suggestively the seminal study by Mossman 1990. 9 See e.g. Tro. 474, 748, 927–928, 1107–1109, 1168–1170 with Burnett 1977, 308–312; Eur. El. 315– 318, 998–1003; Or. 1110–1114, 1426–1436. See also Miller 1997, 153–187, 193–198. 10 See now the edition of Karamanou 2017, with comprehensive information about the play’s themes and characters.

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one of Creusa in Euripides’ Ion). Hence, despite her quite pragmatic differences with the after-war Hecubas and irrespective of the ethnicity-factor, the Hecuba of Alexandros in some way complements her extant counterparts in terms of her capacity for violent vengeance (especially fr. 62d K) — also alluding to her image in the Iliad. 11

. Extant Barbarians and their Fragmented Greek Counterparts Certain types of barbarians of extant tragedy find representative Greek “counterparts” in lost plays. Even though the limited extent of the fragments, as well as the frustrating uncertainty surrounding many of their particular aspects, do not allow for a detailed or even consistent and reliable portrayal of these Greek individuals and their actions, we can still trace elements that provide us with food for thought about issues of identity (referring not only to ethnicity but also to gender and social status). In the context of the Trojan saga, we might mention the grieving, bereft wife Andromache (in Euripides’ Trojan Women) in conjunction with Laodamia of Euripides’ lost Protesilaus, of which only few fragments survive. More suggestive is the class of “problematic” or downright destructive and murderous barbarian mothers who hold leading roles in extant plays and whose Greek counterparts happen to appear only in the fragments. Euripides’ Medea is certainly the most representative example, all the more since the title character is a woman who knowingly and intentionally kills her children, while her crime is thematized in Greek-barbarian terms (and the women of the Chorus even feel compelled to search for [Greek] exempla, which is not untypical in itself). Medea’s core identity is of course anyway exceptional in several respects (a sorceress of divine descent). Among the fragmentary tragedies, the elephant in the room here is Tereus, one of the more popular and widely studied lost tragedies of Sophocles, in which the theme of foreignness must have played some meaningful part 12 — and there is at least one anti-barbarian aphorism concerning greed as a distinct feature of the barbarian genos (fr. 587). Although a full reconstruction of the plot remains

 11 Though not in relation to child-murder. See e.g. 24.212–213 (about her wish to devour Achilles’ liver). 12 The date of composition is unknown, but certainly before 414 BC, when Aristophanes’ Birds was produced. See futher Coo 2013, 352–353, n. 8 and the next note.

  Efstathia Papadodima highly speculative or rather impossible, 13 this revenge and metamorphosis drama treats a chain of savage crimes committed by the Thracian king Tereus (against his sister-in-law, Philomela, driven by lust) and his wife, the Athenian princess Procne (against Itys, her own child, driven by revenge). Like the Colchian Medea, the Athenian Procne kills her son as a means of avenging her husband’s lethal betrayal of their marriage. Both women, who have been relocated to foreign lands (Corinth and Thrace) in the frame/for the sake of their marriage, seem to have the same motive for their crime, and their various similarities have been noted already in antiquity. Yet, there are a number of differences that may be inferred or deduced with some certainty and that might affect/have affected the plays’ treatment of the Greek-barbarian relationship. For one thing, both Tereus’ and Procne’s violent actions are much more ferocious than Jason’s and Medea’s. Tereus’ crime, his raping and mutilating Philomela, is by definition far graver and more “spectacular” than Jason’s abandoning of Medea in favour of a royal bride — which would also match the stereotypes concerning Thracian savagery. On the other hand, Procne’s revenge itself is much more gruesome than the barbarian Medea’s, since Procne not only killed her son but also served him as a meal to his father, like another Atreus. In Tereus fr. 589, a man [Tereus?] is characterized as foolish/mad [ἄνους], while the women who violently avenged him are characterized as even more foolish, acting in an even madder way. In terms of dramatic structure, Procne seems to find out the horrible truth about her sister’s plight in the course of the play, whereas Jason’s betrayal of Medea is already widely known from the very beginning. As a result, the Euripidean play focuses on Medea’s working her way towards her revenge. This might influence the way in which the theme of barbarism is/would have been treated, to the extent that, in Euripides, it necessarily brings into focus Jason’s (the original aggressor’s) attempts to refute his wife’s persistent, fervent accusations and justify himself, ever since his first appearance of stage. And it is, perhaps, no wonder that Jason’s attempts at self-justification (before the revenge), as well as his protests at the outrage he is suffering (after the revenge), revolve around Medea’s barbarian origin.

 13 See Finglass 2016, 61–85 for a stellar history of past reconstruction/dating attempts (with all its extensions about possible influences/deliberate innovations etc.). I here follow Finglass’ plausible conclusions about the plot’s reconstruction.

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Medea herself frequently draws attention to her status as a foreigner and an outsider, 14 mostly as a means of emphasizing her complete lack of support and the dire (in fact the direst possible, in her eyes) position in which Jason has put her. That aspect, her self-conscious and “self-proclaimed” foreignness, directs her reflections, no less when she elaborates on the woes and detrimental effects of marriage early in the play, and while she is already set on avenging her husband (214–266). 15 This becomes even clearer later on, when Medea hints at the inferior position of barbarian women in Greek society as one of Jason’s motives for leaving her, or as the ultimate motive (591–592). Bitter sentiments about marriage are also found in Tereus, but in this context they seem to be more abstract and all-embracing rather than ethnically determined. Procne is the character who, in all probability, laments the pitiful plight and low standing of women (ὡς οὐδέν ἐσμεν), forced as they (generically) are to leave their natal home and go into marriage, to strangers/foreigners or barbarians (fr. 538). It has been convincingly argued that the heroine’s speech most probably comes early in the play (early in the first episode; see n. 13), before the revelation of Philomela’s horrible affliction. That clue would place Procne’s sentiments on a more abstract/universal level, on the one hand, whilst maximizing the dramatic effect of the revelation of Philomela’s fate, on the other. Procne laments her married life and her “removal” from her father’s palace even before getting to be informed of her husband’s atrocious acts against her family (and herself). At the same time, as has been pointed out, Procne’s ties to her paternal oikos are (and have always been) much different from Medea’s in the first place. By marrying the foreigner Tereus and settling in a foreign land, Procne honoured her father’s, king Pandion’s, wish, while later on she longed to be reunited with her sister. Medea, on the other hand, massively violated ties of familial piety in order to marry a foreigner — fleeing her father’s kingdom in secret and killing her brother in the process. This might have crucially influenced Procne’s reception by an Athenian audience, that is, Procne’s crime might have been viewed as (more) justifiable, in so far as Tereus’ atrocious act not only insulted and scorned his wife but also constituted a profound, broader outrage against her fraternal oikos. 16

 14 Both she and the Chorus of Greek women stress the heroine’s seclusion, also through mentions of charged landmarks that separate Asia and Greece (the Clashing Rocks and Bosporus [2, 210–211, 1262–1264]). 15 See Milo 2008, 35–39. 16 See Sommerstein, Fitzpatrick and Talboy 2006, 153–157 (about the issue of the audience’s sympahty for Procne).

  Efstathia Papadodima Be that as it may, it is still telling (or even more telling) that Euripides’ Medea is one of the most undermining plays with respect to its anti-barbarian sentiments and aphorisms, which, not coincidentally, are expressed solely by Jason — himself an outsider (exile) in the city of Corinth (554). Medea has indeed been well received by Corinthian society (10–15). After her husband’s betrayal, she manages to exact the sympathy of the Chorus of local women, who roughly view her husband as a violator of both divine and human law (see especially the first stasimon [“shame has left Greece” / “oaths have no power anymore”]). Jason’s ethnic-related arguments when confronting his wife come across as weak and ineffective or are openly refuted, no less on the basis of the morally charged disparity between (polished) words and (despicable) deeds, of which Jason is found guilty (not only in the eyes of Medea [e.g. 579–585] but also in the eyes of the broader Greek community, the Chorus and Aegeus [576–578, 720–724]). First, Jason claims that he has repaid Medea in full for her past services to him, since he offered her the chance of living in a superior civilization, where what guides people’s lives are lawfulness, justice, and renown for those worthy of it (534–544). Certainly though, in the light of both Jason’s and Medea’s conduct (while in Greece), as well as Medea’s recently damaged reputation (a direct corollary of Jason’s betrayal), this conviction cannot really stand or even convince those around him. After the murder of the children, Jason treats Medea’s past services to him, the very same services for which he had allegedly been grateful, as crimes and evil deeds of a barbarian woman (1329–1335). More strongly, he exclaims that no Greek woman would ever dare to commit child-murder (1339– 1340). Meanwhile, however, some fifty lines earlier, a horrified Chorus had struggled to find a Greek parallel for Medea’s impending monstrosity, concluding that the sole known precedent of a mother (deliberately) killing her offspring is Ino (1282–1292). Although, as the women themselves point out, Ino killed her children after having being driven mad by Hera (like a second Heracles of the eponymous Euripidean drama) 17 and afterwards killed herself by leaping into the sea, the parallel still goes some way into undermining Jason’s sweeping anti-barbarian attack. The reference to Ino as the sole available example of a woman killing her children, i.e. the suppression of other such mothers (including, possibly,

 17 Ino’s story was dramatized in Euripides’ lost Ino, of which we do not know much, but there is evidence that allows us to assume that child-murder was a dominant theme (which also involved more children-victims than the two sons of Medea). A basic difference, though, is that child-murder in Ino, as in the relevant reference in Medea, was largely unintentional. See Finglass 2016, 303.

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Procne), has been variously explained or interpreted by modern critics 18 — and indeed there is no way (or, I would say, reason) to reach a definite conclusion. This is precisely an indication of the intriguing, extensive dialogue not necessarily between extant and fragmentary plays but among different bits and pieces of mythical stories, which might be (and are, as we know) flexibly and quite freely selected and deployed in the tragic universe.

. The Trojans When it comes to a popular tragic group, the Trojans, the fragments seem to offer indications of some possible qualitative difference, no less in terms of the particular characters they employ. The Trojans’ ethnic and cultural status is on the whole treated as rather ambivalent and fluid in fifth-century theatre, 19 something which might also be reflected in the very field of naming and terminology. 20 The tragic Trojans — commonly spoken of in opposition to their epic counterparts 21 — have been viewed as displaced Persians, who, however, may well exhibit sympathetic and noble qualities (and even prove to be more sympathetic or nobler than their Greek conquerors); 22 as culturally (if not necessarily ethnographically) similar to the Greeks/Athenians; 23 or as something in-between. Certainly though, the “sample” of the Trojans of extant tragedy is very specific, as is their relationship with the Achaeans with whom they share the stage; the Trojans of extant tragedy are almost exclusively represented by female victims/slaves of war, the members of the royal house whose prosperous life has

 18 See e.g. Newton 1985, 496–502, who concludes that the parallel is meant to suggest that “there in not one woman from the past who ever went to such extremes, not even Ino”. Although this does not sound necessarily implausible, it is still highly speculative and one among many options, given the tragedians’ free use of different story-lines. 19 The Euripidean Hecuba, after all, boasts that no woman, Greek, Trojan or barbarian, has given birth to sons like hers (Tro. 475–478; cf. Phoen. 1509–1513). 20 This refers to the (possibly ideological) conflation of Troy/Trojans and Phrygia/Phrygians (or Asia/Asians). See e.g. Hall 1989, 26–32, 39, 68–74, 102, 127 and Croally 1994, 104–105. 21 Whose ethnicity is largely ignored, according to widespread consensus. Tragedy at all events exhibits a higher degree of ethnographic interest or awareness, even in connection to the (extant) Trojans. 22 See e.g. Hall 1989, 26–32, 68–74, 102, 127; Croally 1994, 104–105. 23 Mattison 2009.

  Efstathia Papadodima been ravaged in the most brutal way possible, and it is no wonder that what critics most often emphasize are those women’s dignified qualities and suffering or endurance. 24 Most male Trojan characters (including royal Trojans, but also “rustic” Trojans), on the other hand, may be found in fragmentary fifth-century tragedy, 25 especially of Sophocles. Even though, as it happens, the poet’s extant production does not include any Trojan characters, 26 Sophocles seemed to be especially interested in Trojan stories and subjects (titles include Alexandros, Andromache, Hermione, Laocoon, Polyxena, Priamos, Shepherds, Sinon, Troilus). 27 Despite the scanty material, there are indications that the Trojans of several Sophoclean fragments bear features which come closer to being classified as “oriental” or Persian, at least in fifth-century Athenian imagination. Rather than having vague, generic references to Troy’s wealthy tyranny (see n. 9), which is the most common, potentially distinct, “Trojan”/“non-Greek” feature in extant drama, and which most often serves to accentuate the kingdom’s and its members’ grave reversal of fortune, the Trojans of the Sophoclean fragments are represented as speaking a foreign language (frr. 517, 518, 519, 520, 521 Shepherds; fr. 56 Captives; fr. 183 Helen’s Marriage); they allegedly employ eunuchs in the royal court (fr. 620 Troilus; cf. Eur. Or. 1528 with n. 24) and bear shields equipped with bells (fr. 775 inc); 28 and we may also hear about the βαρβάρους εὐοσμίας of the Trojan temples (fr. 341 Laocoon). Even though we cannot reach any conclusions about how individual male Trojans were portrayed and/or interacted with the Greeks, their very presence, as well as the more “orientalizing” details mentioned above, at least alert us to the fact that extant tragedy provides us with only one, quite specific aspect of their image.

 24 Euripides’ Orestes involves an unnamed Phrygian slave (in Helen’s “court”). The Phrygian is thus the only Trojan of extant tragedy who used to be a slave even before Troy’s fall and who, therefore, has no role in the epic tradition. This seems to influence his portrayal decisively. See below, p. 313. 25 The only extant drama that brings Trojan warriors/royals on stage is the Euripides-attributed Rhesus, in all probability a fourth-century tragedy, which involves Trojans and Thracians (and represents an intra-barbarian crisis). Other fourth-century fragmentary plays with Trojan characters include Astydamas’ Hector, on which see the discussion of Liapis 2018, 32–35. 26 Except for Tecmessa in Ajax, who is not strictly Trojan. At all events, Tecmessa’s barbarism is not given any attention. What primarily defines her status, rhetoric, and very fate is her identity as a war-slave bound to be deprived of her master/protector. 27 See notably Bacon 1961, 101–104 and Mattison 2009, 64–65. 28 Cf. the similar descriptions of shields in Aesch. Sept. 386–387; Phoen. 132–141; and [Eur.] Rh. 306–308, 383–385.

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So far, I have outlined a quite sketchy interplay between extant and fragmentary plays when it comes to the representation of barbarians and pertinent themes. In Part 2, I proceed with some thoughts about the “fragmented/fragmentary texture” of barbarians in tragedy as a whole.

 “Fragmented” Tragic Barbarians As shown above, the dialogue between extant and fragmentary tragedy may offer some interesting, though limited, insights with respect to barbarism and barbarians. On the other hand, I would argue that tragic barbarians as a whole, that is, whether of complete or of fragmentary works, are more prone to be viewed as “fragmented”, or as more “fragmented”, than their Greek counterparts — both on account of how they are perceived and on account of the roles they actually play — on three interconnected counts (the third one being the more context-specific). I define “fragmented” as the rough opposite of “unified”, “whole” or “coherent”. The barbarians’ “fragmented” status is interesting to the extent that is shows how the Greeks’ possible attempt to make sense of themselves, and of the world, by constructing and putting forth a coherent (self-)entity/identity through “fragments” and morsels of the barbarian Other turns out to be not really effective or reliable. (1) First, barbarians as peoples constitute one of the two parts of the perceived division of known humanity (“a conceptual polarity of which all other distinctions in culture or psychology are corollaries”, in E. Hall’s words [1989, 3–4]). The Greeks are of course the other part, but it is also the part that “generates” this division and attempts to exploit it to various effects. And then again, in various classical sources this perception and conceptual division per se are, not that rarely, undermined or put into question — not only in theoretical discourse (notably the so-called Sophists and some medical writings), but also in drama itself. This is brought about in at least three ways, so that there is often an interplay or tension between fragmentation/division and unity/cohesion. The more obvious and blunt way through which this perception is challenged consists in the employment of universalizing statements that hint at the unity of humankind or point out the conventionality or the inherent insufficiency of the Greek-barbarian distinction itself. In Euripides’ Alexandros, for instance — and even though it does not directly relate to ethnic origin — the Chorus claim that high-born and humble are one generation (fr. 61b), while in several other passages humankind as a whole is distinguished in terms of its distinct capacities

  Efstathia Papadodima and achievements (notably PV 447–468, 476–506 and Sophocles’ Antigone 332– 375). Somewhat more subtly, rather too many tragic figures are of mixed descent, and their (perceived) mixed or ambivalent characteristics (Greek-foreign) are selectively and fragmentarily deployed or brought into focus. To mention some examples, the Danaïds in Aeschylus’ Suppliants project and exploit their alleged kinship with the Argives, in whose land they desperately seek refuge, whilst being depicted as non-Greeks with respect to their language, physical appearance (234–237, 277–290; cf. Eur. Phaethon fr. 771 and Archelaus fr. 228 about the darkskinned Ethiopians), and political mindset (370–375) — against the anachronistically democratic Argos. 29 The Phoneician women in the eponymous Euripidean play claim to be of the same blood and stock as the Thebans (214–219, 239–249), even though they simultaneously define themselves as outsiders and foreigners (280, 293–296, 301, 679–680, 819, 1301–1302). More strikingly, Agamemnon is said to be, or is actually accused of being, of barbarian/Asian descent, in moments of conflict and uproar amidst the Achaean army — about seemingly irrelevant issues, but still in plays in which Agamemnon himself speaks disparagingly of barbarians (Soph. Aj. 1291–1292 [where the general insults and in fact attempts to bully the semi-barbarian Teucer into silence, on account of the latter’s lineage]; Euripides’ Iphigenia in Aulis 952–954 [where Agamemnon depicts all barbarians as slaves, destined to be subject to the Greeks]). On the other hand, the dubious or foggy ethnic status of figures like Theseus, Heracles, and Oedipus is standardly ignored (cf. Plato’s Menex. 245c–e). Third, the division of the universe into Greeks and barbarians is blurred through the treatment of barbarism as an inner, more abstract, emotional or moral disposition, that actually unites humanity, although in rather negative and unsettling ways — thus, it is a disposition that may define any character, regardless of ethnic background or descent (e.g. Eur. Hel. 501–502; Eur. Hec. 1129 ἐκβαλὼν δὲ καρδίας τὸ βάρβαρον). That aspect may (and does indeed) produce considerably different effects, depending on the context/ speaker/ dramatic situation, while barbarians themselves occasionally employ barbarism in this way (famously Eur. Tro. 764 ὦ βάρβαρ᾽ ἐξευρόντες Ἕλληνες κακά; Eur. IT 1173–1174; cf. Men. Shield 200–209). (2) A second, more pragmatic, count on which barbarians may be understood to be more “fragmented” is that, as dramatic characters, they are quite simply more likely to play less central roles — occasionally appearing as having sketchy or “contrived” characteristics and as being intended to give a new meaning, twist  29 See further Mitchell 2006, 205–223.

