Fragmente einer Geschichte der griechischen Komödie = Fragmentary history of Greek comedy 9783938032640, 3938032642

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Fragmente einer Geschichte der griechischen Komödie = Fragmentary history of Greek comedy
 9783938032640, 3938032642

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Lay_Titelei_Studia Comica_Band_5_Chronopoulos-Orth_. 22.08.15 13:13 Seite 1

Fragmente einer Geschichte der griechischen Komödie Fragmentary History of Greek Comedy

Lay_Titelei_Studia Comica_Band_5_Chronopoulos-Orth_. 22.08.15 13:13 Seite 2

Herausgegeben von Bernhard Zimmermann

Studia Comica

BAND

5

Lay_Titelei_Studia Comica_Band_5_Chronopoulos-Orth_. 22.08.15 13:13 Seite 3

Herausgegeben von / Edited by Stylianos Chronopoulos & Christian Orth

Fragmente einer Geschichte der griechischen Komödie Fragmentary History of Greek Comedy

VerlagAntike

Lay_Titelei_Studia Comica_Band_5_Chronopoulos-Orth_. 22.08.15 13:13 Seite 4

Dieser Band wurde im Rahmen der gemeinsamen Forschungsförderung von Bund und Ländern im Akademienprogramm mit Mitteln des Bundesministeriums für Bildung und Forschung und des Ministeriums für Wissenschaft, Forschung und Kultur des Landes Baden-Württemberg erarbeitet.

Bibliografische Information der Deutschen Nationalbibliothek Die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek verzeichnet diese Publikation in der Deutschen Nationalbibliografie; detaillierte bibliografische Daten sind im Internet über http://dnb.d-nb.de abrufbar.

© 2015 Verlag Antike e.K., Mainz Satz Stylianos Chronopoulos, Freiburg Einbandgestaltung disegno visuelle kommunikation, Wuppertal Einbandmotive Dionysos-Theater und Mosaik einer Komödienmaske, mit freundlicher Genehmigung des Reihenherausgebers Druck und Bindung AZ Druck, Kempten Gedruckt auf säurefreiem und alterungsbeständigem Papier Printed in Germany ISBN 978-3-938032-64-0

www.verlag-antike.de

Contents Vorwort

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Bernhard Zimmermann Periodisierungszwänge als Problem und Herausforderung der Literaturgeschichtsschreibung

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Heinz-Günther Nesselrath Zur Periodisierung der griechischen Komödie in hellenistischer (und späterer) Philologie

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S. Douglas Olson Athenaeus’ Aristophanes and the Problem of Reconstructing Lost Comedies

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Eric Csapo The Earliest Phase of ‘Comic’ Choral Entertainments in Athens: The Dionysian Pompe and the ‘Birth’ of Comedy

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Andreas Willi Epicharmus, the Pseudepicharmeia, and the Origins of Attic Drama

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Jeffrey Henderson Types and Styles of Comedy between 450 and 420

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Ioannis Konstantakos Tendencies and Variety in Middle Comedy

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Carlo Scardino / Giada Sorrentino Menander und die Komödie seiner Zeit: Einige Überlegungen

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Benjamin Millis Out of Athens: Greek Comedy at the Rural Dionysia and Elsewhere

228

Michael Fontaine Von Athen nach Rom: Von der griechischen zur römischen Komödie

250

Bibliography

279

Indices

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Vorwort Keine andere antike Gattung lässt sich in ihrer Entwicklung über mehrere Jahrhunderte so detailliert verfolgen wie die griechische Komödie. Zugleich aber ist jeder Versuch, eine Geschichte dieser Gattung zu schreiben, mit besonderen Schwierigkeiten verbunden: Die Überlieferung ist lückenhaft und ungleichmäßig verteilt, die erhaltenen Zitate aus verlorenen Stücken liefern aufgrund der spezifischen Interessen der zitierenden Autoren ein oft einseitiges Bild, unsere eigene Vorstellung von der Gattung ist stark von Kon­ struktionen antiker Philologen geprägt, und nicht zuletzt ist das überlieferte Material so komplex und vielschichtig, dass zunächst einmal umfangreiche Vorarbeiten nötig sind, um die einzelnen Texte oder archäologischen Zeugnisse überhaupt zur Rekonstruktion größerer gattungsgeschichtlicher Zusammenhänge heranziehen zu können. In unserem in Freiburg vom 2. bis 7. Juli 2012 veranstalteten Workshop „Commenting Fragments: The case of ancient Comedy“ wurden die Fragmente der griechischen Komödie auf zwei unterschiedlichen Ebenen untersucht. Im eigentlichen Workshop wurden jeden Morgen gemeinsam von Teilnehmern zur Verfügung gestellte Kommentar­Entwürfe diskutiert und dabei die methodologischen Probleme bei der Interpretation der Fragmente ebenso in den Mittelpunkt gestellt wie die Möglichkeiten, aus ihnen durch eine genaue Untersuchung auch der kleinsten Details neue Erkenntnisse zu gewinnen. Am Nachmittag wurden in einer Reihe von Vorträgen einzelne Probleme und Epochen der Gattungsgeschichte in den Blick genommen und damit der Versuch unternommen, auf der Grundlage neuer Forschungsergebnisse die Entwicklung der Komödie möglichst umfassend nachzuzeichnen. Die meisten Beiträge in diesem Band sind aus diesen Vorträgen hervorgegangen. Eine Geschichte der griechischen Komödie ist notwendigerweise eine fragmentarische Geschichte: Während immer mehr deutlich wird, dass sie sich nur dann schreiben lässt, wenn man die gesamte Überlieferung einschließlich der kleinsten Fragmente in den Blick nimmt, zeigt sich sogleich auch, dass unser Bild immer unvollständig bleiben wird, da uns nur ein kleiner – und nicht notwendig repräsentativer – Teil der Gesamtproduktion überhaupt noch zugänglich ist. Aber auch schon dieser kleine Teil genügt, um zu zeigen, dass die gesamte Produktion viel komplexer, vielfältiger und dynamischer war, als uns die traditionelle und athenozentrische Dreiteilung in Alte, Mittlere und Neue Komödie glauben machen will, und als es aus den erhaltenen Stücken von zwei Dichtern allein noch erkennbar wäre. Die Beschäftigung mit den Fragmenten kann aber auch den Blick dafür schärfen, dass letztlich auch die vollständigen Komödien von Aristophanes und Me­