Barbarism and Fragmentation in Fifth-Century Tragedy  

or extension to a traditional myth rather than revealing anything specific or realistic about their own identity. The unidentified Phrygian (eunuch) slave of Euripides’ Orestes, who assumes the role of messenger, is perhaps the most evident example. Often considered to be caricatured or comical, the slave repeatedly projects and overstresses his barbarian, “Eastern”, features (referring to language, 30 gestures, attire; e.g. 1370–1371, 1374, 1384–1385, 1395–1397, 1507), thus offering a panorama of the widespread “racist” slurs of the period, which often merge slave and Easterner. 31 What is more, the Phrygian makes a point about the fact that he is clearly and essentially different from (that is, inferior to) not only the “masculine” Greek heroes whom he is forced to confront (Orestes and Pylades; 1349– 1352) but also his own noble compatriots, the Trojan valiant heroes alluded to in the play (notably Hector; 1478–1482). 32 Hence, the Phrygian is (admittedly and consciously) not meant to represent any of the “seminal/representative” groups of tragic barbarians, like the Trojans. (3) Even in plays that do not involve foreigners, barbarians are regularly spoken of and defined through recurring aphorisms or maxims intended to present them as a uniform, unified genos with standard characteristics (especially in the field of politics and ethics — despotic and slavish, cowardly, lawless, luxurious and self-indulgent, unsophisticated). By extension, the Greeks are supposed to form a uniform, unified genos with the opposite, or at least substantially different, features. These maxims, however, by their very nature and texture, may be manipulated in widely different ways and confer much different meanings, depending on the context into which they are incorporated (which is not very surprising). The aspect that mostly interests us here is that these recurring bits and pieces, these “morsels” of barbarism, often end up highlighting some degree of fragmentation of the Greeks, both in terms of their self-perception and in terms of their inter-relationships. We might mention only two examples out of many, which show how these anti-barbarian aphorisms may expressively highlight (contradictory) “fragments” or morsels of the Self, even in contexts that do not involve barbarian characters or actual encounters between Greeks and barbarians. The first, and more indirect, example is Agamemnon’s stated refusal to be treated like a barbarian (or a woman or a god) in the much-discussed tapestry scene of Aeschylus’ Agamemnon. Upon his long-awaited return to Argos as the

 30 See further Porter 1994. 31 See also Long 1986, 132. 32 For the play’s “subheroic” world as whole see suggestively Saïd 2002, 83.

  Efstathia Papadodima triumphant king/conqueror, Agamemnon is quick to reject Clytemnestra’s exhortations to enter the palace by treading upon the fine garments that she has strewed for him. Agamemnon is, after all, unlike his defeated rival, Priam, as both he and his wife portray, or imagine, the Trojan king (918–925). Whether this is a covert reference to Priam’s barbarian, “Eastern” identity or it more generically defines the latter’s status as a (i.e. another) great king, Agamemnon supposedly consolidates and affirms his own core identity, rooted in timeless and stable, “coherent” convictions and values, through his contrast to that abstract, “fleeting” Other. Yet, in the tapestry scene, what Agamemnon very soon does is act like the imaginary Priam. 33 What is more, the play as a whole problematizes the Achaeans’ decisions and way of carrying themselves in relation to the war (Agamemnon’s decision to sacrifice his daughter [218–247, especially 221–225] combined with his very choice to pursue a large-scale military enterprise for the sake of an ἀλλότρια woman [427– 474, 799–804]; the victors’ speculated sacrilege after their victory [338–347; cf. 527–528]), or even implicitly aligns Achaeans and Trojans in their questionable or transgressive conduct (e.g. 763–781). In the end, as nets had bound Troy (357– 361), so Agamemnon will be brought down by the nets woven at home (1115–1117, 1516–1517, 1382–1383). This is not simply to say that Achaeans and Trojans are presumed to be, or are presented as being, at fault about major affairs and aspects of their contact/confrontation. Rather, it suggests that there may be no quintessential, or more essential and constitutive, identity-factors that distinguish Achaeans and Trojans, despite the Greek world’s possible attempt(s) to define itself on that basis. The second example, which points to the reality of intra-Hellenic differentiation and fragmentation highlighted through a passing anti-barbarian aphorism, is Demophon’s denunciation of the herald’s conduct in Euripides’ Children of Heracles (one of the so-called “Athenocentric” plays). Expelled by their homeland and pursued by the Argive Eurystheus, Heracles’ noble offspring find refuge at Marathon, where the Athenian king Demophon (“the voice of the people”) appears inclined to offer them protection. 34 Upon showing up, the Argive herald  33 Comparably, Agamemnon’s heated rhetoric about the quintessential slavishness of barbarians in Eur. IA, famously taken up by Iphigenia herself — an aphorism supposed to reduce barbarians to a stereotypical, one-sided “shadow/morsel” of an entity — leads to some interesting “splits” in his own image. In the same play, Agamemnon himself is repeatedly depicted as/compared to a “slave” by his fellow-Greeks (450, 511, 514, 1012, 1271–1273; cf. his own words about his envying the position of his own slave [16–19]), while he is mocked on account of his Lydian origin (from the unimportant Sypilus, a barbarian πόλισμα [952–954]). 34 See, more broadly, Tzanetou 2012.

Barbarism and Fragmentation in Fifth-Century Tragedy  

threatens to forcefully seize the suppliants from the altar. Demophon, in response, characterizes the herald as one who acts like a barbarian, even though his clothing and garments make it obvious that he is Greek (130–131) 35 — and although respect for suppliants is presented as a universal imperative or standard in classical literature, a rule supposed to unite humankind. 36 Demophon’s remark highlights a disparity between appearance, external features or markers, and conduct or moral quality, or rather projects the Greekbarbarian contrast onto that disparity. It seems that Athens’ image is “constructed” through the city’s expressed opposition to the barbarian world, on the one hand, but also to the city of Argos (represented by the insolent herald and the “tyrannical” Eurystheus, as primarily construed by the herald). 37 Demophon’s remark thus ultimately highlights the Greek world’s fragmentation and divisions or tensions, here concerning city-states of a different political mindset or values. Beyond Argos itself, Athens is presented as the city that is willing to offer what other Greek cities had refused, that is, just treatment (305–306). Athenian life is allegedly governed and distinguished by three fundamental principles or ideals, namely equality and collective decision-making (423–424), freedom or autonomy (62, 113, 198, 244–245, 286–287, 423–424, 957), and justice (e.g. 329–332, 901–909). Likewise, in Euripides’ Suppliants, Theseus (following Aethra) defends Athens’ democratic ideals, and actually the “laws of Hellas”, which seem to be equated with the “laws of mortals”, against the Theban herald (433–455), even though “barbarism” does not enter the scene.

 Brief Conclusion I have, somewhat boldly, attempted to approach “fragmentation” and “fragments” in two ways. More obviously, by co-examining a few extant and/vs fragmentary plays or contexts which might offer insights into the Greek-barbarian (actual or conceptual) interaction (Part 1). Much more loosely, by showing that the inherently “fragmented” status and image of tragic barbarians as a whole (as I take it to be) says something about the Greeks’ possible (and often seemingly  35 In his determination to drag the suppliants by force the herald apparently resembles the truly barbarian herald in Aeschylus’ Suppliants, whose conduct is condemned by both the city of Argos and his own compatriots (the Danaïds), and whose barbarism is (partly) utilized precisely as a means of stressing the need for respecting universal conventions. 36 Cf. Hdt. 1.137.2; Xen. Mem. 4.4.19–20; Eur. IT 1173–1174. 37 See Yoon 2012, 113.

  Efstathia Papadodima conscious) search for some unity and coherence in self-definition — both on an individual and on an intra-state level (Part 2). Judging from fifth-century tragic production (and as the poets themselves seemed to realize), the “fragmented” Other might come some way, but does not quite manage to create a unified, coherent Self.

Bibliography Bacon, H. (1961), Barbarians in Greek Tragedy, New Haven. Burnett, A.P. (1977), “Trojan Women and the Ganymede Ode”, YCS 25, 291–316. Coo, L. (2013), “A Tale of Two Sisters: Studies in Sophocles’ Tereus”, TAPA 143, 349–384. Croally, N. (1994), Euripidean Polemic. The Trojan Women and the Function of Tragedy, Cambridge. Finglass, P.J. (2016), “A New Fragment of Sophocles’ Tereus”, ZPE 200, 61–85. Finglass, P.J. (2016), “Mistaken Identity in Euripides’ Ino”, in: P. Kyriakou/A. Rengakos (eds) (2016), Wisdom and Folly in Euripides, Berlin/Boston, 299–315. Fitzpatrick, D. (2001), “Sophocles’ Tereus”, CQ 51, 90–101. Hall, E. (1989), Inventing the Barbarian: Greek Self-Definition through Tragedy, Oxford. Hall, J. (1997), Ethnic Identity in Greek Antiquity, Cambridge. Hall, J. (2002), Hellenicity. Between Ethnicity and Culture, Chicago/London. Harrison, T. (ed.) (2002), Greeks and Barbarians, Edinburgh. Karamanou, I. (ed.) (2017), Euripides: Alexandros, Berlin/Boston. Liapis, V./Petrides, A. (eds) (2018), Greek Tragedy After the Fifth Century, Cambridge. Long, T. (1986), Barbarians in Greek Comedy, Carbondale. March, J. (2003), “Sophocles’ Tereus and Euripides’ Medea”, in: A. Sommerstein (ed.) (2003), Shards from Kolonos. Studies in Sophoclean Fragments (le Rane Collana di Studi e Testi 34), Bari, 139–161. Mattison, K. (2009), Recasting Troy in Fifth-Century Attic Tragedy, PhD diss., University of Toronto. McInerney, J. (2001), “Ethnos and Ethnicity in Early Greece”, in: I. Malkin (ed.) (2001), Ancient Perceptions of Greek Ethnicity, Center for Hellenic Studies Colloquia, 5, Cambridge MA, 51–73. Miller, M. (1997), Athens and Persia in the Fifth Century BC: A Study in Cultural Receptivity, Cambridge. Milo, D. (2008), Il Tereo di Sofocle (Bibliotheca Antiqua 2), Naples. Mitchell, L. (2006), “Greeks and Barbarians in Aeschylus’ Suppliants”, G&R 53, 205–223. Mossman, J. (1995), Wild Justice. A Study of Euripides’ Hecuba, Oxford. Newton, R.M. (1985), “Ino in Euripides’ Medea”, AJP 106, 496–502. Papadodima, E. (2013), Foreignness Negotiated. Conceptual and Ethical Aspects of the GreekBarbarian Distinction in Fifth-Century Literature, Hildesheim. Porter, J.R. (1994), Studies in Euripides’ Orestes, Leiden/Boston. Saïd, S. (2002), “Greeks and Barbarians in Euripides’ Tragedies. The End of Differences?”, in: T. Harrison (ed.) (2002), Greeks and Barbarians, Edinburgh, 62–100.

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Sommerstein, A.H./Fitzpatrick, D./Talboy, T. (2006), Sophocles. Selected Fragmentary Plays. Volume I. Hermione, Polyxene, The Diners, Tereus, Troilus, Phaedra, Oxford. Tzanetou, A. (2012), City of Suppliants. Tragedy and the Athenian Empire, Austin. Wright, M. (2016), The Lost Plays of Greek Tradedy, vol. I, London. Yoon, F. (2012), The Use of Anonymous Characters in Greek Tragedy, Leiden/Boston.

Part III: Fragmented Comedy

Michele Napolitano

Epicharmus, Odysseus Automolos: Some Marginal Remarks on frr. 97 and 98 K–A Given the impressive number of problems posed by the two extraordinary papyrus fragments of the Odysseus Automolos of Epicharmus that I am going to deal with (frr. 97 and 98 K–A) and the considerable amount of literature that has accumulated over the years on the subject, I will limit myself to addressing, step by step, some specific details. There are three questions I would like to focus on, among them: a) In which epic hypotext should the model reused by Epicharmus for his comedy be identified? b) Who does Odysseus converse with in the verses corresponding, today, to fr. 97 K–A? c) How should the title transmitted by the ancient sources for the comedy be understood, and, in particular, what sense should we attribute to the adjective automolos? A short concluding section will be devoted to some more general remarks regarding the meaning and function of paraepic in Epicharmus. To begin, just a few words regarding what survives of the comedy: five short fragments preserved by later writers, among which only fr. 99 K–A is taken briefly into consideration in this paper, and two fragments which survive in a direct tradition, 97 and 98 K–A, which we owe to two distinct papyri, both traceable back to the second century AD. The first one, the Vienna papyrus 2321, from the collection of the Archduke Rainer, published in 1889 by Theodor Gomperz, comes from a commented edition of Epicharmus and preserves fr. 97.7–17 K–A as well as seven lines of commentary, in the upper margin (CGFP 83 = PCG I, 60–61). The second one is P.Oxy. 2429, published by Lobel in 1959 in The Oxyrhynchus Papyri XXV (CGFP 84 = PCG I, 62–67). This second papyrus preserves what survives of an ancient hypomnema on Epicharmus proceeding perhaps by continuous lemmata. The Oxyrhynchus papyrus, which coincides partially with the text transmitted by the Vienna papyrus (fr. 97.7–10 K–A), aside from adding portions of text belonging to the context immediately preceding the verses preserved by the

 This work is part of the research project DISIECTA MEMBRA (II), funded by the Spanish Ministry of Science, Innovation and Universities (ref. FFI2017–83315–C2–1–P).

  Michele Napolitano Vienna papyrus, confirms the brilliant attribution of the text to the Odysseus Automolos of Epicharmus as proposed by Gomperz in 1889 (line 68 of fr. 98 K–A preserves, though partially, fr. 99.3–4 K–A, attributed by the source, Athenaeus, to the Odysseus Automolos). Moreover, the Oxyrhynchus papyrus makes clear that the scene partially preserved in the two papyri belongs not to a monologue, as had been suggested by Gomperz, but to a dialogue between Odysseus and an anonymous interlocutor, on whose identity scholars are divided. To this we must now add a small papyrus fragment edited by Jean Lenaerts in 2012 (PBerol. 21355 = BKT X 10) coming from the same roll to which the Rainer papyrus belonged and containing remnants of the same comedy (the beginning of twelve trochaic tetrameters accompanied by scanty commentary notes in the lower margin of the papyrus). The dialogical setting has led the editor to put forth the hypothesis that the lines could belong to the same scene transmitted by the Vienna papyrus. 1 Although the very poor state of preservation of the text does not allow any progress in the overall reconstruction of the comedy, at least one detail, in the Berlin papyrus, may prove valuable. Let’s start from the problem of the epic material reworked by Epicharmus. Until 1959, that is until the publication, by Edgar Lobel, of the remains of the ancient commentary on the comedy contained in P.Oxy. 2429, now fr. 98 K–A, the epic model of Epicharmus’ comedy had almost exclusively been recognized in the episode of Odysseus’ mission to Troy disguised as a beggar. In Aristotle’s Poetics this is given the title Ptocheia, alluding to the rags worn by Odysseus for his disguise. 2 The episode has no place in the Iliad, but in the Odyssey it is the focus of the story told by Helen, at Sparta, to her husband Menelaus and his guests, Telemachus and Pisistratus:

 1 Lenaerts 2012, 52. 2 Gomperz 1889, 3 (= Gomperz 1912, 147–149), immediately followed by Blass 1889, 257: “Gegenstand dieses Stückes war die bereits in der Odyssee (δ 242 ff.) erzählte Geschichte, wie Odysseus sich als Bettler verkleidet in Troja einschleicht und Kundschaft von dort zurückbringt”. But the identification of the epic model of Epicharmus’ comedy in the Ptocheia had already been proposed before the publication of the Vienna papyrus (Hermann 1802, 170; Grysar 1828, 288–289; Welcker 1844, 296; Schmidt 1888, 379) and has found supporters even after the publication of the Oxyrhynchus papyrus. This despite the idea, advanced by Lobel 1959, 41–42, that the epic hypotext of the comedy should have been recognized not in the odyssean Ptocheia but in the iliadic Doloneia (for a good overview see Rodríguez-Noriega Guillén 1996, 76–78). See for example Olivieri 1930, 31; Page 1950, 195; Stanford 1950, 168; Phillips 1959, 60, and, after the publication of P.Oxy. 2429, Berk 1964, 150; Casolari 2003, 47–48; Olson 2007, 47–48; Jouanno 2012, 251; Lenaerts 2012, 56; Favi 2017, 18 and passim. As for Willi’s approach to the problem see Willi 2008, 184–185; Willi 2012, 69 (and cf. infra).

Epicharmus, Odysseus Automolos: Some Marginal Remarks on frr. 97 and 98 K–A  

αὐτόν μιν πληγῇσιν ἀεικελίῃσι δαμάσσας, σπεῖρα κάκ᾽ ἀμφ᾽ ὤμοισι βαλών, οἰκῆϊ ἐοικώς, ἀνδρῶν δυσμενέων κατέδυ πόλιν εὐρυάγυιαν. ἄλλῳ δ᾽ αὐτὸν φωτὶ κατακρύπτων ἤϊσκε Δέκτῃ, ὃς οὐδὲν τοῖος ἔην ἐπὶ νηυσὶν Ἀχαιῶν· τῷ ἴκελος κατέδυ Τρώων πόλιν, οἱ δ᾽ ἀβάκησαν πάντες· ἐγὼ δέ μιν οἴη ἀνέγνων τοῖον ἐόντα καί μιν ἀνειρώτευν· ὁ δὲ κερδοσύνῃ ἀλέεινεν. ἀλλ᾽ ὅτε δή μιν ἐγὼ λόεον καὶ χρῖον ἐλαίῳ, ἀμφὶ δὲ εἵματα ἕσσα καὶ ὤμοσα καρτερὸν ὅρκον, μὴ μὲν πρὶν Ὀδυσῆα μετὰ Τρώεσσ᾽ ἀναφῆναι, πρίν γε τὸν ἐς νῆάς τε θοὰς κλισίας τ᾽ ἀφικέσθαι, καὶ τότε δή μοι πάντα νόον κατέλεξεν Ἀχαιῶν. πολλοὺς δὲ Τρώων κτείνας ταναήκεϊ χαλκῷ ἦλθε μετ᾽ Ἀργείους, κατὰ δὲ φρόνιν ἤγαγε πολλήν. 3 (Od. 4.244–258)

The fact that the Ptocheia is to be considered among the models of the Odysseus Automolos is suggested by a series of clues: a) Although the sixth verse of fr. 97 K–A, οὐ γὰρ ἔμπα[λίν] χ᾽ἀνύσαιμ᾽οὕτως ἀλοιῆσθαι κακόν, admits two different translations, depending on whether we punctuate before or after οὕτως, 4 the distinction drawn by the ancient commentator between true beatings and simulated beatings at fr. 98.41–42 K–A in relation to fr. 97.6 K–A (κατ᾽ ἀλή]θειαν καὶ μὴ προσποιήτως ἀλοι–/ῆσθαι, “to be beaten for real and not just for show”) only makes sense if we believe that the beatings that  3 Od. 4.244–258. For Helen in the Odyssey see Clader 1976, 24–40; as for the Ptocheia, one of the most recent treatments is De Sanctis 2017, 214–224 (however, for the epic traditions concerning the spying mission of Odysseus to Troy, as well as their survival in later literature, especially in tragedy, see also Fantuzzi 1996). As far as we know, the story was narrated at length in the Little Iliad (Ilias Parva arg. 1, 15–17 Bernabé [= Procl. Chrest. 206 Severyns] Ὀδυσσεύς τε αἰκισάμενος ἑαυτὸν κατάσκοπος εἰς Ἴλιον παραγίνεται, καὶ ἀναγνωρισθεὶς ὑφ᾽ Ἑλένης περὶ τῆς ἁλώσεως τῆς πόλεως συντίθεται κτείνας τέ τινας τῶν Τρώων ἐπὶ τὰς ναῦς ἀφικνεῖται; fr. 6 Bernabé; fr. 7 Bernabé [= schol. Lycoph. Alex. 780, 246, 25–29 Scheer] ὁ Ὀδυσσεὺς βουλόμενος κατάσκοπος εἰσελθεῖν εἰς τὴν Ἴλιον καὶ φοβούμενος μὴ νοηθεὶς ἀποθάνῃ ἔπεισε Θόαντα πληγῶσαι αὐτὸν πληγαῖς βιαίαις πρὸς τὸ γενέσθαι ἀγνώριστον). On the significant role played by Odysseus in the surviving fragments of the Little Iliad see Kelly 2015, 324. 4 “If the stop is put after οὕτως, the sense will be, ‘I’m not inclined just to go back to the camp. For to get a thrashing is unpleasant’. If after ἀνύσαιμι, it will be, ‘I’m not inclined to go back to camp. For a thrashing is unpleasant and no mistake’” (Lobel 1959, 41, ad 15 seqq.; Webster in Pickard-Cambridge 1962, 256, punctuating after οὕτως, translated as follows: “I could not go back thus. It is bad to be thrashed”). Cf. P.Oxy. 2429 fr. I (a) ii + I (b) 16 = fr. 98, 37 K–A περ]ὶ τὴν διαστολὴν ἀμφιβολία εἶναι.

  Michele Napolitano Odysseus either inflicted on himself (Od. 4.244; Ilias Parva arg. 1, 15 Bernabé), or received from others (Thoas, for example, as in the version of Ilias Parva fr. 7 Bernabé), 5 to make his disguise more effective, actually played some role in the comedy. 6 Fake beatings, evidently, when compared to the real beatings that Odysseus was destined to take from the Achaeans had he decided to return to the camp without carrying out the mission entrusted to him; b) The fact that at fr. 97.14 K–A Odysseus complains about not being able to penetrate Troy (μολὼν ἐς ἄστυ) clarifies the content of the assignment received from the Achaean leaders before leaving the camp – an assignment, completely unrelated with the nocturnal exploration of the Trojan camp that is the topic of the iliadic Doloneia, which implies, instead, the entrance into the city, the penetration of the Trojan walls. The Berlin papyrus published by Lenaerts in 2012 and coming, as mentioned above, from the same roll as the Vienna papyrus, though badly preserved, nevertheless offers a valuable piece of information: the sequence εἰσιόντα [...] ἐς Τροία[ν (ll. 1–2). Whoever was speaking, whatever the lost context of which the verse was originally part, the sequence seems to confirm that Odysseus’ mission foresaw the entrance into the city; c) In 1962, Webster suggested the possibility that the sequence σπειρα at fr. 98.9 K–A might have to do with the σπεῖρα, the “rags” worn by Odysseus for his disguise as a beggar, evoked by Helen at Od. 4.245: “σπεῖρα is the word used of Odysseus’ rags in the Ptocheia (δ 245) but it may be a rope here and have some connection with the basket”, 7 that is to say with the mysterious φορμον of l. 16, in which the name of the playwright Phormos/Phormis or, in fact, the basket (φορμός) evoked by Webster could be hidden. Nevertheless, I think that, at least in this particular case, Webster showed himself far too cautious: given the relative rarity of the lemma, it is difficult to consider as pure coincidence the identity of the sequence σπειρα preserved in the papyrus with the word used by Helen to describe the rags used by Odysseus for his disguise. But there is more to it than that. If we consider the line as a whole, that is the sequence σπειρα, then the five unreadable, or missing, letters after σπειρα, and the sequence φω at the end of the line (σπειρα . [. . .] . φω), an integration comes to my mind (an integration  5 Precisely on the basis of Ilias Parva fr. 7 Bernabé the anonymous interlocutor of Odysseus in the fragment of Epicharmus has been identified with Thoas by Casolari 2003, 43 n. 6 (see also Konstantakos 2015, 67). 6 See for example Kerkhof 2001, 126: “Es ist also unabhängig von der Richtigkeit dieser Interpunktion vorauszusetzen, daß der Sprecher bei früherer Gelegenheit sich selbst geschlagen hat, wohl, wie man dem Titel nach vermuten darf, um sein Überlaufen zu beglaubigen”. See also Favi 2017, 20. 7 Webster 1962, 86.

Epicharmus, Odysseus Automolos: Some Marginal Remarks on frr. 97 and 98 K–A  

which, to my knowledge, has never been proposed before) that might at least be considered plausible: μοισι]

σπεῖρα κ̣[άκ᾽ ἀ]μ̣φ᾽ ὤ-/

That is the beginning of v. 245 of the fourth book of the Odyssey. 8 An integration which, if my hypothesis is correct, would not only remove any residual doubt as to whether the Ptocheia was among the epic sources Epicharmus drew from for his comedy, but would also suggest that the epic model had been reproduced with some fidelity to detail and had included, besides the beatings, Odysseus’ disguise as a beggar. 9  8 In this regard, it is worth underlining the fact that the ancient commentator quotes several times verses from Homer in the course of his commentary: cf. fr. 98 K–A, 83 (Il. 10.511); 126 (Od. 18.74); 129 (Od. 19.446). 9 As already mentioned above, in 1959, in a commentary note on his edition of the Oxyrhynchus papyrus, Lobel suggested that the anonymous interlocutor of Odysseus could be Diomedes and that Epicharmus might have had the Doloneia at hand rather than the Ptocheia. In this regard, Lobel stressed the points of contact between the speech given by Nestor at Il. 10.204 ff. and fr. 97, 11–16 K–A (a combination that has found considerable success in subsequent studies: see, just to mention a few examples, Webster in Pickard-Cambridge 1962, 255–256; Salomone 1981, 63; Albini 1986, 16–17, and Cassio 2002, 76): “The language recalls Il. X 205–12 (κλέος θεῖον : ὑπουράνιον κλέος, ]ν μολὼν ἐς ἄστυ : μετὰ Τρῶας μεγαθύμους ἐλθεῖν, πάντα δ᾽ εὖ σαφα[|]γεῖλαι τὰ τηνεῖ καὐτὸς ἀσκηθὴς μ[ : ταῦτά κε πάντα πύθοιτο καὶ ἂψ εἰς ἡμέας ἔλθοι ἀσκηθής), from Nestor’s speech proposing to send spies into the Trojan camp” (Lobel 1959, 42). Now, when it comes to archaic epics, I confess that I always tend to be wary of proposals aiming at identifying precise intertextual relationships on the basis of lexical similarities, given the formulaic, highly standardized nature of the epic verbal texture. For example: in the use of the adjective ἀσκηθής at fr. 97.16 K–A is it really necessary to see, as Lobel wanted, a precise echo of Il. 10.212, when the adjective ἀσκηθής occurs three times in the Odyssey in a formulaic verse (Od. 5.144 ὥς κε μάλ᾽ ἀσκηθὴς ἣν πατρίδα γαῖαν ἵκηται; 168 ὥς κε μάλ᾽ ἀσκηθὴς σὴν πατρίδα γαῖαν ἵκηαι and in slight variation 9.79 καί νύ κεν ἀσκηθὴς ἱκόμην ἐς πατρίδα γαῖαν, where Odysseus speaks) which serves to signify, in relation to Odysseus, the idea of returning safe and sound to the homeland? Even if here it is a matter of returning unharmed not to Ithaca but to the Achaean camp, I would not rule out the possibility that the epic memory of Epicharmus, reusing ἀσκηθής, ran not to the Nestor of the Doloneia but to the verse with which, in the Odyssey, the wish for a lucky return is expressed precisely in relation to Odysseus. Moreover, not all the points of contact highlighted by Lobel are convincing in the same way (Favi 2017, 23–25, makes very good observations on this point): for example, μολὼν ἐς ἄστυ (fr. 97.14 K–A) means something very different from μετὰ Τρῶας μεγαθύμους / ἐλθεῖν (Il. 10.205 ff.), which indicates not the entrance into the city, but the nocturnal open-air mission to the Trojan camp that is the focus of the enterprise of Odysseus and Diomedes. That being said, I do not want to deny too bluntly the possibility that Lobel’s proposal could be correct. It can be assumed that Epicharmus, while keeping in mind as the main source

  Michele Napolitano According to Andreas Willi, whose recent attempt at reconstruction I will try to summarize in brief, the title of the comedy, Odysseus Automolos, must be interpreted by imagining that Odysseus was presented by Epicharmus as a true deserter: “Wer den Titel Ὀδυσσεὺς αὐτόμολος unvoreingenommen liest, wird nämlich niemals auf den Gedanken kommen, Odysseus habe sich hier nur als Überläufer ausgegeben. Unter einem Ὀδυσσεὺς αὐτόμολος wird man sich viel eher einen Odysseus vorstellen, der tatsächlich übergelaufen ist. Sobald wir dies zugestehen, können wir auf einmal alle Puzzleteilchen problemlos ineinanderfügen”. 10 Odysseus, gone over to the enemy, would have been relegated by the Trojans to the role of swineherd, as it seems possible to infer from fr. 99 K–A, if the persona loquens was Odysseus: δέλφακά τε τῶν γειτόνων τοῖς Ἐλευσινίοις φυλάσσων δαιμονίως ἀπώλεσα, οὐχ ἑκών· καὶ ταῦτα δή με συμβολατεύειν μ᾽ ἔφα τοῖς Ἀχαιοῖσιν προδιδόμειν τ᾽ ὤμνυέ με τὸν δέλφακα. 11 (Epicharm. fr. 99 K–A)

The beatings of which Odysseus complains at fr. 97.4–6 K–A should be seen, according to Willi, as the punishment inflicted on him by his unknown interlocutor, evidently a Trojan, for the loss of the δέλφαξ. Odysseus, afraid of the reaction of the Achaeans on his return to the camp, declares his intention to prepare a speech to be held in their presence in order to convince them that he had successfully carried out the mission. But since his unknown antagonist continues to mock him (fr. 97.9–10 K–A), all that remains to the poor, discouraged Odysseus is to take  of the comedy the story told in the so-called Ptocheia, could have contaminated it with other epic sources, among which it is perfectly natural to think that the Doloneia may have played some role. Something similar, in short, to what we see happening in Apollodorus (Epit. 5.13 Ὀδυσσεὺς δὲ μετὰ Διομήδους παραγενόμενος νύκτωρ εἰς τὴν πόλιν Διομήδην μὲν αὐτοῦ μένειν εἴα, αὐτὸς δὲ ἑαυτὸν αἰκισάμενος καὶ πενιχρὰν στολὴν ἐνδυσάμενος ἀγνώστως εἰς τὴν πόλιν εἰσέρχεται ὡς ἐπαίτης. γνωρισθεὶς δὲ ὑπὸ Ἑλένης δι᾽ ἐκείνης τὸ παλλάδιον ἐκκλέψας καὶ πολλοὺς κτείνας τῶν φυλασσόντων ἐπὶ τὰς ναῦς μετὰ Διομήδους κομίζει), where the two stories appear overlapping and reduced to a single event, and Odysseus leaves for Troy not alone but in the company of Diomedes. If this were the case, it would not be implausible to recognize precisely Diomedes as the unknown interlocutor of Odysseus. 10 Willi 2008, 184f.; see also Willi 2012, 69. We owe the fragment to Athenaeus (9.374 D–E): for Athenaeus as source of Epicharmus see, most recently, Tosetti 2019. 11 “Tending one of the neighbours’ pigs for the Eleusinia I lost it by bad luck, against my will; and so he now said I was making a deal with the Achaeans and he claimed I was selling the pig” (translation by Willi 2012, 70).

Epicharmus, Odysseus Automolos: Some Marginal Remarks on frr. 97 and 98 K–A  

note of the failure of the enterprise and complain of it in the impressive monologue contained at fr. 97.11–17 K–A. Among the main problems posed by this reconstruction, I would isolate the interpretation of the very difficult vv. 9–10 of fr. 97 K–A ] ἐμὶν δοκεῖτε πάγχυ καὶ κατὰ τρόπον / καὶ ἐοικότως ἐπεύξασθ᾽, αἴ τις ἐνθυμεῖν γ[α λῆι. In Willi’s opinion, the prayer Odysseus’ interlocutor ironically refers to in the verses in question should be put in relation to the event evoked in fr. 99 K–A: faced with the looming danger (the Achaeans are coming!), Odysseus would have prayed for his salvation, but his Trojan antagonist would have misunderstood the meaning of his prayer, imagining that it aimed, instead, at obtaining a favourable way out of the difficult situation caused by the involuntary loss of the δέλφαξ: “The speaker in the Athenaeus fragment may still be Odysseus who, upon deserting to Troy, appears to have been given the despicable job of a swineherd. After innocently losing one animal Odysseus fails to appease his Trojan employer who develops a conspiracy theory and suspects a deal between his new servant and the latter’s Greek compatriots — hence the beating” (Willi 2012, 70). A scenario which seems to me far too speculative, starting from the overall interpretation of fr. 99 K–A, which, even if we consider it pronounced by Odysseus, could very well describe a contingent situation instead of the stable, servile condition of a swineherd. That is, Odysseus could have been entrusted by the “neighbours” (γείτονες) evoked at v. 1 with the custody of a δέλφαξ, proving then incapable of keeping his word because of unexpected, unfortunate divine intervention (2: δαιμονίως): a situation apparently similar to that complained of, perhaps by Heracles, in fr. 66 K–A (Ἡρακλῆς ὁ πὰρ Φόλωι) ἀλλὰ μὰν ἐγὼν ἀνάγκαι πάντα ταῦτα ποιέω· / οἴομαι δ᾽ οὐδεὶς ἑκὼν πονηρὸς οὐδ᾽ ἄταν ἔχων (“But I of necessity do all these things. I think no one of his own free will suffers misery or disaster” [transl. Pickard-Cambridge 1962, 264]), 12 which, I repeat, does not lead us to the assumption that Odysseus was framed in a servile role. As for vv. 9–10 of fr. 97 K–A, I wonder if it would not be more reasonable to interpret them independently from every possible relationship with fr. 99 K–A and to refer them to a prayer addressed by Odysseus on the eve of the enterprise. Archaic epics preserve a great number of examples of propitiatory prayers addressed to the gods in the imminence of war, the most fitting of these, relating to the situation staged by Epicharmus, being undoubtedly the prayers offered by

 12 “Eracle esprime anche l’umanità dolente di chi si vorrebbe sottrarre alle proprie faticose responsabilità, pur sapendo che non è possibile, quando in un momento di sincerità, confessa (probabilmente a Folo): ‘ma io compio tutte queste imprese per necessità’ e prosegue: οἴομαι δ᾽ οὐδεὶς ἑκὼν πονηρὸς οὐδ᾽ ἄταν ἔχων” (Salomone 1981, 60). See also Copani 2009, 73–74.