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nander nichts anderes sind als Fragmente, wenn man berücksichtigt, was alles auch hier verloren ist und erst mühsam aus dem Text erschlossen werden muss (z. B. Musik, Tanz, Bühnenhandlung, der Tonfall, in dem einzelne Verse gesprochen wurden, oder die Reaktionen des Publikums). Der vorliegende Band besteht aus zwei Teilen: Die ersten drei Beiträge widmen sich Problemen der Periodisierung, der Entstehung der traditionellen Dreiteilung der Gattung in Alte, Mittlere und Neue Komödie und den besonderen Schwierigkeiten bei der Interpretation und Rekontextualisierung des fragmentarischen Materials. Im zweiten Teil wird dagegen der Versuch unternommen, in chronologischer Reihenfolge in einzelnen Kapiteln wichtige Stationen der Gattungsgeschichte zu beleuchten, von den frühesten noch vordramatischen Choraufführungen in Athen und der sizilischen Komödie Epicharms bis hin zur hellenistischen Komödienproduktion außerhalb Athens und zur römischen Komödie der republikanischen Zeit. Der Workshop und die Entstehung dieses Buchs wurden ermöglicht durch die großzügige Förderung der Heidelberger Akademie der Wissenschaften. Bernhard Zimmermann hat als Projektleiter den Workshop in jeder erdenklichen Weise unterstützt. Entscheidend für das Gelingen der Tagung waren aber nicht zuletzt die intensiven Diskussionen, für die wir allen Teilnehmern ganz herzlich danken – denen, die ihre Beiträge für diesen Band zur Verfügung gestellt haben, ebenso wie denen, die in den Sitzungen am Morgen ihre Kommentare präsentiert und mit ihren Ideen die Diskussion bereichert haben.

Freiburg i. Br. im August 2015 Stylianos Chronopoulos / Christian Orth

Periodisierungszwänge als Problem und Herausforderung der Literaturgeschichtsschreibung Bernhard Zimmermann

Wer sich wissenschaftlich mit Vergangenheit beschäftigt – sei es als Historiker, sei es als Literaturwissenschaftler –, sieht sich der Notwendigkeit ausgesetzt, das zeitliche Kontinuum zu unterteilen, zunächst – die auf den ersten Blick meist leichtere Aufgabe1 – durch einen Anfang, sodann – dies stellt schon höhere argumentative Anforderungen2 – durch einen Endpunkt, bevor man die Zeit zwischen Anfang und dem Endpunkt in weitere Abschnitte unterteilt. Die Einschnitte, die man setzt, sind stets, auch wenn man dies eigentlich nicht will, von inhaltlichen Überlegungen bestimmt und durch eine Fragestellung oder eine Perspektive geprägt, aus der man die Vergangenheit betrachtet. Es kommt hinzu, daß jede Segmentierung von Zeit, die wir vornehmen, immer in einer Tradition steht, der man entweder folgt oder mit der man sich kritisch auseinandersetzt. Jede Periodisierung, jede Unterteilung eines längeren Zeitabschnitts in einzelne Segmente, lädt die so hergestellte zeitliche Einheit mit Sinn auf und gibt ihr eine Bedeutung, durch die sie sich von der vorhergehenden und kommenden Zeit unterscheidet.3 Und selbst wenn man in der Beschreibung der einzelnen Perioden wertende, oft metaphorische4 Epitheta ornantia wie ‚archaisch‘, ‚klassisch‘,5 ‚silbern‘ und anderes mehr vermeidet und sich nur 1