  Michele Napolitano Odysseus and Diomedes to Athena, in the heart of the night, just before moving towards the Trojan camp (Il. 10.277–295). Without necessarily thinking of a relationship of direct dependence between the two texts, a good, although less obvious, further parallel is offered by the long and articulated prayer to Athena by Odysseus, about to move to Troy, at vv. 6–22 of the anonymous poetic text preserved in PKöln VI 245, a sequence of iambic trimeters that probably opened a late Hellenistic or early Roman stage version of the epic Ptocheia. 13 Just a couple of words about the second person plural δοκεῖτε at fr. 97.9 K–A, which remains highly problematic (“The greatest crux of the fragment”: Konstantakos 2015, 70 n. 78). My impression is that it would be worth reconsidering the possibility that the sequence should be read as it was by Gomperz and Blass, namely δοκεῖ τε (the first to print δοκεῖτε was, as far as I know, Kaibel in his edition of the Vienna fragment [Kaibel 1899, 108], followed by all subsequent scholars, the only exception known to me being Stanford 1950, 167). If this is right, then πάγχυ should be linked to the adverb swallowed up by the lacuna at the beginning of the verse (μέτριόν γ᾽ Barigazzi 1955, 126; μετρίως Webster in PCG I, 61 ad loc.), and the enclitic τε to the immediately following καὶ (τε ... καὶ): which seems to me perfectly plausible, while the absence of a second person singular personal pronoun in the accusative as subject of the infinitive clause dependent on the impersonal δοκεῖ might be a not insurmountable obstacle. A good clue in favor of an impersonal δοκεῖ is to be seen, however, in the annotation of the ancient commentator at fr. 98.52–54 K–A, τ]οῦθ᾽ ὁ ἕτερος τῶν ὑποκριτῶν / ]ηι εἰσόδωι εὐξαμένου τινὰ / ] . ἐοικότως ὡς ἐμὶν δοκεῖ, 14 where in the singular εὐξαμένου it is difficult to see anyone other than Odysseus. If this were the case, at fr. 97.9–10 K–A Odysseus’ interlocutor would be caught in the act of mocking him, in a

 13 Edition and commentary of the text in Parca 1991. 14 The δοκεῖ-/τε] printed by Lobel in the editio princeps of the papyrus (Lobel 1959, 37) is in no way necessary (pace Gentili 1961, 337, where “scolio Viennese” is of course wrong for “scolio ossirinchita”), dependent, as it is, on the δοκεῖτε of the Vienna papyrus, which can however, as I have just said, be interpreted as Gomperz and Blass did, namely as δοκεῖ τε. Luppe 1975, 197 suggested the possibility of reading δοκεῖ at the end of l. 54 of the Oxyrhynchus commentary. But in the context of an overall interpretation that nevertheless assumed the correctness of the δοκεῖτε preferred since Kaibel by the editors of the text of the fragment (“Es ist […] zu erwägen, ob nicht an dieser Stelle lediglich die Konstruktion paraphrasiert wird, z. B.: - - - καὶ κατὰ τρόπον κα]ὶ ἐοικότως, ὡς ἐμὶν δοκεῖ, | [σὺ καὶ οἱ μετὰ σοῦ ἐπεύχεσθε. Denn die Anrede im Plural wird wohl ohnehin im Sinne von ‘du und deinesgleichen’ zu verstehen sein”). As far as I can see, there are no substantial obstacles to reading δοκεῖ τε everywhere, namely in the Vienna papyrus as well as in ll. 51 and 54 of the Oxyrhynchus papyrus, where a choice should be made between the two options (either in both cases δοκεῖτε or, as it seems preferable to me, in both cases δοκεῖ τε).

Epicharmus, Odysseus Automolos: Some Marginal Remarks on frr. 97 and 98 K–A  

clearly sarcastic tone, 15 for the bad turn of events: “the prayers you have addressed so properly to the gods have gone really well!”. If we accept the reconstruction offered exempli gratia by Luppe 1975, 196, for fr. 98.52–53 K–A: τ]οῦθ᾽ ὁ ἕτερος τῶν ὑποκριτῶν / λέγει μεμνημένος (vel ἀκούσας τοῦ) ᾽Οδυσσέως ἐν τ]ῆι εἰσόδωι εὐξαμένου τινὰ, then the prayer addressed by Odysseus “at the moment of his first entry on stage” (ἐν τ]ῆι εἰσόδωι) should be placed in the initial section of the comedy, since it is impossible to imagine that Odysseus made his first appearance on stage too late in a piece that saw him in the role of protagonist. This prayer would have been addressed to the gods just before the beginning of the mission, and would therefore have been in all respects similar to those raised by Odysseus and Diomedes in the tenth book of the Iliad or to that documented in the Cologne papyrus. A situation that, if rightly reconstructed, would render much more plausible the idea that Odysseus’ unknown interlocutor was a Greek rather than a Trojan (how could a Trojan refer to a prayer formulated by Odysseus while he was still marching for Troy?). But it is clear that, beyond any problem of detail, the reconstruction proposed by Willi can only work when a series of assumptions are accepted that are far from certain. If one is ready to assume, in particular: a) that the verb ἀνιάω (fr. 97.4 K–A) should be considered equivalent to “verprügeln”, “hurt”, and that the attitude of the anonymous character who converses with Odysseus should be read in a key of open, declared hostility; 16 b) that the unknown speaker should therefore be imagined as an antagonist, an enemy, and should consequently be identified as a Trojan; and above all, c) that the desertion of Odysseus cannot be interpreted as a simulation, that is, that Odysseus was presented by Epicharmus not as a fake but as an authentic deserter and therefore as a traitor. As for the first point, ἀνιάω/ἀνιάζω relate much more to the sphere of moral, or spiritual, torment (“grief”, “distress”: LSJ9 s. vv.) than to that of physical evil: consequently, I cannot see how one should prefer a translation equivalent to “Why do you beat me?” to a rendering that could sound, for example, “Why do you torment me?” or similar. But if the parenthetical clause τί, ὠιζύρ᾽, ἀνιῆις; of v. 4 is to be rendered with “Why do you torment me, you miserable man?”, then it would become difficult, if not impossible, to subscribe to Willi’s idea that the

 15 “Gewiß ist diese Zwischenbemerkung höhnisch gemeint” (Luppe 1975, 197). 16 Willi’s translations of τί, ὠιζύρ᾽, ἀνιῆις; (fr. 97.4 K–A) sounds as follows: “warum tust du mir bloss so weh, du elender Kerl!” (Willi 2008, 178); “why are you hurting me, you idiot!?” (Willi 2012, 64); see also Willi 2008, 183: “Odysseus wird im Augenblick von einer anderen Person B, vielleicht einem Troianer, verprügelt”.

  Michele Napolitano sequence οὕτως ἀλοιῆσθαι κακόν of v. 6 should refer to the beatings that Odysseus had just received from his interlocutor: 17 the beatings that Odysseus says he is afraid of at v. 6 will rather be those that await him upon his arrival to the Achaean camp, to which he confesses, unsurprisingly, that he has no desire to return to (οὐ γὰρ ἔμπα[λιν] χ᾽ ἀνύσαιμ᾽). Regarding the second point, as I have already said, and even with all the caution of the case, it seems that the exchange between Odysseus and his interlocutor is characterized much more by irony and sarcasm than by a tone of open, even violent hostility. Why, for example, should one believe that the words at the end of fr. 97.5 K–A be pronounced by a “Widersacher”, 18 when it is, at the most, a laughing joke? Unfortunately, we know too little about the first six verses of fragment 97 K–A, but it is certainly not impossible (as it was suggested by Olson) 19 that some of what remains of the first three verses can be attributed not to Odysseus but to his interlocutor. For example, in πλ[άνον] at v. 1, glossed over by the anonymous commentator with πλάνην, φλυαρίαν, that is “error”, “nonsense” (fr. 98.28 K–A), and in the sequence ῥᾶιστά κα τοῦτ᾽ ἐργασαίμαν ἢ ὅτι of v. 3, “I would have been able to do this, or whatever else, without any effort”, one could see the remains of a series of rebukes: “you are not capable: what you did was nonsense, you have not been able to complete a mission that I would have been able to accomplish without any difficulty”. Perhaps it is precisely this treatment that Odysseus complains about in the parenthetical clause of v. 4: τί, ὠιζύρ᾽, ἀνιῆις, maybe with a hint of impatience (“you don’t know what you’re saying, you poor fool!”). 20 But his interlocutor mercilessly goes on mocking him despite  17 “So verprügelt zu werden ist schrecklich!” (Willi 2008, 182); see also Willi 2012, 67: “οὕτως ἀλοιῆσθαι κακόν ‘to be beaten like this is bad’ in line 6 is explained by the Oxyrhynchus commentary with κατ᾽ ἀλήθειαν καὶ μὴ προσποιήτως, ‘for real and not just for show’ […]. According to Kerkhof, Odysseus would be thinking of a future beating that might happen if the Greeks discovered that he did not go to Troy. However, οὕτως ‘in this way’ more naturally refers to a present beating. […] speaker B is in fact hurting Odysseus at the moment: note the present ἀνιῆις in line 4”. 18 Willi 2008, 181: “Nur ein Widersacher kann Odysseus als bezeichnen”; see also Willi 2012, 67: “A companion (such as Diomedes) would not call Odysseus πονηρός, but an adversary could well do it”. 19 “The tone is hostile (someone — presumably Odysseus — is accused of or warned against offering a misleading account of things (1) and behaving haughtily (2); cf. 4–5, 9–10), and the lines are better assigned to Odysseus’ interlocutor than to Odysseus himself” (Olson 2007, 48, ad 1–2). 20 The vocative (ὠιζύρ᾽) “is clearly more complicated than Engl. ‘you wretch!’ (LSJ on Av. 1641), but seems always to imply a superior knowledge or understanding in the speaker” (Dunbar 1995, 729, ad 1641). The same state of disappointed, annoyed impatience could perhaps help to explain the unexpected δεξιωτέροις of v. 8, a substitution παρὰ προσδοκίαν for “perfect fools” (Lobel

Epicharmus, Odysseus Automolos: Some Marginal Remarks on frr. 97 and 98 K–A  

the appearance of the Achaeans: “I am the most unhappy man on earth!”, exclaims Odysseus, to which his interlocutor replies: “Oh yes, you’re a poor man indeed!” (fr. 97.4–5 K–A ἀλλ᾽ ὁρέω […] / ὡς ἔω πονηρατος. (B.) ἁλιδίως πονηρὸς ), a joke which takes advantage of the semantic ambivalence of πονηρός. 21 If this is true, the ironic, sarcastic tone of the words addressed to Odysseus would once more suggest the possibility of identifying his interlocutor as a Greek rather than a Trojan. Would it not be possible, for example, to identify him as a Greek who arrived on stage at a certain moment in the course of the play in search of news and, put in front of Odysseus’s negligence, could not refrain from putting him in the pillory? Or shouldn’t we rather think, on the model of the Doloneia, of a fellow traveller (Diomedes?), who, after leaving Odysseus to his work in the first part of the comedy, and realizing, in the end, that the mission had not been fulfilled, denounced his cowardice with open and implacable sarcasm? As for the meaning of the title of the comedy, and in particular of the adjective αὐτόμολος, the problem has been dealt with at length, with remarkable insight and accuracy, in the paper that Federico Favi recently dedicated to the comedy. 22 Favi believes, as I do, that the desertion staged by Epicharmus was not a real desertion, a betrayal, but a simulated one. To the dense discussion of Favi I can perhaps add only a detail of lexical order regarding αὐτόμολος, αὐτομολέω, which recur several times to designate, precisely, acts of simulated desertion, as for example in the story of the mission of Zopirus wonderfully narrated by Herodotus in the third book of his Histories (Hdt. 3.154 ff.) or in the beautiful passage of Pausanias (4.28.7) about the capture of Elis by the Messenians. There is no reason, therefore, to join Willi’s assumption that “any unprejudiced reader should […] conclude from the title as it stands that Odysseus really deserted”. That said, it is certainly possible, as many have thought, that at a certain point during the comedy the simulated desertion turned into open agreement with the enemy and that Odysseus’ failure consisted precisely in not being able to resist the temptation to pass to the side of the Trojans. However, given that we can say next to nothing about the course of events staged by Epicharmus, it cannot be excluded that Odysseus’s plan failed for other reasons. Could it be, for example, that Helen

 1959, 41, ad 24 seqq.; the aprosdoketon was noted by the ancient Oxyrhynchus commentator [fr. 98.49–50 K–A]). 21 The ancient commentator noted this very accurately: see fr. 98.34–35 K–A: ὁ μ(ὲν) [τὸν ἐπί]πονον σημαίνει ὁ δ(ὲ) τὸν κακοήθη ἐγδέ- / χεται καὶ ε[……]. λέγει “ἁλιδίως πονηρός”, οἷον αὐτάρκως. For ἁλιδίως see Cassio 1991, 51–52. 22 Favi 2017; see also Telò 2016.

  Michele Napolitano played a role in distracting Odysseus from his task, in a witty comic reversal of the narrative framework configured by the epic versions of the Ptocheia? The fact remains that, if it is believed that Odysseus’ interlocutor is a Greek and not a Trojan; that the scene with the beatings imagined by Willi did not take place; that the desertion of Odysseus was only simulated; that Odysseus was not relegated, in the course of the comedy, to the humble duties of a swineherd, then Willi’s idea that Epicharmus, parodying archaic epics, aimed at configuring a new cultural identity, a critical and alternative, if not tout court subversive discourse compared to the world of values represented by Homer, would lose much of its appeal. 23 It seems to me, on the contrary, that the possibility should be taken into account that, considering also the absence, in Sicily, of an autochthonous tragic production, 24 Epicharmus’ comedy has sought and found in the epic heritage that prestige, distinction, authority, and widespread degree of recognition which it needed to escape from the sphere of farce and disengagement to which it would have been condemned if Epicharmus had drawn his plots exclusively from motifs and characters taken from the popular repertoire of daily life, and not also from the noble material made available by archaic epics. The strategy developed by Epicharmus, then, does not differ substantially from that pursued earlier, in the same geographical context, by Stesichorus. The differences lie all in the results, which configured themselves differently: one in the direction of comic, bathetic degradation and the other towards forms of noble reproduction of the epic models, by virtue of the very different features, traits and functions of the two literary genres, that is comedy and citharody, practised by Epicharmus, on the one hand, and Stesichorus, on the other. But when Stesichorus, in the attempt to present himself as an autonomous lyric poet, in alternative to the voices of the traditional singers and rhapsodes, was faced with the problem of choosing contents on which to build his compositions, the only possible choice which

 23 The idea, to put it more clearly, is that in the Odysseus Automolos should be detected an operation of degradation of the epic traditional patrimony so pervasive and deep as to constitute an “Angriff auf das Epos” (Willi 2008, 176 ff.), a “fact of literary iconoclasm directed against Homer as the cultural authority kat’exochen” (Willi 2012, 72). See also Bosher 2014, 87, and Revermann 2013, 108–110, who presents, however, a much more nuanced view of the problem (cf. infra). 24 A point rightly emphasised in Revermann 2013, 109: “It is crucial to note in this context […] that there is no evidence for the existence of Sicilian tragedy as a rival genre to Sicilian comedy. […] In the absence of another full-blown dramatic rival to comedy, this form of ‘writing-back’ […] becomes much less an act of generic self-assertion, as Aristophanic paratragedy arguably is, rather than a means of carving out and establishing cultural identity in an environment which may justifiably be called ‘postcolonial’”.

Epicharmus, Odysseus Automolos: Some Marginal Remarks on frr. 97 and 98 K–A  

would have some hope of success was in fact the epic legacy. 25 Homer, therefore, as a deeply identitary fact, assumed and reinterpreted according to the laws of the comic genre, but in the form of adhesion, not of refusal. 26 This seems confirmed to me by the fact that to the pathetic monologue with which fr. 97 K–A ends the vernacular dimension pointed out by Willi in relation to the previous, dialogical section of the fragment appears almost completely extraneous. I confess that in these verses I really can’t see any trace of that “ironic Nuance” that Willi instead sees in them. 27 The paraepic Odysseus that complains about not having fulfilled the mission entrusted to him does so without any shadow of irony, and speaking a language that, although adapted to the trochaic tetrameter and the comic context that forms its background, is in all respects epic. He does so, in short, as an epic hero: but an epic hero who has been touched by the unfortunate fate of treading the boards, almost in spite of himself, not in a tragedy but in a comedy.

Bibliography Albini, U. (1986), Le commedie di Epicarmo, in Studi in onore di Adelmo Barigazzi, I, Roma, 13– 21. Barigazzi, A. (1955), “Epicarmo e la figura di Ulisse hesykhos”, RhM 98, 121–135. Blass, F. (1889), “Das neue Wiener Fragment des Epicharmos”, NJPh 59, 257–262. Bosher, K. (2014), “Epicharmus and Early Sicilian Comedy”, in: M. Revermann (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Greek Comedy, Cambridge, 79–94. Burkert, W. (1987), “The Making of Homer in the Sixth Century B.C.: Rhapsodes versus Stesichoros”, in: Papers on the Amasis Painter and his World, Malibu, California, 43–62.

 25 See Burkert 1987. “Epicharmus’ sources may have been the Cyclic Epic in some form, but there are also themes taken from Dorian and Sicilian folklore, which he could access directly, or else through poets like Stesichorus of Himera […] and Ibycus of Rhegium […]. With these two authors Epicharmus shares not only the bond with Sicily or the Greek West, but also the mixture of common epic themes with Dorian and Sicilian (or at least with a western setting) ones, and it would not be surprising if they had an influence on him” (Rodríguez-Noriega Guillén 2012, 77). 26 To put it with Revermann: “The very act of ‘writing-back’ is, of course, an implicit acknowledgement of the target’s cultural value, and there is no reason at all to believe that Homer and epic poetry were held in lesser esteem in Sicily than anywhere else in the Greek world. On the contrary: recitals of the rhapsode Cynaethus from Chios are attested for Syracuse for the late sixth century, and it has long been plausibly suggested that the Greek colonies and, indeed, the very process of colonization were vital for the dissemination of epic poetry in general and the canonization of the Homeric poems in particular as panhellenic classics” (Revermann 2013, 109). 27 Willi 2008, 190.