2

3

4 5

‚Leichtere Aufgabe‘ bezieht sich nur auf Literaturgeschichtsschreibung, insbesondere auf die griechische und römische, da in diesen Fällen der Beginn mit den homerischen Epen und Livius Andronicus feststeht. Kompliziert wird es jedoch, sobald man vorliterarische Formen in die Überlegung einbezieht. Man denke nur an die kontrovers in extenso diskutierte Frage, wann die griechische oder lateinische Literatur der Antike endet; vgl. Fuhrmann (1994: 55–58), Hose (1999: 236), Zimmermann (2011: V­VII). Vgl. Walter (2000: 576): Bei einer Periodisierung werden größere geschichtliche Abschnitte „gegenüber dem gleichförmigen Fortschreiten der Zeit so mit Sinn aufgeladen, daß sie unter dem gewählten Aspekt jeweils eine Einheit (Periode, Epoche, Zeitalter) bilden“. Ein Überblick über die verschiedenen Theorien findet sich bei van der Pot (1999). Vgl. Demandt (1978). Die Wertungen, die bei den einzelnen Epitheta mitklingen, können je nach dem kulturellem Umfeld, aus dem ein Interpret kommt, und nach der Sprache, in der

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auf die schmucklose Angabe der Jahreszahlen beschränkt, also über „Die griechische Literatur zwischen dem 7. und 5. Jahrhundert v. Chr.“ oder „Die attische Komödie des 5. Jahrhunderts v. Chr.“ schreibt, wertet man, da man einen Epocheneinschnitt nolens volens ansetzt und im Fortschreiten der Zeit ohnehin eine Entwicklung mitgedacht wird – sei es zum Besseren, sei es zum Schlechteren. So sollte angesichts dieser methodisch nicht einfachen Ausgangslage die Aufgabe des literaturwissenschaftlich arbeitenden Philologen oder des philologisch denkenden Literaturwissenschaftlers zunächst darin bestehen, sich die Kriterien bewußt zu machen, die ihn bei der zeitlichen Periodisierung des zur Verfügung stehenden Materials leiten. Als eine Art ‚Kriterienkatalog‘ der Periodisierung lassen sich aus neueren Arbeiten folgende Punkte zusammenstellen:6 1. Es muß strikt induktiv vorgegangen werden. Auf der Basis der erhaltenen literarischen Zeugnisse müssen typische Merkmale herausgearbeitet werden, die die Texte eines bestimmten Zeitabschnitts auch über die Gattungsgrenzen hinweg gemeinsam aufweisen (‚Epochenmerkmale‘). Die Gemeinsamkeiten können im sprachlichen, stilistischen oder formalen Bereich, aber auch in der Vorliebe für gewisse Motive oder – zugegebenermaßen ein schwer faßbarer Begriff – in der ‚Weltsicht‘ der Autoren liegen. Historische Epochenabgrenzungen wie Todesjahre von Herrschern oder militärische Ereignisse von vornherein auf die Literaturgeschichte anzuwenden kann die Sicht auf die eigenständige, oft von historischen Einschnitten unabhängige Entwicklung der Literatur verstellen, obwohl in einem zweiten Schritt natürlich überprüft werden muß, ob die literarischen Gemeinsamkeiten in der politischen Geschichte ihre Entsprechungen finden und ob bestimmte historische Ereignisse die Literatur gravierend beeinflußt haben. 2. Als wichtigstes Kriterium bei der Abgrenzung und Beschreibung einer literarischen Epoche muß das ‚Epochenbewußtsein‘ gelten, das sich häufig in einem oft rücksichtslosen Bruch mit den Vorgängern äußert. Im Eröffnungssatz von Dichtung und Wahrheit (1811) hat J. W. von Goethe dies prägnant

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er schreibt, verschieden sein. Die Bezeichnung ‚archaisch‘ schleppt im Deutschen seit Nietzsche einen Ballast von Konnotationen mit und strahlt die Faszination des Ursprungs aus, ‚klassisch‘ läßt einen deutschsprachigen Interpreten an die Weimarer Klassik und das in dieser Zeit entwickelte Griechenlandverständnis mitdenken. Vgl. Most (1989) und Überblick bei Walter (1998). Die folgenden Ausführungen basieren vorwiegend auf Barner (1987) sowie auf Meier (1987), außerdem auf Fuhrmann (1974) und Fuhrmann (1994: 15–18, 38–42). Vgl. außerdem Göbel (2013).

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ausgedrückt: „Die literarische Epoche, in der ich geboren bin, entwickelte sich aus der vorhergehenden durch Widerspruch.“ 3. Der Bruch mit der Tradition und die Ablehnung der als ablösungsreif angesehenen Vorgänger sollte jedoch nicht nur bei einem einzelnen Autor festgestellt werden, sondern sich auch in einer Generation bei mehreren Gleichgesinnten nachweisen lassen. Ein wichtiges Indiz für dieses ‚Gruppenbewußtsein‘ ist der Zusammenschluß von Literaten in Bewegungen und Dichterkreisen, die eine mehr oder weniger stark ausgeprägte innere Struktur aufweisen können. 4. Mit dem Zusammenschluß von Dichtern in Zirkeln sind häufig ein bestimmtes ästhetisches Programm und eine literarische Theorie verbunden, die nicht nur die eigene dichterische Produktion, sondern auch die Ablehnung der Vorgänger begründen sollte. Dieses Programm kann in einem poetologischen Lehrbuch entwickelt werden, wie dies Horaz in der Ars poetica tut; es kann jedoch als ‚implizite Poetik’ in den Werken selbst anklingen. Die Aufnahme in diese elitären Kreise hängt entscheidend davon ab, inwieweit ein Autor den Anforderungen des Programms entspricht. 5. Als Resultat der Ablehnung der Tradition und der Entwicklung eines literarischen Programms ist eine Umorientierung hinsichtlich der literarischen Vorbilder festzustellen, an denen man seine Werke gemessen wissen will (‚Paradigmenwechsel‘). 6. Der Paradigmenwechsel kann (muß aber nicht) durch politische Ereignisse beeinflußt oder ausgelöst werden. Zu diesen sechs allgemeinen literaturwissenschaftlichen Kriterien kommen bei der Epochenabgrenzung der griechischen Literatur drei weitere wichtige Gesichtspunkte hinzu:7 1. der institutionelle Aspekt, das heißt: für welche gesellschaftlichen Gruppen oder Einrichtungen wurde Literatur verfaßt, durch welche Institutionen wurde sie verbreitet und welche Funktion(en) hatte Literatur inne (‚Sitz im Leben‘ der Literatur)? 2. der mediale Aspekt, der teilweise sehr eng mit dem institutionellen Gesichtspunkt verbunden ist. Das heißt: auf welche Art und Weise (mündlich oder schriftlich) und durch welche Medien wurde Literatur verbreitet? 3. Weit stärker, als dies bei der lateinischen Literatur der Fall ist, ist die griechische durch die ‚Gleichzeitigkeit des Ungleichzeitigen‘ bestimmt. In einer bestimmten Periode finden sich also Formen und Elemente, die eigentlich als typisch für die vorhergehende8 oder die folgende literarische Epoche 7 8

Vgl. dazu Hose (1999: 13–15). In diesem Fall spricht man in der Regel von ‚archaisierenden Tendenzen‘, vgl. Zimmermann (1989).

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angesehen werden. Diese Überlappungen von Epochen dürften ihre Ursache darin haben, daß die griechische Welt durch eine Vielzahl kultureller Zentren mit unterschiedlichen gesellschaftlichen Strukturen und Regierungsformen geprägt ist, die wiederum unterschiedlichen kulturellen Einflüssen ausgesetzt waren. Daß diese Sicht nicht ein moderner Zugriff auf die Geschichte der griechischen Literatur ist, zeigt Platons Darstellung der lyrischen Formen (εἴδη καὶ σχήματα) in den Nomoi (700a1–701b3). Platon unterscheidet zwei Perioden: in einer ersten Phase (700a9 τότε) hatten diese Formen einen festen Sitz im Leben in einem kultischen Rahmen und in der traditionellen Paideia. Im Verlauf der Zeit jedoch (700d2–3 μετὰ δὲ ταῦτα, προιόντος τοῦ χρόνου) ließen sich die Dichter in einer ‚unmusischen Gesetzlosigkeit‘ (ἄμουσος παρανομία), ohne Rücksicht auf die Normen und ohne Kenntnis der Regeln der Poesie in dionysischem Überschwang dazu hinreißen, die Formen miteinander zu vermischen, sie also ihrer kultisch­religiösen Funktion zu berauben. Auf Seite des Publikums führte dies dazu, daß die Zuschauer und Zuhörer nunmehr lauthals ihre Zustimmung oder Ablehnung kundtaten und daß eine Theatrokratie, die Herrschaft des Publikumsgeschmacks, die alte, von Leuten von guter Herkunft und einer demensprechenden Bildung, den καλοὶ κἀγαθοί, gepflegte Art der Dichtung vertrieb (vgl. auch Aristophanes, Frösche 728 f.). Dichtung wird säkularisiert, Dichtung wird vom religiösen zum ästhetischen Gegenstand. Platons Periodisierung der Geschichte der μουσική τέχνη, der Dichtkunst insgesamt, in zwei Phasen eröffnet zugleich einen Zugang zu der Geschichte oder Entwicklung der einzelnen chorlyrischen Gattungen, zu denen letztlich als attische Sonderform auch das Drama zählt. Während der Literaturhistoriker bei der Abgrenzung von Epochen synchron vorgeht und versucht, aus der Zusammenschau aller literarischer Zeugnisse eines bestimmten Zeitraums die Charakteristika einer Epoche zu bestimmen, hat die Darstellung einer Gattungsgeschichte zunächst notwendigerweise einen diachronen Zugriff, der durch die synchrone Perspektive bei der Epochenabgrenzung gestützt werden sollte. Bei dieser Betrachtungsweise werden die einzelnen Gattungen und Formen gleichsam zu Zeugen, zu Fallbeispielen der jeweiligen Epoche. Solange man einen funktionsgeschichtlichen Blick auf die Gattungen hat, lassen sich Epochenabgrenzung und Gattungsgeschichte durchaus miteinander vereinbaren. Dies zeigen die Passage aus Platons Nomoi ebenso wie die Frösche des Aristophanes, der wie Platon eine Dichotomie von einst und jetzt vornimmt und der alten Tragödie nach Art des Aischylos eine moderne im Geist des Euripides entgegenstellt und den beiden Polen entgegengesetzte politisch­didaktische Funktionen zuweist: die alte Tragödie erzog die Athe-