  Michele Napolitano Casolari, F. (2003), Die Mythentravestie in der griechischen Komödie, Münster (Orbis antiquus 37). Cassio, A.C. (1991), “ΟΑΔΙΣΤΗ e ΟΑΛΙΔΙΟΣ (SEG 24, 548; IG XII 9, 249 B 290)”, ZPE 87, 47–52. Cassio, A.C. (2002), “The Language of Doric Comedy”, in: A. Willi (ed.), The Language of Greek Comedy, Oxford, 51–83. Clader, L.L. (1976), Helen. The Evolution from Divine to Heroic in Greek Epic Tradition, Mnemosyne Suppl. 42, Leiden. Comicorum Graecorum fragmenta in papyris reperta (CGFP). Ed. C. Austin, Berolini/Novi Eboraci 1973. De Sanctis, D. (2017), Il canto e la tela. Le voci di Elena in Omero, Biblioteca di studi antichi 98, Pisa/Roma. Copani, F. (2009), “La figura di Odisseo da Omero ai drammaturghi del quinto secolo a. C.”, Stratagemmi 10, 57–82. Dunbar, N. (1995), Aristophanes. Birds, Oxford. Fantuzzi, M. (1996), “Odisseo mendicante a Troia e a Itaca: su [Eur.] Rh. 498–507; 710–719 e Hom. Od. 4, 244–258”, MD 36, 175–185. Favi, F. (2017), “Lo Odysseus automolos di Epicarmo”, ZPE 201, 17–31. Gentili, B. (1961), rev. of The Oxyrhynchus Papyri XXV, London 1959, Gnomon 33, 331–343. Gomperz, Th. (1889), Ein griechisches Komödienbruchstück in dorischer Mundart, «Mittheilungen aus der Sammlung der Papyrus Erzherzog Rainer» V 1, 1–10 (= Id., Hellenika. Eine Auswahl philologischer und philosophiegeschichtlicher kleiner Schriften, I, Leipzig 1912, 145–162). Grysar, K.J. (1828), De Doriensium comoedia quaestiones, I, Coloniae ad Rhenum. Hermann, G. (1802), Aristotelis de arte poetica liber cum commentariis, Lipsiae. Jouanno, C. (2012), “Images comiques d’Ulysse, d’Épicharme à Plaute”, LEC 80, 247–282. Kaibel, G. (1899), Comicorum Graecorum fragmenta, I 1: Doriensium comoedia, Mimi, Phlyaces, Berolini. Kelly, A. (2015), “Ilias parva”, in: M. Fantuzzi/C. Tsagalis (eds), The Greek Epic Cycle and Its Ancient Reception. A Companion, Cambridge, 318–343. Kerkhof, R. (2001), Dorische Posse, Epicharm und Attische Komödie, München/Leipzig (Beiträge zur Altertumskunde 147). Konstantakos, I.M. (2015), “On the Early History of the Braggart Soldier. Part One: Archilochus and Epicharmus”, Logeion 5, 41–84. Lenaerts, J. (2012), “Epicharme, Odysseus automolos”, in: F. Reiter (ed.), Literarische Texte der Berliner Papyrussammlung. Zur Wiedereröffnung des Neuen Museums, Berliner Klassiker Texte Bd. 10, Berlin/Boston, 51–59. Lobel, E. (1959), “2429. Commentary on Epicharmus, Ὀδυσσεὺϲ αὐτόμολοϲ and Another Play?”, The Oxyrhynchus Papyri XXV, London, 35–44. Lorenz, A.O.F. (1864), Leben und Schriften des Koers Epicharmos nebst einer Fragmentsammlung, Berlin. Luppe, W. (1975), rev. of Austin, Comicorum Graecorum fragmenta in papyris reperta, Berolini/ Novi Eboraci 1973, GGA 227, 179–206. Olivieri, A. (1930), Frammenti della commedia greca e del mimo nella Sicilia e nella Magna Grecia, Napoli. Olson, S.D. (2007), Broken Laughter. Select Fragments of Greek Comedy, Oxford. Page, D.L. (1950), Select Papyri. III: Literary Papyri. Poetry, London/Cambridge, Mass.

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Parca, M.G. (1991), Ptocheia or Odysseus in Disguise at Troy (P. Köln VI 245), Atlanta (American Studies in Papyrology 31). Phillips, E.D. (1959), “The Comic Odysseus”, G&R 6.1, 58–67. Pickard-Cambridge, A.W. (1962), Dithyramb, Tragedy and Comedy, Oxford (2. ed. rev. by T.B.L. Webster). Poetae Comici Graeci (PCG). Eds R. Kassel et C. Austin, Vol. I: Comoedia Dorica, Mimi, Phlyaces, Berolini/Novi Eboraci 2001. Revermann, M. (2013), “Paraepic Comedy: Point(s) and Practices”, in: E. Bakola/L. Prauscello/ M. Telò (eds), Greek Comedy and the Discourse of Genres, Cambridge, 101–128. Rodríguez-Noriega Guillén, L. (1996), Epicarmo de Siracusa. Testimonios y fragmentos, Oviedo. Rodríguez-Noriega Guillén, L. (2012), “On Epicharmus’ Literary and Philosophical Background”, in: K. Bosher (ed.), Theater Outside Athens. Drama in Greek Sicily and South Italy, Cambridge, 76–96. Salomone, S. (1981), “L’altra faccia di Epicarmo”, Sandalion 4, 59–69. Schmidt, J.O. (1888), “Ulixes Comicus”, JKlPh 16. Supplbd., Leipzig, 375–402. Stanford, W.B. (1950), “On the Odysseus automolos of Epicharmus”, CPh 45.3, 167–169. Telò, M. (2016), “Mad Man: Epicharmus, Odysseus and the Poetics of Desertion”, MD 76, 105– 122. Tosetti, S. (2019), I frammenti di Epicarmo in Ateneo, Frammenti sulla scena (online) 0, 124– 147. Webster, T.B.L. (1962), “Some Notes on the New Epicharmus”, in: Serta Philologica Aenipontana, Innsbruck, 85–91. Welcker, F.G. (1844), “Epicharmos”, in: F.G. Welcker, Kleine Schriften zur Griechischen Litteraturgeschichte, Bonn, 271–356. Willi, A. (2008), Sikelismos. Sprache, Literatur und Gesellschaft im griechischen Sizilien (8.-5. Jh. v. Chr.), Bibliotheca Helvetica Romana 29, Basel. Willi, A. (2012), “Challenging Authority. Epicharmus Between Epic and Rhetoric”, in: K. Bosher (ed.), Theater Outside Athens. Drama in Greek Sicily and South Italy, Cambridge, 56–75.

Anna Novokhatko

δηλαδὴ τρίπους: On Epicharmus fr. 147 K–A The fragment under consideration comes from an unknown comedy of the Sicilian playwright Epicharmus (before 460 BC), fr. 147 K–A: A. τί δὲ τόδ’ ἐστί; B. δηλαδὴ τρίπους. A. τί μὰν ἔχει πόδας τέτορας; οὔκ ἐστιν τρίπους, ἀλλ’ οἶμαι τετράπους. B. ἔστιν ὄνυμ’ αὐτῶι τρίπους, τέτοράς γα μὰν ἔχει πόδας. A. εἰ δίπους τοίνυν ποκ’ ἦς αἴνίγματ’ Οἰ νοεῖς 4: εἰ δίπους Grotefend: οἰδίπους CE αἴνίγματ’ Οἰδίπου νοεῖς Grotefend: αἴνιγμά τοι νοεῖς CE (Epicharm. fr. 147 K–A) (А) What is this here? (B) a tripod, plainly. (А) But why does it have four feet? It is not a tripod, but seems like a tetrapod to me. (B) It bears the name tripod, but it has really got four feet. (А) Well, if it once had two feet, you can think of the riddle of Oe 1

As we can see, the main protagonist of this fragment is a tripod, and a particularly unusual tripod, with four legs. This paper is dedicated to this obscure object likely brought onto the stage. What was a tripod during Epicharmus’ time? In which context might speakers A and B be discussing this issue? First of all, the co-occurrence of intensifying particles and collocations, such as τί δὲ τόδ’ ἐστί, τί μὰν ἔχει, δηλαδή, γα μὰν (Attic γε μήν), τοίνυν, the opposition of the deictic elements in the 1st pers. sing. and 2nd pers. sing. forms οἶμαι (“I think”) versus νοεῖς (“you think”) marks linguistically an intensive dialogue, built around the object τρίπους probably brought on stage. 2 Now. What can this τρίπους be? This object has been unanimously considered to be a table, both in Ancient and modern scholarship. Why? Because of its cover-text. The only cover-text of this fragment is Athenaeus’ Deipnosophists, book 2 (epitome), which frames the background for transmitting information about it. Epicharmus’ fragment is quoted as one of six examples of τρίπους used, it is assumed, for a three-footed table:  I am grateful to Margaret C. Miller for her very helpful comments.  1 All translations are my own. 2 On the discourse markers in this fragment, see Novokhatko 2017, 228–231.

  Anna Novokhatko εἰπόντος τινὸς κυνικοῦ τρίποδα τὴν τράπεζαν δυσχεραίνει ὁ παρὰ τῷ σοφιστῇ Οὐλπιανὸς καὶ λέγει… πόθεν γὰρ τούτῳ ὁ τρίπους; εἰ μὴ τὴν Διογένους βακτηρίαν σὺν καὶ τὼ πόδε ἀριθμῶν οὗτος τρίποδα προσηγόρευσε, πάντων τραπέζας καλούντων τὰς παραθέσεις ταύτας. (Ath. 2.49a–d) When a Cynic calls a table “tripod”, then Ulpian, the guest of the sophist, is displeased and says:... “Where does he get here the ‘tripod’ from? Unless he counts Diogenes’ stick together with his two feet and calls it ‘tripod’, whilst all the others call these devices here ‘tables’”.

Athenaeus quotes six passages from earlier source(s) starting the section with an episode of puristic Atticistic discussions. 3 Some Cynic calls the table τρίπους (εἰπόντος τινὸς κυνικοῦ τρίποδα τὴν τράπεζαν), and one of the main characters in Athenaeus’ work, the severe Atticist grammarian Ulpian of Tyre, can’t stand it (δυσχεραίνει ὁ παρὰ τῷ σοφιστῇ Οὐλπιανὸς καὶ λέγει): “where does he get the word τρίπους from?” Ulpian, who is interested in attestations of words and wordforms 4 with his nickname Κειτούκειτος (“does-it-occur-or-does-it-not”), is thus stating that the correct word for “table” in Greek is τράπεζα and is basically asking whether the word τρίπους is ever attested for a table. Athenaeus continues apparently with a reply to Ulpian’s task (this could also be Ulpian’s own reply, again as often in Athenaeus, 5 in epitome some text must be cut off). Hesiod in his Marriage of Ceyx — says Athenaeus — calls tables “tripods” or says (as a quotation) τρίποδας τὰς τραπέζας (Hes. fr. 266b M–W) ὅτι Ἡσίοδος ἐν Κήυκος γάμῳ —κἂν γὰρ γραμματικῶν παῖδες ἀποξενῶσι τοῦ ποιητοῦ τὰ ἔπη ταῦτα, ἀλλ’ ἐμοὶ δοκεῖ ἀρχαῖα εἶναι — τρίποδας τὰς τραπέζας φησί. (Ath. 2.49b) Hesiod in the “Marriage of Ceyx” — even if some grammarians deny the verses belonged to the poet, I do find them old — calls tables “tripods”.

This is a problematic reference. There is only one papyrus fragment associated with Athenaeus’ passage:

 3 Hsd. fr. 266b M–W, Xen. An. 7.3.21–22, Antiph. fr. 280 PCG, Eub. fr. 119.4–5 PCG, Epicharm. fr. 147 PCG, Ar. fr. 545 PCG. 4 On Ulpian’s interest in attested word-forms, see Ath. 10.422e–423a; 13.590a. 5 Athenaeus’ Ulpian often answers the question which he had posed himself, such as in Ath. 2.58c καὶ ζητούντων πάντων, αὐτός, ἔφη, ἐγὼ ἐρῶ (“and whilst all of them were searching, he said, I will tell you myself”); Ath. 3.100c ἀλλὰ μήν, ἔφη ὁ Οὐλπιανός, καὶ τὸν περὶ τῆς μήτρας λόγον ἀποδώσω (“well, said Ulpian, I will give you the account of the womb”).

δηλαδὴ τρίπους: On Epicharmus fr. 147 K–A  

] [ ]..[ ].πονεοντες[ ]ο̣υγαρατερτε[ ]σ̣ωσα ]πέζας ]καθ̣ έδρας⟧ ] εχοναισας ]ω̣ν… P. Oxy. 2495 fr. 37 Lobel, early 2nd c. AD

]ο̣υ̣κ̣.[ ]..[ ].πον εοντες[ ]ο̣ὐ γὰρ ἄτερ τε[ for not without ]σ̣ωσα τρα]πέζας τρίποδάς τε]καθ̣ έδρας⟧ ]δ̣’ ἔχον αἴσας they had helpings ]ω̣ν… fr. 266a M–W vv. 1–7

Ιn the papyrus the (mistaken) word καθ̣ έδρας was deleted and the word τρα]πέζας written above by another hand. 6 Athenaeus’ contemporary Pollux also writes that the name τρίπους occurs in Hesiod for a table. ἦσαν δέ τινες πρῶται τράπεζαι καὶ δεύτεραι καὶ τρίται. καὶ τρίποδες μὲν ἐφ’ ὧν ἔκειντο· καὶ ἔστι τοὔνομα παρ’ Ἡσιόδῳ (Poll. Onom. 6.83) There were some first meal-courses and second and third. And there were tripods on which they were served; this designation is attested in Hesiod as well

Thus τρίποδάς τε] is the conjecture based on the evidence of Athenaeus and Pollux. I personally do not see in this fragment anything referring to τρίπους. However, even if τρίποδάς τε τραπέζας is a correct reading, τρίπους could be either an adjective here conjoined to the noun τράπεζα, or this could be a part of a catalogue where τρίπους and τράπεζα are listed among other objects. We cannot then be sure whether the text is genuine and the scribe just made a mistake, or, alternatively, whether it was corrected on the basis of some source such as Athenaeus or his predecessor. Perhaps both Athenaeus and Pollux quote the same source on τρίποδες-tables, but it is at least not sure whether they mean this particular papyrus fragment from the Marriage of Ceyx ascribed to Hesiod. The next example quoted by Athenaeus is from Xenophon’s Anabasis (ca. 370 BC) where a symposium scene is described (Xen. An. 7.3.21–22): “then τρίποδες were brought in for everybody; they were around twenty, full with portions of meat (ἔπειτα δὲ τρίποδες εἰσηνέχθησαν πᾶσιν· οὗτοι δ’ ὅσον εἴκοσι κρεῶν μεστοὶ νενεμημένων)”, and Xenophon continues: “αἱ τράπεζαι were constantly distributed among the guests (μάλιστα δ’ αἱ τράπεζαι κατὰ τοὺς ξένους αἰεὶ ἐτίθεντο)”.  6 Lobel 1962, 64–65. See Lobel 1962, 65: “If, as must appear likely, it is to this place that Athenaeus and Pollux refer, τρίποδάς… τραπέζας may be supplied”. See also Merkelbach/West, 1965, 310–311.

  Anna Novokhatko This is indeed a clear example showing a certain shift in the use of τρίπους-τράπεζα: either three-legged tables were brought in and they are called trapezai, or four-legged tables were brought in, and they are called tripodes. The first option is more probable, as surviving monuments reveal. 7 A certain type of a small light three-legged table used at symposia was called in both ways. 8 Further on, Athenaeus lists four comic fragments, one after the other, without any remarks (probably taken from some earlier source where the evidence on the table called τρίπους was gathered): Antiphanes (4th c. BC): ἐπεὶ δ’ ὁ τρίπους ἤρθη κατὰ χειρῶν τ’ εἴχομεν (Antiph. incert. fr. 280) when the tripod was removed and water was poured over the hands

In all probability, a symposium scene is described and τρίπους means here the same small light three-legged table as in Xenophon. 9 Then Eubulus (4th c. BC) is quoted: (B.) τρίποδες οὗτοι πέντε σοι (A.) καὶ πέντε (Β.) πεντηκοστολόγος γενήσομαι (Eub. fr. 119.4–5) (B.) these five tripods are for you (A.) and five (B.) I am going to become an (import-export 2%) tax-collector

Here however nothing tells us that the objects must be tables. They can be tripods used for various reasons such as for cooking in everyday usage or votive offerings for ritual use in a sanctuary (typically, only their characteristic bases have been found). As we do not know where the dialogue takes place, we have two options: either to follow Athenaeus (or his source who might have gathered [rightly or wrongly!] information on three-footed tables) or to keep other alternatives open and to be aware that for example an option of a bronze cauldron tripod or a pot-

 7 See Richter 1966, 63–72 and figs 342–379. 8 On such a use in symposiastic context, cf. Reisch 1905, 1675. Richter 1966, 66–69; Andrianou 2009, 50–63. 9 Cf. Ath. 9.408b–409a, with further parallels.

δηλαδὴ τρίπους: On Epicharmus fr. 147 K–A  

stand tripod is possible, and these tripods are referred to much more often in the Greek texts in general and in drama in particular. 10 Afterwards the Epicharmus’ fr. 147 K–A is quoted, and then the fragment from Aristophanes’ late comedy Telemēsses: Α. τράπεζαν ἡμῖν φερε τρεῖς πόδας ἔχουσαν, τέτταρας δὲ μὴ ’χέτω. Β. καὶ πόθεν ἐγὼ τρίπουν τράπεζαν λήψομαι; (Ar. fr. 545 K–A) (А) Bring us out a table with three feet, it must not have four. (B) And where shall I get a three-footed table?

The joke is based around the incongruence of the name τράπεζα (originally τετράπεζα, four-footed) 11 for three-legged tables. As in 2nd c. AD Ulpian’s case (see above), Aristophanes’ fragment reflects contemporary linguistic discussions on the cohesion of objects and their names. This is all we have in Athenaeus. It is noteworthy, that both Antiphanes and Xenophon use the noun τρίπους (and not the adjective “three-legged”) for a certain kind of table. The noun appears in Plato’s dialogues twice for votive tripod. 12 The noun is not attested before and might appear in the language around the second quarter of the 4th c. BC (being developed from the adjective τρίπους τράπεζα as is clear from Aristophanes’ fragment). Now, if we read Epicharmus’ fragment fr. 147 K–A in the way that Athenaeus imposes, we should accept that the noun τρίπους is being used for “table” one hundred years earlier than otherwise attested. If the table is four-legged, then the question should be posed why the speaker B calls it τρίπους and insists that its name is τρίπους. We have no examples either from literary texts or from archaeological monuments suggesting a four-legged table was ever called a τρίπους. On

 10 On τρίπους as a three-legged cauldron or stand for a vessel, see e. g. Il. 18.344, 23.702; Od. 8.434; Hes. Op. 657; Pind. Isthm. 1.19; Soph. Aj. 1405; Eur. Ion 91; Supp. 1202; Thuc. 1.132; Ar. Eq. 1016; Eccl. 744; Plut. 9. On symposion iconography and the use of a tripod stand in a symposiastic context, cf. Lissarrague 1990, 28 and fig. 14. 11 Orion Etym. T149: Τράπεζα. κατὰ ἀποβολὴν, τουτέστι, τετράπεζα, τέσσαρας πόδας ἔχουσα. αἱ γὰρ τῶν παλαιῶν τράπεζαι τετράγωνοι ἦσαν (“Trapeza: by dropping (of a syllable), that is to say tetrapeza, four-footed. For the tables of the ancients were rectangular”). Cf. further Procl. In Cra. 85.49–50; Etym. Magn. 763.38. 12 Pl. Grg. 472a6 and Pl. Leg. 719c3.