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ner zu wehrhaften Polisbürgern, während die moderne aus ihnen rhetorisch geschulte, nur auf ihren eigenen Vorteil bedachte Kleinbürger macht.9 Schwieriger wird es, Epochengrenzen mit der Gattungsgeschichte zu korrelieren, wenn man andere als politisch­funktionsgeschichtliche Perspektiven bei der Betrachtung einer literarischen Gattung einnimmt. Das bekannteste – und umstrittenste Beispiel – ist die Gattungsgeschichte der Tragödie in deraristotelischen Poetik, in der unter einer teleologischen Perspektive anthropologische und psychologische, kultisch­religionsgeschichtliche und formale sowie institutionelle und performative Aspekte nebeneinanderstehen.10 Gehen wir vor diesem allgemeinen Hintergrund zu den Periodisierungsfragen der attischen Komödie über. Die Dominanz der funktionsgeschichtlich­politischen Betrachtungsweise, die seit dem 4. Jahrhundert v. Chr. bis in die Gegenwart vorherrscht, führt zur allbekannten, die Handbücher beherrschenden Dreiteilung in Alte, Mittlere und Neue Komödie mit entsprechenden Epitheta und Prädikationen:11 die Archaia sei politisch, geprägt durch namentliche Verspottung bekannter Persönlichkeiten des öffentlichen Lebens, geschrieben in einer derben Sprache und reich an Obszönitäten; die Nea sei unpolitisch, der sprachliche Stil ausgeglichen, den Seelenzuständen der dramatis personae angemessen, die Handlung sei in sich geschlossen. Da eine Zweiteilung ein Mittleres erfordert, schuf man nach Menanders Tod die seltsame Form der Mese als Durchgangstal zwischen den beiden Gipfeln Aristophanes und Menander – die Frage, welcher Gipfel höher ist, hängt vom jeweiligen Standpunkt ab  –  und packte in sie Elemente beider Eckpunkte hinein, weniger politisch, weniger obszön und derb, dafür mehr mythologisch und bereits auf dem Weg ins Private. Es ist offensichtlich, daß die Zwei­ oder Dreiteilung von den Stücken der beiden Großen, von Aristophanes und Menander, geprägt war – in der Moderne vorwiegend durch deren erhaltene Stücke. Eine Änderung des Blickwinkels ist erst seit den 90er Jahren des letzten Jahrhunderts feststellbar, 9

10 11

Zu dem in den Fröschen zum Ausdruck kommenden Bewußtsein, an einer Epochenschwelle zu stehen, vgl. Zimmermann (2006: 136–141). Die Dichotomie von ‚einst‘ und ‚jetzt‘, wobei die Vergangenheit in der Regel positiv bewertet wird, ist typisch für die Komödie des 5. Jahrhunderts, vgl. Zimmermann (2011: 703–705). Eine Gegenüberstellung von alter und moderner Dithyrambik findet sich in den Vögeln in der Person des anonymen traditionellen Chorlyrikers in der Manier des Simonides (904–958) und des Kinesias (1372–1409); vgl. Zimmermann (2008: 117–120). Vgl. Zimmermann (2009). Vgl. dazu ausführlich Nesselrath (1990) und den Beitrag von Nesselrath in diesem Band; Zimmermann (2011: 671).

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nachdem in den Jahren nach 1983 Rudolf Kassels und Colin Austins Poetae Comici Graeci in regelmäßiger Abfolge erschienen und das fragmentarische Material auf solider Basis zugänglich machten. Kassel und Austins Ausgabe der Komikerfragmente und Heinz­Günther Nesselraths Untersuchung zur Mittleren Komödie veränderten allmählich den Blickwinkel. Statt eine strikte Epochenabgrenzung zwischen Alter, Mittlerer und Neuer Komödie vorzunehmen, spricht man heute eher von gleitenden Übergängen und von parallel verlaufenden Entwicklungen, und neuere Arbeiten zeigen immer deutlicher die ‚Gleichzeitigkeit des Unzeitgleichen‘, die Koexistenz verschiedener komischer Spielformen schon im 5 Jahrhundert, die man nach der communis opinio erst später ansetzte, sowie das Vorhandensein von Charakteristika, die man als auf eine frühere Phase beschränkt ansah, in späteren Phasen der Gattungsgeschichte.12 Wenn man eine literarische Gattung nicht als festgefügtes System ansieht, sondern als ein Zusammenspiel von Subdominanten und Dominanten, die dem jeweiligen Stück ein je individuelles Aussehen geben, liegt es auf der Hand, daß unverschiebbare Grenzen und feste Fixierungen auf bestimmte formale und inhaltliche Elemente fehlschlagen müssen. Ein starres Korsett der einzelnen Phasen, in das die Stücke gepreßt werden, entspricht übrigens in keiner Weise der Auffassung der Komödiendichter des 5. Jahrhunderts. In dem agonalen Dialog,13 in dem sie sich mit ihren Rivalen auseinandersetzen und in dem sie sich vor allem von ihnen distanzieren, werden sie nicht müde, die Besonderheiten, besonders die Qualitäten ihrer Stücke von denen der Rivalen abzusetzen und darauf zu verweisen, was sie Neues zur Gattung beigetragen haben.14 In seiner kurzen Geschichte der attischen Komödie gibt Aristophanes in den Rittern (520–540) sozusagen ein Verzeichnis der Dominanten im Werk seines Rivalen Kratinos und seiner Vorgänger Magnes und Krates: musikalischer Reichtum und Buntheit der Kostümierung bei Magnes, dionysisch­lyrische Urgewalt in den Liedern des Kratinos, Nüchternheit in den Komödien des Krates. Die Liste ließe sich schon bei der Durchsicht der erhaltenen Stücke leicht ergänzen, aus den Parabasen, aber auch aus anderen Passagen ließe sich ebenso leicht ein Katalog von Dominanten zusammenstellen, mit denen Aristophanes sein Werk voller Stolz beschreibt.15

12 13 14

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Vgl. dazu Csapo (2000), Olson (2007: 24), Zimmermann (2011: 671). Der Begriff geht auf Biles (2002: 176, 185) zurück; vgl. Ruffell (2002). Heath (1990: 152, 156) spricht vom „comic repertoire“, von einem Repertoire von komischen Elementen, Techniken, Strukturen, Witzen und Inhalten, das die Komödiendichter ständig erweiterten, revidierten, um­ und weiterschrieben. Vgl. Zimmermann (2011: 792–794).

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Der Weg, um die Gattungsgeschichte der attischen Komödie umzuschreiben, ist dornig, da er nicht – oder jedenfalls nicht in erster Linie – über die Hauptstraße der erhaltenen Stücke des Aristophanes und Menander führt, sondern über die holprigen Nebenwege der Fragmente dieser beiden Dichter, aber vor allem über die anderen, als minores bezeichneten Komiker. Die Form, um sich diesen schwer erschließbaren Texten anzunähern, kann nur die des kommentierenden Erschließens sein, das Profile der anderen Dichter neben Menander und Aristophanes allmählich entstehen lassen kann. Von dieser methodischen Auffassung läßt sich unser Projekt „Kommentierung der Fragmente der griechischen Komiker“ leiten, von dieser Überzeugung ging auch die Konzeption der Tagung „Commenting Fragments: the Case of Ancient Greek Comedy“ aus, die vom 2. bis 7. Juli 2012 an der Albert­ Ludwigs­Universität Freiburg stattfand. Die vormittäglichen Workshops, in denen exemplarisch an den Fragmenten der Komödiendichter gearbeitet wurde, und die nachmittäglichen Vorträge, die in diesem Band nun vorliegen, sind Ausdruck der Einheit von kommentierender Arbeit am Text und Interpretation auf der Basis der Kommentare.

Zur Periodisierung der griechischen Komödie in hellenistischer (und späterer) Philologie Heinz-Günther Nesselrath

1. Gab es überhaupt eine Periodisierung der griechischen Komödie in hellenistischer Philologie?1 Der älteste uns noch bekannte Rückblick auf frühere Komödiendichter findet sich in den 424 v. Chr. aufgeführten Rittern des Aristophanes, wo der Dichter in der Parabase auf seine Vorgänger Magnes, Kratinos und Krates (V. 518– 540) zurückblickt. Etwa hundert Jahre später bietet dann Aristoteles die erste Periodisierung der Komödiengeschichte. Er kennt nur zwei Arten von Komödien: alte und neue.2 In der Nikomachischen Ethik heißt es dazu im Rahmen von Bemerkungen über verschiedene Arten menschlichen Scherzens: „Das Scherzen des Menschen mit freiheitlichem Charakter unterscheidet sich von 1