  Anna Novokhatko the contrary, as has been mentioned above, all evidence shows that a three-legged table was called both τρίπους and τράπεζα. Is B cheating A who is, let us suppose, a foreigner who does not understand the difference, or a Strepsiadeslike student of a Socrates-like teacher, and the lesson being taught is one of correspondence between objects and names? Transferring Aristophanes and the Athenian context in which he worked onto Epicharmus’ Syracuse, one might assume that Epicharmus was also engaged in mocking early linguistic studies carried out by the Sicilian rhetoricians: those who know names, know things, and there is no other way to understand the essence of things but through names. 13 Further, this fragment bears noteworthy literary allusions. Τρίπους is involved here in a riddle (thus αἴνιγμα in v. 4), a technique often exploited by comedy. Here Epicharmus with an explicit allusion to the famous riddle of the Sphinx deliberately interweaves the tripod-tetrapod-object into the mythological context. The word τετράπους in v. 2 corresponds to the word τετράπουν found on the fragments of the Attic black-figured hydria from Basel (520–510 BC) revealing the Sphinx standing on a column above a group of Thebans with the written words τετράπουν οὗ καὶ τρ[ and ἐπειδὰν γῆρας belonging in all probability to the riddle. 14 The sphinx addresses Oedipus, her (last) words (i.e. a culmination!) [κ]αι τρί[πον] emerging from her mouth, as seen on the Vatican red-figured tondo 16.541 (Vulci, about 470 BC). 15 The famous riddle of the Sphinx (walking on two, four and three legs) seems to be alluded to on stage as well: Epicharmus himself wrote a comedy with the title Sphinx (frr. 125 and 126 K–A) and Aeschylus wrote the satyr-drama Sphinx (467 BC). Further the chorus in Aeschylus’ Agamemnon (458 BC) alludes to the riddle about an old person using a crutch and contains the adjective τρίπους: “this extreme age, its leaves already withering, it goes its three-footed paths (τό θ’ ὑπέργηρων φυλλάδος ἤδη κατακαρφομένης τρίποδας μὲν ὁδοὺς στείχει, Aesch. Ag. 79–81)”. 16 Thus it is clear that by Epicharmus’ time the riddle of the Sphinx circulated in the textual form as it has come down to us, and Epicharmus’ fragment could thus be understood as a sophisticated literary and mythological wordplay. 17  13 Novokhatko 2015, 79–80. 14 Basel, Collection Cahn 855, BAPD 43112. See Moret 1984, 40, cat. 36, pl. 23; Kreuzer 1992, 86– 88. This is now the oldest surviving visual reference to the riddle of Sphinx. See Katz 2006 with further bibliography. 15 Moret 1984, 49–50, cat. 87, pl. 50–51/1. 16 The riddle is perhaps taken from a tragedy quoted by Asclep. Trag. 12 FGrH 7, see Lloyd-Jones 1978, 60–61. 17 Some of the surviving text of Euripides’ lost tragedy Oedipus (fr. 540a TrGF, produced after 415 BC) reveals a link to the riddle with the key-word “tripod”: “it has intelligence and it is something (four-footed and two)-footed and three-footed (ξύνεσιν δ’ ἔχ̣ο̣[ν/ τέτραπον ἠδὲ δί]πουν τι

δηλαδὴ τρίπους: On Epicharmus fr. 147 K–A  

Let us now revisit the object on stage in Epicharmus’ fragment. If this was a table, then the prevalent type of tables evidenced in Archaic and classical monumental and vase tradition were three-legged rectangular tables being small and light and used for food (as a red-figured kylix 490–480 BC attributed to Douris in British Museum (1892, 0518.1, London E50, BAPD 205273) with a symposiast: on his left is a three-legged table, underneath which is suspended a food basket with red tassels below). As has been noted: “The table most frequently pictured in the 5th c. was small and rectangular, with two legs at the corners of one end, and a single leg at the other end”. 18 Three legs were mainly used for reasons of greater stability, especially on a clay floor. Such a table is referred to in all probability by the 4th c. BC Xenophon and Antiphanes, shown above. If we do not take into account the problematic fragment from Hesiod’s papyrus, we have some earlier written evidence for a symposiastic three-legged table, but without any link to the term τρίπους. Thus, Cratinus mentions such tables in an uncertain comedy (before 422 BC): γαυριῶσαι δ’ ἀναμένουσιν ὧδ’ ἐπηγλαϊσμέναι μείρακες φαιδραὶ τράπεζαι τρισκελεῖς σφενδάμνιναι (Cratin. incert. fr. 334 K–A) they are waiting luxuriant, so dressed out young girls, beaming, three-legged tables τράπεζαι τρισκελεῖς, of maple wood

The Attic Stelae from the Eleusinion also contained inscriptions with lists of furniture items confiscated from Alcibiades’ house after he was accused of profaning the Eleusinian mysteries in 415/414 BC. 19 The evidence is the following: only one of the tables in the Attic Stelai is itemized as τετ[ρ]ά[π]ους (II, 242–243), which probably means that the other (at least) eleven declared as τράπεζαι had only three legs (and were rectangular small-size tables which fit easily under a coach). 20 The form is unclear, perhaps rectangular, as the round table was not introduced in archaeological sources before the 4th c. BC. 21 The rectangular table with three legs is a norm, but occasionally four legs are represented.  τρίπο̣[υν)”. On further literary allusions and the Sphinx riddle here, see Novokhatko 2015, 80– 81 with further parallels and bibliography. On obscene allusions of the riddle around the τρίπους, see Katz 2006 in detail. 18 Pritchett & Pippin 1956, 241–242. See also Richter 1966, 66. 19 Pritchett 1953 and Pritchett & Pippin 1956. 20 Pritchett 1953, 253; Pritchett & Pippin 1956, 212, 242. 21 Pritchett & Pippin 1956, 242.

  Anna Novokhatko So much for three- and four-footed tables. I would like now to make the assumption that Athenaeus is wrong here, and Epicharmus’ fragment (as perhaps Eubulus’ fragment quoted by him as well) does not belong to the list of tables called tripods. What if for some mistaken reason (for example, because of its clear similarity with the wordplay in Aristophanes’ fr. 545 K–A) the fragment was quoted in Athenaeus’ source along with other τράπεζαι-τρίποδες and what we have here is a joke on tripod and tetrapod without a table-context? I summarize here our knowledge on all sorts of τρίποδες until the mid 5th c. BC and try to read this fragment in a new context. Firstly, Epicharmus speaks about tripods elsewhere. In his comedy Thearoi (fr. 68 K–A) tripods are listed among sacred objects and these are clearly opposed to the tables: κιθάραι, τρίποδες, ἅρματα, τράπεζαι χάλκιαι, χειρόνιβα, λοιβάσια, λέβητες χάλκιοι, κρατῆρες, ὀδελοί· τοῖς γα μὰν ὑπωδέλοις †καιλωτε† βαλλίζοντες †σιοσσον χρῆμα εἴη† (Epicharm. fr. 68 K–A) lyres, tripods, chariots, bronze tables, hand-washing-basins, libation vessels, bronze cauldrons, mixing-bowls, spits; on the mortgaged really †…† dancing† …† a deal could be†

Opposed to the four-legged tripod from Epicharmus’ fr. 147 K–A, Athenaeus reveals more on the context of the comedy Thearoi elsewhere: Ἐπίχαρμος, ὦ θαυμασιώτατε, ἐν τοῖς Θεαροῖς μέμνηται τοῦ βαλλιμοῦ… ἐν οὖν τῷ δράματι οἱ θεωροὶ καθορῶντες τὰ ἐν Πυθοῖ ἀναθήματα καὶ περὶ ἑκάστου λέγοντές φασι καὶ τάδε (Athen. 8.362b) Epicharmus, my dear, in the “Thearoi” mentions the word ballismos (“dancing”)… in this play the envoys examine the dedications at Pytho (Delphi) and iteming them each separately say the following

This “and iteming them each separately” (καὶ περὶ ἑκάστου λέγοντές) points perfectly well to the discussion of the dedicated tripod, and the dialogue in fr. 147 K– A might come from this context. As we do not have any proof, this is just an assumption. The fr. 147 K–A could belong to the comedy Theoroi or could belong to any other comedy of Epicharmus where sacral tripods might have been significant (three Heracles-comedies, Epinikos [or Epinikios], Heorta and the like). What is however not at all an assumption, but a matter of fact, is that τρίπους in its main meaning as a three-legged cauldron or three-legged stand as a support for a vessel or a human being appears in most literary and epigraphical texts and

δηλαδὴ τρίπους: On Epicharmus fr. 147 K–A  

on visual monuments. 22 Sacral tripod is “the symbol par excellence of authoritative discourse and, hence, of political power and territorial domination”. 23 It assumes a significant role in ritual and mythology, “it can be set up as a trophy, as a prize for a victor and no matter what its purpose it always commands respect”. 24 We have no particular reason to believe Athenaeus here that tripod in the fragment is a kind of a table, and thus if we imagine this (much more popular in Epicharmus’ time than a table called τρίπους!) object on stage to be something else and then read again the dialogue around it, then we have to explain why this tripod has four legs. First of all, as in the case of the first option, if τρίπους were here a table, this three-legged object could be placed on stage with a person/object hidden behind it (thus making an effect of the “fourth leg”). The whole composition would have looked strange (let us say for example that Philocleon was trying to escape the house hiding himself beneath the donkey that was invisible to Bdelycleon who was dragging the donkey but visible to the audience and to Xanthias in Ar. Vesp. 179–186), 25 allowing the speaker A to ask τί δὲ τόδ’ ἐστί; Speaker B who knows what is happening tries to disguise the whole episode with a linguistic play on the correspondence of names and objects whilst both speakers play with mythological allusions. The second option is the much-discussed phenomenon of votive bronze or stone tripod cauldrons at Greek sanctuaries, for which there is ample evidence in the form of their bases. 26 Such a standard tripod is perhaps here on stage but an extra element is inserted between the three legs of the metal vessel (or its imitation in stone) to support specifically the bowl of the tripod vessel. This is best known in the instance of stone perirrhanteria (utensils for sprinkling the purification water at sacrifices), and the surviving bases of metal tripods dedicated in sanctuaries that typically have a circular centre cutting between the three angular cuttings for the

 22 On the analysis of more than 600 objects from Minoan, Mycenaean and Archaic Greece where tripods are represented, see Sakowski 1997. 23 Papalexandrou 2005, 4. 24 Suhr 1971, 216. 25 See Biles/Olson 2015, 143–145 on the possible placement of characters on stage in the scene. 26 In particular Pierre Amandry made a number of useful studies with clear photographs and line drawings of the top surfaces of votive tripods at a number of sites. On some the cutting for the central support is evident. Cf. Amandry and Ducat 1973, fig. 7, 10, and further the depictions of such tripods on vases, where the support column is depicted as well, see figs. 21, 22, 23, 25; Amandry/Spyropoulos 1974, figs. 1, 2, 4, 5, 12, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 20. 21, 22, 24, 26, 28, 37, 38, 40, 44, 45, 47, 49 (the 3rd cent. BC tripods); Amandry 1976, figs 3–4, 10; Amandry 1977.

  Anna Novokhatko leg. 27 A column was used to support the basin, which is necessary for monumental tripods rather than cooking tripods. The earliest surviving tripods from Olympia have only three bronze legs; presumably the decision to add a central support developed as a result of the experience of wear and tear on such large bronze vessels. Typically, of course, bronze tripods do not survive as their material was reused; but their stands do, with four cuttings, three for three legs and a central one for a support. The most famous example of this is the Plataean votive tripod, the so-called Serpent-column dedicated at Delphi: a giant (golden?) tripod, supported by a bronze serpentine column. 28 This bronze column was the central support of the bowl, not the base / stand on which the whole tripod stood (as used to be thought before excavation). This tripod cauldron was meant to symbolically assert the territorial and political unassailability of the Greek world. The earliest attestation for this tripod is Herodotus: Συμφορήσαντες δὲ τὰ χρήματα καὶ δεκάτην ἐξελόντες τῷ ἐν Δελφοῖσι θεῷ, ἀπ’ ἧς ὁ τρίπους ὁ χρύσεος ἀνετέθη ὁ ἐπὶ τοῦ τρικαρήνου ὄφιος τοῦ χαλκέου ἐπεστεὼς ἄγχιστα τοῦ βωμοῦ… (Herod. 9.81) Having brought all the stuff together, (the Greeks) set apart one tenth for the god of Delphi, whereof the golden tripod was dedicated set upon the bronze three-headed serpent column, nearest to the altar...

The Plataean votive tripod at Delphi was unusual owing to scale and medium, but its serpent column support was merely an unusual elaboration of a standard votive concept. As this tripod specifically would not have been at the top of the mind of a 5th century BC theatre-goer, similar tripods, perhaps closer to Epicharmus’ world, were golden tripods each surmounted by a Nike, dedicated by the tyrants of Syracuse Gelon and Hieron to the sanctuary of Apollo at Delphi, an offering of thanks for the victory at Himera in 480 BC. The bases, where tripods should have been placed, are still in situ near the entrance to the temple. They did not bear tripods, however, but in all probability bronze columns which carried a golden statue and a tripod. But we do not have to look for any particular tripod as any standard tripod had an extra element inserted between the three legs of the metal vessel (see Figs 1, 2 and 3). As Pierre Amandry noted:  27 Amandry 1987, 98 illustrates a 4th cent. BC example (his base H, see the description on p. 97 in detail), that is clearest in his drawing; see also his figures 24 and 30. I am very grateful to Margaret C. Miller for these references. 28 Papalexandrou 2005, 9–10 with bibliography.

δηλαδὴ τρίπους: On Epicharmus fr. 147 K–A  

La présence d’un support entre les pieds du trépied est quasiment constante: il soutenait la partie la plus fragile, la cuve, dont la paroi relativement mince devait résister au poids de l’eau qui l’emplissait dès l’automne et ne s’en retirait qu’en été par évaporation. Ce support est le plus souvent une simple colonnette, mais il peut prendre des formes plus élaborées et originales, comme en témoignent des textes et des monuments. 29

Fig. 4: J.-P. Braun, P. Amandry 1973: The base of the victory tripod of the dithyramb poet Cedeides (5th cent. BC) / 7296 © École française d’Athènes.

 29 Amandry 1987, 83.

  Anna Novokhatko

Fig. 5: The base of the victory tripod of the dithyramb poet Cedeides (5th cent. BC) / EM 10330, N. 3028/2002 © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Epigraphic Museum.

δηλαδὴ τρίπους: On Epicharmus fr. 147 K–A  

Fig. 6: The base of the victory tripod of the dithyramb poet Cedeides (5th cent. BC) / ΕΜ 10330, N. 3028/2002 © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Epigraphic Museum.

Another type of tripod with a “fourth leg” is a common stone tripod, such as the limestone Oxford tripod from Corinth (probably from a temple of the Metroon, dated between late archaic period and the middle 5th c. BC). 30 It is a basin resting on a stand (central column) adorned with three female figures standing on three

 30 Gardner 1896, 279. Schwendemann 1921, 137. Types of support are discussed as well in Schwendemann 1921, 137–139.

  Anna Novokhatko lions. Further, a god-statue could stand under such a tripod supporting it. 31 Translations of central supports of stone tripod basins are attested. My main point here is obvious: it is not difficult to find the “fourth leg” for Epicharmus’ tripod (τί μὰν ἔχει πόδας τέτορας) as it was very common to see a tripod with a “fourth leg” in public places in Greece and thus this construction offered material to ridicule for a comic playwright. Thus the “fourth leg” in Epicharmus’ tripod could be this support as seen on the stone bases of dedicated tripods from sanctuaries in Greece. There was ample material then available for a joke incorporating both studies of the philosophy of language and the objectname correspondence and literary and mythological allusions, and certainly this material was not poorer than a game around table feet. To conclude. Mythological and literary allusions to the riddle of the Sphinx are evident in this fragment. So too traces of purist linguistic discussions on the cohesion of names and objects. They provide information on the context in which Epicharmus worked, and the horizon of expectations of his audience. The nature of the object on stage, however, as we have seen, can be disputed. Interpreting this object could potentially contribute to the contextualisation of the scene. If we simply follow Athenaeus and view the tripod as a table for food, this could be a symposiastic context. Alternatively, an examination of what a tripod might have meant for Epicharmus’ audience, looking at literary texts and archaeological evidence such as four cuttings of the stone tripod bases which really make it absolutely clear that a τρίπους could indeed have “four legs” (τί μὰν ἔχει πόδας τέτορας), sheds light on another context: a ritual sacral space, Delphi, Heraion, Mithraion and suchlike. And here new horizons for the interpretation of this fragment are opened up.

 31 Cf. a 2nd cent. AD traveller’s account on the Odos Tripodon leading from the Prytaneum to the Theater of Dionysos in Athens in Paus. 1.20.1 ἔστι δὲ ὁδὸς ἀπὸ τοῦ πρυτανίου καλουμένη Τρίποδες· ἀφ’ οὗ καλοῦσι τὸ χωρίον, ναοὶ ὅσον ἐς τοῦτο μεγάλοι, καί σφισιν ἐφεστήκασι τρίποδες χαλκοῖ μέν, μνήμης δὲ ἄξια μάλιστα περιέχοντες εἰργασμένα· (“There is a road leading from the prytaneum called Tripods; this place takes its name from the temples large enough, and within them bronze tripods stand upon, but containing works of art very much worthy of remembering”). See Dickenson 2015, 738.

δηλαδὴ τρίπους: On Epicharmus fr. 147 K–A  

Bibliography Aandry, P./Ducat, J. (1973), “Trépieds déliens”, BCH Suppl. I, 17–64. Amandry, P./Spyropoulos, T. (1974), “Monuments chorégiques d’Orchomène de Béotie”, BCH 98, 171–246. Amandry, P. (1976), “Trépieds d’Athènes: I. Dionysies”, BCH 100, 15–93. Amandry, P. (1977), “Trépieds d’Athènes: II. Targélies”, BCH 101, 165–202. Amandry, P. (1987), “Trépieds de Delphes et du Péloponnèse”, in: BCH 111, 1, 79–131. Andrianou, D. (2009), The furniture and furnishings of ancient Greek houses and tombs, Cambridge/New York. BAPD = Beazley Archive Pottery Database ( Biles, Z./Olson, D. (2015), Aristophanes, Wasps; ed. with intr. and comm., Oxford. Dickenson, C.P. (2015), “Pausanias and the ‘Archaic Agora’ at Athens”, Hesperia 84. 4, 723– 770. Gardner, P. (1896), “A Stone Tripod at Oxford, and the Mantinean Basis”, JHS 16, 275–284. Katz, J. (2006), “The Riddle of the sp(h)ij-: The Greek Sphinx and her Indic and Indo-European Background”, in: G.-J. Pinault/D. Petit (eds), La langue poétique indo-européenne, Actes du Colloque de travail de la Société des Études Indo-Européennes (Indogermanische Gesellschaft / Society for Indo-European Studies), Paris, 22–24 Octobre 2003, Louvain, 157– 194. Kreuzer, B. (1992), Frühe Zeichner 1500–500 vor Chr.: ägyptische, griechische und etruskische Vasenfragmente der Sammlung H. A. Cahn, Basel; eine Ausstellung des Freundeskreises der Archäologischen Sammlung der Universität Freiburg i. Br., 4.12.1992 – 4.4.1993, Universitätsbibliothek Freiburg, ed. by V.M. Strocka, Waldkirch. Lissarrague, F. (1990), The Aesthetics of the Greek Banquet. Images of wine and ritual (Orig. Un Flot d’Images: une esthétique du banquet grec, Paris 1987), transl. by A. Szegedy– Maszak, Princeton. Lobel, E. (1962), The Oxyrhynchus Papyri, Part XXVIII. Ed. with notes. London. Lloyd-Jones, H. (1978), “Ten notes on Aeschylus, Agamemnon”, in: R.D. Dawe/J. Diggle/P.E. Easterling (eds), Dionysiaca: Nine Studies in Greek Poetry by former pupils presented to Sir Denys Page on his 70th Birthday, Cambridge, 45–61. Merkelbach, R./West, M.L. (1965), “The Wedding of Ceyx”, RhM 108, 300–317. Moret, J.-M. (1984), Œdipe, la Sphinx et les Thébains: essai de mythologie iconographique, 2 vols, Geneva. Novokhatko, A. (2015), “Epicharmus’ comedy and early Sicilian scholarship”, SCI 34, 69–84. Novokhatko, A. (2017), “Discourse markers in a comic fragmentary dialogue”, in: F. Logozzo/ P. Poccetti (eds), Ancient Greek Linguistics: New Approaches, Insights, Perspectives, Berlin/New York, 227–242. Papalexandrou, N. (2005), The visual poetics of power: warriors, youths, and tripods in Early Greece, Lanham e.a. PCG = Poetae Comici Graeci, ed. by R. Kassel and A. Colin, Berlin, 1983 –. Pritchett, W.K. (1953), “The Attic Stelai I”, Hesperia 22.4, 225–299. Pritchett, W.K./Pippin, A. (1956), “The Attic Stelai II”, Hesperia 25.3, 178–328. Richter, G.M.A. (1966), The furniture of the Greeks, Etruscans and Romans, London. Reisch, E. (1905), “Dreifuss”, RE V. 2, 1669–1696.

  Anna Novokhatko Sakowski, A. (1997), Darstellungen von Dreifußkesseln in der griechischen Kunst bis zum Beginn der Klassichen Zeit, Frankfurt am Main e. a. Schwendemann, K. (1921), “Der Dreifuss. Ein Formen- und Religionsgeschichtlicher Versuch. Mit einer Beilage”, Jahrbuch des DAI 36, 98–185. Suhr, E.G. (1971), “The Tripod”, Foklore 82.3, 216–232.

Serena Perrone

Crates and the Polis: Reframing the Case In this paper I will make what may seem, at first appearances, to be an entirely trivial and obvious point; namely that Crates’ comedy had much to do with the polis. But then, such an obvious point has not always been taken for granted in the case of Crates. Traditionally, Crates has been described as the champion of light comedy — removed from the political fray and non-aggressive — as opposed to the politically engaged canonical poets of Old Comedy. The fifth-century Crates has instead been considered the forerunner of the following century’s comedy. 1 This understanding of Crates is rooted in the interpretation of ancient testimonia pertaining to him. In the parabasis of the Knights, Aristophanes recalls his former colleague Crates, along with Magnes and Cratinus (vv. 537–540 = Crates test. 6 K–A), and mocks him as a misunderstood poet of the old guard, whose comedy was “sober”, “urbane”, and “cheap” (on this last point cf. also Ar. fr. 347). Although, admittedly, comic mockery by a rival is probably not the most reliable source of information. 2 According to the later Prolegomena de Comoedia (III p. 7 Koster = test. 2), Pherecrates emulated Crates, perhaps not only by being, like Crates, an actor before becoming a playwright, but also by avoiding satirising real individuals. 3 Tell-

 The research here presented was part of my work on Crates within the project Kommentierung der Fragmente der griechischen Komödie (KomFrag), directed by Bernhard Zimmermann, and has benefitted in many ways from dialogue with colleagues in the project (cf. now Perrone 2019). I wish also to thank Franco Montanari, Fausto Montana and Lara Pagani, who read an early draft of this paper and provided — as always — valued comments. I am also grateful to Ralph Rosen and Anton Bierl for the discussion following my paper at the conference in Thessaloniki.  1 Selectively Hasper 1877, Norwood 1931, Bonanno 1972. 2 Praising or attacking colleagues are of course highly rhetorical acts and cannot be taken at face value. It has been argued that the description, and even the very choice, to use Crates in the Knights was functional to the mockery of the actual target, Cratinus, who was one of Aristophanes’ direct rivals in that agon. Cf. Biles 2002, Ruffell 2002, Hartwig 2012. 3 Φερεκράτης Ἀθηναῖος … γενόμενος {ὁ} δὲ ὑποκριτὴς ἐζήλωσε Κράτητα, καὶ αὖ τοῦ (αὖ τοῦ EAld : αὑτοῦ N2 : αὐτὸς τοῦ Kaibel, Van Leeuwen et Bonanno) μὲν λοιδορεῖν ἀπέστη, πράγματα δὲ εἰσηγούμενος καινὰ ηὐδοκίμει γενόμενος εὑρετικὸς μύθων. According to Koster, αὖ means “in vicem; ut iam Crates”, but Heath 1989, 351, n. 29 observes “unfortunately this suggestion is itself based on the standard misinterpretation of Aristotle’s allusion to Crates” (see infra).

  Serena Perrone ingly, in the approximately sixty surviving fragments of Crates (a scant fifty complete verses), there exist no personal attacks bar one. This single exception, in fr. 37, concerns Megabyzos, as we shall see. If it is not a spiteful accident of transmission, it would appear to be a confirmation that Crates refrained from the verbal abuse of onomastì komodein. That said, the traditional verdict on Crates has been rooted, above all else, in a much-debated passage in Aristotle’s Poetics: τὸ δὲ μύθους ποιεῖν [Ἐπίχαρμος καὶ Φόρμις] τὸ μὲν ἐξ ἀρχῆς ἐκ Σικελίας ἦλθε, τῶν δὲ Ἀθήνησιν Κράτης πρῶτος ἦρξεν ἀφέμενος τῆς ἰαμβικῆς ἰδέας καθόλου ποιεῖν λόγους καὶ μύθους. (Arist. Poet. 1449b7–9 = test. 5)

Here Aristotle claims that the construction of comedic plots originated in Sicily and that Crates was the first Athenian poet to abandon the “iambic idea” of comedy and produce logoi kai muthoi, that is, “dialogues and plots”, katholou “with a general scope” (in Willi’s translation) / “with an overall structure” (in Halliwell’s translation). This passage poses a whole set of intricate problems including nothing less than the origin of comedy, as well as the direct influence of Sicilian models. The correct interpretation has long been subject to heated debate. Aristotle sets Crates as protos in Athens, a key figure in Aristotle’s teleological view of the genre history. But it is unclear whether Aristotle is referring here to form or to content, or to both. The phrase ἀφέμενος τῆς ἰαμβικῆς ἰδέας may indeed confirm Crates’ refrain from personal mockery, and his departure from a certain kind of comedy towards the development of “universal” plot. Καθόλου is the same term used by Aristotle when explaining elsewhere the difference between poetry — which relates more of the universal — and history, which relates to the particular: “katholou means the kinds of things which it suits a certain kind of person to say or do, in terms of probability or necessity, while ‘particular’ means, say, what Alcibiades did or experienced” (Arist. Poet. 1451b7, trans. Halliwell 1995). We may reapply Aristotle’s words and say that Crates’ comedy relates the kinds of events and discourse that occur by probability and necessity, rather than events that actually occurred. As Heath 1989 points out, “to compose a plot ‘universally’ is to compose it […] as a whole, with beginning, middle and end standing in a necessary or probable delimited series of casually consequent events”. He continues “the innovation attributed to Crates was the abandonment of casually unstructured plots, not the abandonment of individual abuse”. 4 More recently, Willi 2015 has drawn attention to the word λόγους, interpreting it as “dialogues”  4 Heath 1989, 348 and 351.

Crates and the Polis: Reframing the Case  

and thus maintains that Crates, along the lines of Sicilian comedy, was the first to produce dramatic and dialogic plot-driven comedy in Athens, just as Aeschylus was supposedly the first to develop dialogues in tragedy. Thereafter, Crates’ innovation was about form, and not only influenced but ultimately shaped the very structure of the whole genre. Yet what developed from questionable interpretations of this remark in Aristotle’s Poetics was the idea that Crates was the fons of a strand in Greek comedy, one different in content and style from mainstream topically engaged and aggressive Old Comedy. In contrast, Crates has been seen as a politically unengaged author, who paved the way for the comedy of manners, a precursor in historical evolution to disengaged New Comedy. 5 It has even been suggested that Crates was the head of a “school” of an alternative kind of comedy (Norwood 1931 includes Phrynichus, Pherecrates and even Plato in the alleged “school of Crates”). 6 More recently, Sidwell 2000 speaks of a “plot-based tradition” and maintains that “we should call Middle Comedy ‘Sicilian Comedy’ and see Krates as its first Athenian exponent”. This established vision of Crates, questionably grounded in ancient testimonies, has occasionally taken on a radical form, a strictly schematic approach, that has led to the drastic exclusion of any reference to contemporary reality. This view was forcefully advocated in the one and only modern monograph concerning Crates, Maria Grazia Bonanno’s 1972 “Studi su Cratete comico”. Bonanno categorically denied any possible political allusion in Crates’ works, and rejected any hypothesis of historical reference therein as improbable and gratuitous, maintaining that any topical political subject should be excluded from Crates’ work, that his social ideals found expression only in utopian fantasies, and that his verses were intended for nothing else other than good yet shallow comic effect. 7 Even if we believe Crates’ comedy represented a significantly different strand — which in my view is not so obvious from the little we know — we need not absolutize this view and reject any possible connection with actual events; it is not necessary to assume that every single one of his verses is general in quality,  5 Cf. Henderson 2013, Csapo 2000 on the influence of conformity to “canon” on the actual survival of a given work. 6 Norwood 1931, 145ff. 7 “Argomenti così “impegnati” dovevano essere coerentemente estranei al nostro poeta, i cui più intimi vagheggiamenti sociali trovano posto solo nell’utopia, intesa secondo la più genuina, ma anche più superficiale sensibilità comica” (Bonanno 1972, 53). In keeping with this line see e.g. Imperio 2004, 215 speaking of Crates as the “massimo esponente del filone “disimpegnato” dell’archaia” or Storey 2011, 200 “a sort of Old Comedy different from the politically and topically charged farces of Aristophanes and Eupolis”.

  Serena Perrone or to exclude any serious argument or any allusion to the reality of living in Athens. The sharp polarisation of political comedy against disengaged comedy is the product of a given period of literary criticism, which has now come to an end. Such a clear-cut antithesis is untenable today. While the “threadbare subject” of ancient comedy and politics continues to be a matter of much contention, 8 we now have a much more nuanced vision of the comic genre and its synchronic variety. Furthermore, the current communis opinio suggests that every comedy was — at least on a basic level — political, in as much it was related to the polis, and the polis was its audience. Comedies were financed and performed in the public sphere and competed for public approval. 9 Nonetheless, Crates has been understood as a kind of exception, operating away from mainstream “political” comedy, even if we were to take “political” in its broader sense of “concerning the polis”, let alone in its strict sense. It is clear that in the case of Crates too we have to smooth over the sharp edges of inherited schematisations, both at a general level and in the specific analysis of single fragments. Indeed, some titles and fragments may be read in an entirely different light, possibly revealing references to actual events. Not without reason, Olson 2010 has suggested that “the earliest evidence for explicitly political comedy is perhaps to be found in the work of Crates”. 10 Dobrov 2010 also cites the political potential of titles such as Samians and Orators. We will return to this matter. The traditional vision that has long informed the interpretation of single titles and fragments of Crates has sometimes re-emerged even in recent literature, fuelling circular reasoning in which the exclusion of political contents is both the premise and the conclusion, sometimes in the form of a certain kind of over-scepticism or reluctance when it comes to possible dating. Needless to say, trying to identify specific historical events in a fragment is a risky business. 11 Interpretation of fragments calls for caution and the danger of overinterpretation is high. Often, we can only construct hypothesis by hypothesis. It is like building on the sand. Nonetheless, each fragment is derived from a whole and that whole had a historical context, of which author and spectators were aware. Therefore, we must interrogate fragments on these aspects, even if we may never derive definite answers.  8 The definition of the subject as a “threadbare” is already present in Gomme 1938. Cf. Olson 2010. 9 See e.g. Winkler/Zeitlin 1990; Sommerstein et al. 1993, Dobrov 1998. 10 Olson 2010, 60; Dobrov 2010. 11 For arguments against overinterpretation and attempts to reconstruct plots from scattered fragments see K. Dover’s Frogments (in the foreword to Harvey/Willis 2000, xvii–xix) and Olson’s experiment with Athenaeus’ Aristophanes (Olson 2015 and 2016).

Crates and the Polis: Reframing the Case  

The first obstacle is setting the historical background of Crates’ activities. He probably began in the 450s. Eusebius’ Chronicles sets his akmè in the year 451/450. 12 Otherwise we only have data that places Crates in relation to Cratinus. Crates began as an actor, perhaps for his future rival (test. 3 Sch. Ar. Eq.). 13 He himself then became a playwright and earned his first victory at the Dionysia, at least two years after Cratinus, thus probably in 451/450 or slightly earlier. 14 How long his career lasted is more uncertain. Since Aristophanes in the Knights speaks of him in the past tense (test. 6), we may assume that by 424 he was no longer active (maybe even dead), perhaps recently. 15 Given the limited number of known plays (eleven attested, but the Suda notes seven, only mentioning the titles of six) and the fact that he apparently never won at the Lenaea, 16 it has been supposed that his career was already over by the early 430s. However a date of at least the early 420s is preferable since we learn from Athenaeus that Crates’ Beasts were produced after Cratinus’ Plutoi, whose possible date may range from 436 to 428 but is probably post 429. 17 In other words, the range is the decades between 450 and 430, the time of Pentecontetia, the rising of the Athenian empire, prior to the Peloponnesian War.

 12 Euseb. Chron. p. 112,15 Helm (test. 7a): Crates comicus et Telesilla ac Bacchylides lyricus clari habentur. Cf. Syncellus p. 297, 5–7 Mosshammer (test. 7c). According to Demetrius Lacon, On Poetry B col. 38 p. 112 Romeo (test. 8), Crates was a contemporary of Aeschylus (who died in 456). This note is generally considered inaccurate or unreliable (“certamente falsa” Bonanno 1972, 27), but a short chronological overlap between the two authors cannot be ruled out. 13 Cratinus’ first victory is dated to 453/452, but he had probably been active since about 460, see Bianchi 2017, 13. The order in which the two comedians are cited in some sources seems to confirm their relative chronology (cf. e.g. Crates test. 2 and 6). 14 IG II2 2325e.50–52 (Victors List = Crat. test. 9 e Cratin. test. 5). Eusebius placed the floruit of Cratinus in 454/53 or 453/452 (= Cratin. test. 4). For Cratinus’ chronology see Bianchi 2017, 13– 15. 15 Cf. Geißler 1925, 18 n. 2, who notes that Aristophanes in the Knights speaks of him always in the past tense. 16 Rusten et al. 2011, 137, read this information in light of the alleged apolitical nature of Crates’ comedy with a circular argument: “Note also that Crates never won a victory at the Lenaea, which might support the theory of Russo 1994 that the Lenaea was a more political venue”. One has to consider that perhaps for half his career there were no Lenaean competitions to be won. We have no firm date for the formal institution of comedic contests at the Lenaea. The official establishment is traditionally dated to 442/40 (Capps 1907, 186–187), but the exact date is disputed. 444/41 is a reasonable estimate according to Rusten 2006, while Luppe 2007 opts for 443/39. Cf. Bagordo 2014 on Xenophilos test. 2, who is the first name on the winners list IG II2 2325e. Cf. Millis/Olson 2012, 178ff. 17 The possible date range is 436–428, but a date post 429 seems more likely. For a synthesis of the problem see Bianchi 2017, 30ff.

  Serena Perrone For not a single one of Crates’ plays have we any information about dating, or at which festival they were staged, or where they were ranked in the agon. Hypotheses can only be based on possible references and allusions to contemporary events. And in the case of Crates we cannot even rely on the komodoumenoi for assistance. Some possible dates for single comedies have been suggested (for the most part by the wishful Edmonds), but these have been deemed “improbable” or “gratuitous” by Bonanno. 18 However, in a few cases at least, I think the historical references should not be so hastily dismissed. The first case is the play entitled Samioi (Samians) (frr. 31–35). Possible connections with the revolt of Samos (441) — a severe breakdown within the Delian League that threatened Athenian hegemony – and the subsequent war led by Pericles in 440/439 are clear and have been noted before, only to be excluded as Crates has not been considered “political”. Geißler and, more recently, Storey are notable examples. 19 Storey’s 2011 Loeb edition of comic fragments is indicative of the approach I seek to challenge: Is there any connection between a play called “Samians” by a poet of the 430s and the critical revolt of Samos (440/439) from the Athenian archē? But since Crates seems to have been an apolitical and nontopical comic poet, we might ask what other aspects of Samians might have been useful for comedy (pp. 225–227).

It is possible to debate whether Crates’ Samians should be dated to before, during or after (and by how much) the revolt, which would involve examining the slippery issue of the Morychides’ decree (enacted during the Samian war, between 440 and 439, but then abolished between 437 and 436). 20 In my view it is unlikely that, in the decades when Crates was active, a comedy so entitled had nothing to say, openly or otherwise, concerning the political relationship between Athens and a key ally within the Delian League, during a historical juncture when Athens was establishing its empire. Equally, how likely is it that the mention of the personal name Megabyzos in fr. 37 from Tolmai 21 has nothing to do with Megabyzos, the Persian satrap who

 18 Bonanno 1972, 29, n. 1. 19 Geißler 1925, 18 n. 2. Cf. Edmonds 1957, 152–170. 20 Ammendola 2001, 91–93, Cuniberti 2012, 22–25. The content of the decree and what exactly was subject to limitation is unknown. Sch. Ar. Ach. 67 (τὸ ψήφισμα τὸ περὶ τοῦ μὴ κωμῳδεῖν γραφὲν ἐπὶ Μορυχίδου). 21 Cited by Ath. 6.247f: ποιμαίνει δ’ ἐπισίτιον· | ῥιγῶν δ’ ἐν Μεγαβύζου (μεταβύξου A), | † δέξετ’ ἐπὶ μισθῶι σῖτος.