2

Um zu hohen Erwartungen an die folgenden Ausführungen vorzubeugen, sei schon hier betont, dass es nicht darum gehen wird, eine reale Dreiteilung der attischen Komödiengeschichte des 5. bis 3. Jh.s v. Chr. zu begründen, sondern darum, das Zustandekommen und die Eigenarten antiker Sichtweisen einer solchen Periodisierung darzulegen (wobei ich mich in allem Wesentlichen an dem orientiere, was ich bereits in der ersten Hälfte von Nesselrath 1990 dargelegt habe). Csapo (2000: 115–121) hat antiken Versuchen, solche Periodisierungen vorzunehmen, ein fundamentum in re mehr oder weniger völlig abgesprochen; aber wenn es auch zutrifft, dass Wissenschaft sich ihren Gegenstand oft durch eine entsprechende Betrachtung erst selbst schafft, so ist doch – wenn es nicht um völlig haltlose Spekulationen geht – immer ein Material vorhanden, aufgrund dessen eine bestimmte Betrachtungsweise entwickelt wird, und wir können nicht einfach antiken Gelehrten die Fundierung ihrer Ansichten in einem solchen Material absprechen, nur weil wir es selber nicht mehr haben. Csapos Argumentationen kommen einer solchen General­Negation zum Teil gefährlich nahe. Zu dem Versuch von Janko (1984), Aristoteles mit Hilfe des Tractatus Coislinianus eine Dreiteilung der Komödie zuzuschreiben, vgl. Nesselrath (1990: 102–149). Der Tractatus lässt sich nicht vollständig auf Aristoteles zurückführen, denn es gibt Widersprüche in ihm zu aristotelischen Gedanken (vgl. Nesselrath 1990: 106–130), und es gibt auch Nacharistotelisches (vgl. Nesselrath 1990: 130–145). Die Komödiendreiteilung am Ende des Tractatus hat daher ihren Ursprung wahrscheinlich „in rhetorischem Schrifttum mit peripatetischer Ausrichtung“ (Nesselrath 1990: 149).

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dem des Menschen mit Sklavencharakter, und das des Gebildeten von dem des Ungebildeten. Man dürfte dies auch an den alten Komödien und an den neuen sehen: Für jene war schmutzig­unzüchtiges Reden Lachen erzeugend, für diese dagegen eher die doppelsinnige Anspielung; diese Dinge unterscheiden sich aber nicht wenig in Bezug auf Schicklichkeit.“3 Auch in der Poetik deutet Aristoteles immerhin an zwei Stellen an, dass es eine Entwicklung in der Komödiengeschichte gab und mithin die „neueren“ attischen Komödien anders aussehen als die älteren. In Kap. 5 geht es um die Entwicklung einer zusammenhängenden Handlung gegenüber unzusammenhängenden Präsentationen von Spott: „Die Komödie blieb anfänglich im Dunkeln, weil sie nicht ernsthaft betrieben wurde ... Das Schaffen von Handlungssträngen kam ursprünglich aus Sizilien; von den Dichtern in Athen begann Krates als erster damit, die jambische Art aufzugeben und sinnvoll zusammenhängende Handlungen allgemeinen Charakters zu erfinden.“4 In Kap. 9 weist Aristoteles darauf hin, dass die Komödie, was die Darstellung fiktiver Handlungen betrifft, inzwischen sogar weiter ist als die Tragödie: „Bei der Komödie ist dies nun schon deutlich geworden; denn ihre Dichter fügen die Handlung nach den Regeln der Wahrscheinlichkeit zusammen und geben vor diesem Hintergrund den Personen dann (zufällig) erfundene Namen, und sie bauen nicht wie die Iambendichter ihre Dichtung um bestimmte Individuen herum.“5 Auch diesen Gedanken dürfte implizit die Vorstellung einer Entwicklung von etwas „Älterem“ zu etwas „Neuerem“ zugrundeliegen: Der ältere Zustand war der noch nicht oder nur wenig in eine durchgehende Bühnenhandlung einbezogenen Spotts gegen konkrete Personen, der neuere der einer durchkonstruierten lustigen Handlung mit fiktiv dazu erdachten Personen; dazwischen sind – im Rahmen eines evolutionären Prozesses – Übergangsformen denkbar, die aber von Aristoteles nicht thematisiert werden. Erst wenn solche Zwischenformen profiliertere eigene Konturen gewinnen, können sie als 3

4

5

EN IV 14 p. 1128a20–25: τοῦ ἐλευθερίου παιδιὰ διαφέρει τῆς τοῦ ἀνδραποδώδους, καὶ πεπαιδευμένου καὶ ἀπαιδεύτου. ἴδοι δ’ ἄν τις καὶ ἐκ τῶν κωμῳδιῶν τῶν παλαιῶν καὶ τῶν καινῶν· τοῖς μὲν γὰρ ν γελοῖον αἰσχρολογία, τοῖς δὲ μᾶλλον ὑπόνοια· διαφέρει δ’ οὐ μικρὸν ταῦτα πρὸς εὐσχημοσύνην. Poetik 5 p. 1449a38­b9: δὲ κωμῳδία διὰ τὸ μὴ (b1) σπουδάζεσθαι ἐξ ἀρχῆς ἔλαθεν· ... τὸ δὲ μύθους ποιεῖν {Ἐπίχαρμος καὶ Φόρμις} τὸ μὲν ἐξ ἀρχῆς ἐκ Σικελίας λθε, τῶν δὲ Ἀθήνησιν Κράτης πρῶτος ρξεν ἀφέμενος τῆς ἰαμβικῆς ἰδέας καθόλου ποιεῖν λόγους καὶ μύθους. Poetik 9 p. 1451b11–15: ἐπὶ μὲν οὖν τῆς κωμῳδίας δη τοῦτο δῆλον γέγονεν· συστήσαντες γὰρ τὸν μῦθον διὰ τῶν εἰκότων οὕτω τὰ τυχόντα ὀνόματα ὑποτιθέασιν, καὶ οὐχ ὥσπερ οἱ ἰαμβοποιοὶ περὶ τὸν καθ’ ἕκαστον ποιοῦσιν.