Crates and the Polis: Reframing the Case  

defeated the Athenians in the disastrous expedition to Egypt (460–454)? 22 The connection has been proposed by Edmonds and more recently by Sofia, 23 who even argues that the Egyptian expedition was the central argument of Tolmai on the basis that the title is translatable as Daring Deeds, and so can be dated to 454 BC. That is perhaps too much, 24 yet we cannot exclude the possibility that the proper name in fr. 37 is an allusion to such events: even had a few years passed, such a bitter defeat would probably be still resonant in the minds of the theatre audience. I am not persuaded by the argument that the name Megabyzos in this fragment is merely a generic name for a rich man (as it may have been some six centuries later, cf. Luc. Tim. 22, Hsch. μ 446) providing an “overtone of grandeur”, as Kassel-Austin and Storey would have it. 25 I think it more likely that name rang another bell for the theatre audience. Both the Egypt expedition and the Samos revolt were crucial events for Athens during Crates’ life; both were turning points in Pericles’ foreign and military policy, events that no doubt stuck firmly in the minds of the theatre audience. By mere mention of Samians and Megabyzos, Crates could not easily have avoided the connection with these events in the public’s memory. We have made reference to another noteworthy title, 26 Rhetores, a play which Athenaeus attributed to Crates (Ath. 9.369c). Even if Rhetores is often translated as Orators, Politicians may also be fitting. 27 “Rhetor” was a term that was used technically to denote any citizen who had made a speech before the people in the Assembly, which often, effectively, correlated with “political leader”. So much

 22 On Megabyzos and the Athenian expedition to Egypt see Thuc. 1.104, 109–110, Ctes. fr. 14.37– 39, Diod. Sic. 11.77.5. 23 Sofia 2012 and 2016. 24 Nesselrath 2017 is sceptical: “Are we really to believe that Crates wrote a comedy in which he made fun of a disastrous Athenian defeat (he might have remembered what happened to his fellow dramatist Phrynichus when he put the destruction of Miletus by the Persians on stage: see Herodotus 6.21.2)? Moreover, the events that Crates is supposed to have alluded to according to Edmonds and Sofia took place around 460 BC, but Crates very likely only started producing comedies around 450: why should he have wanted to start his dramatic career by reminding his fellow Athenians of their bitter defeat in Egypt ten years ago?”. After all, if one were to trust Aristophanes, Crates had to face the public rage more than once (Eq. 537 οἵας δὲ Κράτης ὀργὰς ὑμῶν ἠνέσχετο καὶ στυφελιγμούς). 25 Storey 2011, 229. 26 Olson 2010, 61. 27 So Storey 2011, 225 who, however, regards the title given by Athenaeus’ manuscripts as a garbled form of either Geitones or Heroes.

  Serena Perrone for our supposedly “apolitical” poet then! Many scholars have therefore questioned that this title befits Crates, regarding it as an error. 28 Circular reasoning may deem it an error, but of course it may not be. So many uncertainties make any hypothesis little more than tentative. Another case in point is fr. 26 from the Etymologica, which has received little attention to date. It is a one-word fragment, whose textual transmission is problematic. Indeed the very existence of the play from where it supposedly originates is questionable. Furthermore, no modern edition reliably examines the ancient source. A lovable concoction of troubles. In the entry concerning an Ionic epithet of Zeus, 29 an example from Crates is cited in the context of a controversy about the possible derivation from words that end in –ων, specifically as proof of the existence of a term pogonia from pogon (“beard”). Crates used it in the compound λιποπωγωνία. Our sources do not mention anything concerning its meaning. πωγωνιήτης: πώγων (om. AB) πώγωνος πωγωνίτης (καὶ πλεονασμῶι τοῦ η πωγωνιήτης Et. Sym. V). λέγει σοί τις· “δός μοι ἀπὸ τῶν εἰς ων ληγόντων· οὐκ ἔχεις.” γεγονέν πωγωνία. Κράτης (σωκρ- Et. Sym. C) γοῦν ἐν Μετοίκοις (μετρικοῖς AB) λιποπωγωνία (λιπ- Sylburg: λειπ- Et. Magn.: λέγει· τὸ πωγ- AB, πωγ- Et. Sym.) ἔφη. δύναται οὖν, ὥσπερ οἰκία οἰκιάτης, οὕτω πωγωνία πωγωνιάτης καὶ πωγωνιήτης (γενέσθαι add. Et. Sym.). (Etym. Gen. AB ≃ Etym. Magn. p. 698, 8 ≃ Etym. Sym. CV) pogonietes (bearded, epithet of Zeus): pogon pogonos pogonites (and with pleonasm of eta pogonietes). Someone may say you: “Tell me (a derivate) from words that end with ōn; you are not able to”. There is pogonia. Crates at any rate in Metoikoi used lipopogonia. Thus like oikia oikiates, so too are pogonia pogoniates and pogonietes possible.

λιποπωγωνία is a hapax legomenon composed from λείπω + πώγων and translated by Storey as “lack of a beard”. 30 As for –pogon, compounds related to the beard are quite numerous. In comedy we have τραγοπώγων “with a goat’s beard” (Cratin. fr. 108), δασυπώγων “thick-bearded” (Ar. Thesm. 33) and τιλλοπώγων “one who plucks out his beard”

 28 The Marcianus lectio ἐν Ῥήτορσιν was emendated to ἐν Ἥρωσιν by Volkmann 1861, 40 (followed by Kock 1880, I 138), and to ἐν Γείτοσιν Bonanno 1972, 123. Cf. Storey 2011, 225 “the easiest solution is to regard this title as a garbled form of either Neighbours (Retorsin ~ Geitosin) or Hērōes (Retorsin ~ Erosin)”. 29 Cf. Sud. s.v. 30 Storey 2011, 223.

Crates and the Polis: Reframing the Case  

(Com. Adesp. fr. *671). 31 Similar in meaning to λιποπωγωνία is σπανοπώγων, “having a scanty beard”, from Ion of Chios’ Sunekdemetikos, a work of uncertain nature, possibly related to the embassy to Sparta (fr. 113 Leurini = FGrH 392 F8). 32 The beard in classical Greek culture was a symbol of virility, while having a beard was the norm for adult males in fifth-century Athens. The fashion of shaving began only later, at the end of the fourth century, with Alexander the Great, as is known from literary (Ath. 13.565a) and iconographic sources. The noun λιποπωγωνία could be understood therefore as having an element of mocking to it, scoffing at a beardless character charged with being unmanly and effeminate. There are many comic examples including the clean-shaven Agathon, who wears a beardless mask in Ar. Thesm. 191ff., or Agyrrius, mocked by Praxagora in Aristoph. Eccl. 102. 33 But this interpretation linking the lack of bear with lack of manliness is not the only one possible. There is probably some layer of significance in operation. 34 Pogon is not only the common noun for beard, but it is also a toponym. It is the place name identified with the port of Troezen (Hdt. 8.42 ἐς γὰρ Πώγωνα τὸν Τροιζηνίων λιμένα προείρητο συλλέγεσθαι; cf. Strab. 8.6.14.). A saying also existed that played on this double meaning. The Suda and the paroemiographic tradition report that: Εἰς Τροιζῆνα δεῖ βαδίζειν: ἐπὶ τῶν κακογενείων καὶ σπανοπωγώνων 35 εἴρηται. Πώγων γάρ ἐστι λιμὴν εἰς Τροιζῆνα (Sud. ει 324) “You must go to Troezen”. This was said in reference to those who had a poor or scanty beard. Pogon is in fact the port of Troezen. 36

 31 See also Alex. fr. 266, Timocl. fr. 5. Several examples are listed in Pollux’ Onomasticon (Poll. Onom. 2.88). 32 The source of the fragment is Poll. Onom. 2.88: παρὰ δ’ Ἴωνι τῶι τραγικῶι ἐν τῶι ἐπιγραφομένωι Συνεκδημητικῶι καὶ «σπανοπώγων» τις ὀνομάζεται. For the possible connection with an embassy to Sparta see Leurini 2000, 73. According to von Blumenthal 1939, 54, Sunekdemetikos was a comedy: cf. sch. RV Ar. Pax 835 = FGrH 392 T2, but see Katsaros 2009 ad l. and Federico 2015, 32. 33 Cf. Arnott 1996, 743–744. 34 Unnoticed, as far as I can tell, except for the reference to Zen. II 28 in the apparatum by Kassel/Austin (p. 99). 35 Note σπᾰνοπώγων as in the fragment of Ion. 36 Suda π 2150 s.v. Πώγων, πώγωνος: Τροιζήνιος λιμὴν οὕτω καλούμενος· ὅθεν καὶ παροιμία ἐπὶ τῶν κακογενείων· ἐς Τροιζῆνα δὲ βαδίζειν (“Pogon pogonos: port of Troezen, so called; from here

  Serena Perrone Many fragments from Crates are dependent on the paroemiographic tradition. These include for example fr. 6 (a pig through roses), fr. 33 (on the aging horse), and fr. 38 (a donkey among the bees). The correspondence between the Troezen proverb and Crates’ usage of the word is not perfect, but a link seems very likely to me: pogon is not only beard but may recall also the name of the port of Troezen, the city in the Argolid. This double meaning was clear enough to produce a proverbial expression. The question is now, what could possible allusion to this port mean for Crates and his audience? During what has been termed the First Peloponnesian War, Athens acquired Troezen, perhaps in 456. But, some ten years later, in the winter of 446/445, the Thirty Years’ Peace was signed between Athens and Sparta. According to the requirements of the peace treaty, Athens was forced to cede its possessions in the Peloponnese, including Megara, Achaea and, critically for us, Troezen. The loss of this important port on the Argolid Peninsula would have had a considerable impact on Athenian military and commercial power. Therefore λιποπωγωνία, the lack of pogon, may not only mockingly refer to the condition of being devoid of beard, but also to the condition of having lost the port of Pogon, a fitting allusion to recent political affairs, with direct consequences on Athenian trade and business. This neologism may have been coined on the model of other compounds in lipo-, especially compounds relating to military dishonour, such as λιποστρατία or λιποταξία. Compounds with lipo- as the first member are quite productive in later Greek, often with a privative sense (connected with its intransitive sense “to lack, to be without”). 37 However, in most ancient compounds the transitive meaning of λείπω, “to abandon”, seems prevalent. 38 Its main semantic fields are 1. “desertion”: λιπόναυς “he who abandons his ship” Aesch. Ag. 212; λιποστρατία Hdt. 5.27.2 and in comedy (γραφὴ) λιποταξίου “(indictment for) desertion” Ar. fr. 846 (cf. Dem. 21.166 λιποταξία), Plato Com. fr. 7 and Antiph. 127.9; 2. “fainting”: λιποθυμ- in Hippocrates and λιποψυχ- in e.g. Soph. fr. 496 and in Xenarch. Com. fr. 7.12.

 also the proverb refering to one who has a poor beard: to go to Troezen”). See also Zen. II 28 and Eust. 1, p. 442.12. The proverb held for some considerable time, see Erasmus’s Adagia 1299 “naviges Troezenem”, in reference to the use of a false beard. 37 See Beekes 2010, 844, Chantraine 1968. 38 λιπόγαμος “who abandons one’s consort” and λιποπάτωρ “having left one’s father” Eur. Or. 1305, in reference to Helen, cf. Stesich. 46 λιπεσάνωρ.

Crates and the Polis: Reframing the Case  

If lipopogonia was a play on words, a post quem dating of the pun could be placed at 446 BC, the start of the Thirty Years’ Peace. There is always a risk in speculation, but perhaps there is no harm with a little more. According to the Etymologica, the title of the play from where this fragment originates is Metoikoi, “Metics” (μετρικοῖς in the Etym. Gen. is probably a case of scribal trivialization). This is the only occurrence of such a title for Crates. Metoikoi is not listed among the six plays mentioned by the Suda (test. 1). Consequently, some scholars have questioned its attribution to Crates. We know of plays entitled Metoikoi by Plato and Pherecrates. Meineke 1826, Schmidt 1946 and Bonanno 1972 — though rather more cautiously — considered whether fr. 26 could have originated from Pherecrates’ Metics rather than Crates’ Metics, grounding their reasoning in the potential confusion between the names Crates and Pherecrates (cf. e.g. Crates frr. 14, 20). However, even the attribution of a play entitled Metics to Pherecrates is far from certain: its single mention by the grammarian Apollonius Dyscolus (de pron. p. 113, 77 Sch. = GG II 1.1) has been considered a possible error, since he cited the Metics by Plato shortly prior to mentioning Pherecrates’ Metics. 39 The existence of Plato’s Metics is not doubtful, thankfully. Four fragments (frr. 80–83) from various sources (Photius, Pollux, Apollonius Dyscolus) exist. Additionally, it is mentioned among the titles list for Plato in Suda π 1708. Meineke and Kaibel suggested that there was only one play with this title that existed, and that it was written by Plato. They therefore attributed all the fragments cited under the play’s title to Plato. 40 Errors in the tradition are certainly possible, however it is equally possible that different poets wrote works with the same title. 41 Neither the fact that there is only one source for the play’s title, nor its absence from the Suda’s list are sufficient reasons for excluding the title from the ranks of Crates’ comedies. Once again the footing for supposition and speculation is unsure, but we may still interrogate further. What does the title of the Metics actually imply? Metics were a particularly large group of people in fifth-century Athens. They were immigrants, foreigners who had taken up residence in the city. They were free men but without political rights, obliged to register an Athenian citizen to act as prostates, and to pay specific taxes. 42 Athens became increasingly attractive to

 39 Kassel-Austin PCG VII p. 161; Quaglia 2001, 12. 40 Meineke 1839, 64; Kaibel apud PCG VII p. 466. 41 Plato and Crates also shared the title Heortài (Feasts). 42 For a definition of the status of a metic see Whitehead 1977, 6–10, Kamen 2013, 43ff. and Sosin 2016. The date of the creation of the metoikia is disputed; the first literary reference seems

  Serena Perrone immigrants, particularly after the Persian Wars and the establishment of its wealthy empire. Despite metics’ lower status and the existence of the stereotype that saw them only as interested in money and hateful of their own countries, 43 metics were integrated into the economic, social and religious life of the city, and played a fundamental role in the exercise of Athens’ economic and commercial power. In Aristophanes’ Acharnians (vv. 507–508) a metaphor links metics and Athenian citizens together in opposition to the xenoi present at the Dionysia: the Athenian population — astoi and metics — who participated at the Lenaea, are likened to grain that has been hulled and separated from the chaff, which is the foreigners; citizens are the flour, metics the bran. 44 Aristophanes seemingly shows a favourable attitude toward metics in other passages as well (Pax 297, Eq. 347, Lys. 580). That is not surprising, given that metics formed a substantial part of the audience in the theatre. Moreover, metics could participate at the Lenaian festival not only as spectators but also by performing as members of the chorus or acting as choregoi. 45 But while the Lenaea was seemingly inclusive, that was not the case for the City Dionysia. At the City Dionysia, metics were excluded from participating in choruses and classed as mere foreigners along with all other nonAthenian participants. 46 Cf. Sch. Ar. Plut. 953c–d Chantry, 47 Plut. Phoc. 30.6. 48 It appears that a procedures of complaint were in place and regulated by law, should a metic have participated in a chorus. This is indicated by Pseudo-Andocides’ Against Alcibiades, which refers to an episode involving Alcibiades, 49 as

 to be that in Aeschylus’ Supplices, see Tosi 2010. Wijma 2014 argues for its emergence already in the 470s on the basis of iconographic representations. 43 Lape 2010, 49ff. 44 Taillardat 19652, 392. The stress on the intimacy of the festival should be read as a response to Cleon’s accusation that Aristophanes smeared the city in front of a global audience at the Dionysia with his Babylonians in 426, see Wijma 2014, 70. 45 Cf. Lys. 12.20. Wilson 2000, 28–31. 46 For a recent synthesis see Wijma 2014, 65–85. 47 (953c) ἔπειτ’ ἐκεῖ κορυφαῖος] οὐκ ἐξῆν ξένον χορεύειν ἐν τῷ ἀστικῷ χορῷ· παρὰ τοῦτο πέπαιχεν· ἐν δὲ τῷ Ληναίῳ (“βαλανείῳ” Chantry) ἐξῆν. VEΘNBarbAld (953d) ἐπεὶ καὶ μέτοικοι ἐχορήγουν. VEΘNBarbAld. C 48 νόμου γὰρ ὄντος Ἀθήνησι τότε μὴ χορεύειν ξένον ἢ χιλίας ἀποτίνειν τὸν χορηγόν. Plutarch, while discussing Demades’ ostentatious display of wealth, states there was a law in Athens at the end of the fourth century which stipulated that no foreigner could be part of a chorus. If the law was broken the choregus would have to pay a fine of 1,000 drachmas. However, Demades presented a chorus of 100 members entirely made up of foreigners and brought 1,000 drachma fine for each of them to the theatre. 49 [And.] 4.20 (Taurea VS Alcibiades) Κελεύοντος γὰρ τοῦ νόμου τῶν χορευτῶν ἐξάγειν ὃν ἄν τις βούληται ξένον ἀγωνιζόμενον, οὐκ ἐξὸν ἐπιχειρήσαντα κωλύειν.

Crates and the Polis: Reframing the Case  

well as by Demosthenes’ Against Midia (Dem. 21.56–60). The date of the law that excluded foreigners from choruses is contested. According to Wilson 2000, this law may have been in place since the 440s. Others are of the opinion, based on Demosthenes’ speech, that the law came into force only in the fourth century (Dem. 21.147). At any rate, it is possible that an exclusion of xenoi from the choruses of the City Dionysia already existed de facto if not yet de jure by the second half of the fifth century. We are not able to date with any certainty the development of metic participation in civic festivals, but it likely coincided with political and fiscal developments in the status of metics at Athens, beginning with Pericles’ citizenship law (451/450). Pericles’ law demanded two Athenian parents for citizen status, thereby raising the requirement for citizenship and representing the loss of any prospect for status change for metics. The turn of the second half of fifth century seems to have been a period of social tension at Athens, a period of regulating various components within the polis. The debate may have concerned the inclusion and role of metics in civic and religious activities such as performance in dramatic choruses, such as at the Lenaea, which seems only to have undergone offi