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eigene Epoche verstanden werden; wenn sich also zwischen „alt“ und „neu“ ein deutlicheres „mittleres“ abzuzeichnen beginnt, können sich auch Vorstellungen von einer Dreiteilung der attischen Komödie entwickeln.6 Nun sind die ältesten sicher datierbaren Bezeugungen einer solchen Dreiteilung in „alte“, „mittlere“ und „neue“ Komödie erst bei Autoren des 2. Jh.s n. Chr. anzutreffen. Der wohl erste Beleg findet sich in der Sprichwörtersammlung des unter Kaiser Hadrian (117–138 n. Chr.) wirkenden Grammatikers Zenobios, der zu der sprichwörtlichen Redensart „Ich werde alles wie Nikostratos7 machen“ notierte: „Verwendet ist das Sprichwort bei Eubulos, dem Dichter der Mittleren Komödie.“8 Hier ist also zum ersten Mal in der uns erhaltenen antiken Literatur von einer „Mittleren“ Komödie die Rede. Die nächste Bezeugung findet sich um die Mitte des 2. Jh.s in den Florida des Apuleius, und zwar in der Partie, die dem Komödiendichter Philemon gewidmet ist: „Ein Dichter war dieser Philemon, ein Autor der Mittleren Komödie; zur gleichen Zeit wie Menander verfasste er Stücke für die Bühne und wetteiferte mit ihm, vielleicht ihm unterlegen, sicher aber ein ernstzunehmender Rivale.“9 Ein weiterer Zeuge aus dieser Zeit ist kein Geringerer als Kaiser Marc Aurel, der in seinen Selbstbetrachtungen folgende Gedanken zur Entwicklung des attischen Dramas notierte: „Zuerst wurden die Tragödien eingeführt, als Vergegenwärtigung (für die Zuschauer) der Dinge, die geschehen, und dass diese Dinge natürlicherweise so geschehen und dass man über das, wovon man sich auf der Bühne bezaubern lässt, auf der ‚größeren Bühne‘ nicht unwillig sein darf ... (2) Nach der Tragödie wurde die Alte Komödie eingeführt; sie hatte eine pädagogisch wirkende Freimütigkeit und ermahnte auf nützliche Weise zur Freiheit von Dünkel gerade durch ihre unverblümte Sprache; zu solchem Zweck übernahm auch Diogenes diese Gepflogenheiten. Was danach nun die Mittlere Komödie war und zu welchem Zweck schließlich die Neue Komödie eingeführt wurde, die bald in darstellerische Künste6

7

8

9

So war ja auch die Vorstellung eines europäischen „Mittelalters“ erst möglich, als die europäische Neuzeit eine distinkte Vorstellung von sich selbst entwickelte und zugleich über die ihr vorangehende Zeit hinweg sich bewusst und gezielt auf die Antike zurückzubesinnen begann. Nikostratos war ein tragischer Schauspieler des späteren 5. und frühen 4. Jh.s v. Chr., der für sein vorzügliches Spiel sprichwörtlich wurde; vgl. O’Connor (1908: 122 f. [Nr. 368]). Zenob. Ath. I 42: Ἐγὼ ποιήσω πάντα κατὰ Νικόστρατον. εἴρηται παροιμία παρ’ Εὐβούλῳ [Eub. fr. 134] τῷ τῆς μέσης κωμῳδίας ποιητῇ. Apul. Flor. 16 p. 24,7 Helm: Poeta fuit hic Philemon, mediae comoediae scriptor, fabulas cum Menandro in scaenam dictauit certauitque cum eo, fortasse impar, certe aemulus.

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leien ausartete, darauf besinne man sich. Zwar ist bekannt, dass auch von diesen (Dramenformen) manche nützliche Wahrheit ausgesprochen wird; aber der ganze Zugriff dieser so gearteten Dichtung und Dramenschöpfung – auf welches Ziel blickt er eigentlich?“10 Ungeachtet der Vorbehalte, die der philosophierende Kaiser gegenüber den beiden späteren Komödienformen durchblicken lässt, ist hier zum ersten Mal die Dreiteilung der Komödie mit allen Epochen explizit präsentiert. In den letzten Jahrzehnten des 2. Jh.s erweist sich die Dreiteilung der attischen Komödie bei dem Buntschriftsteller Athenaios von Naukratis und dem Lexikographen Iulius Pollux / Polydeukes fest etabliert. Bei Athenaios ist insgesamt siebenmal von Mittlerer Komödie die Rede.11 An fünf dieser Stellen soll der Hinweis, dass ein Dichter zur „Mittleren Komödie“ gehörte, seiner besseren Identifikation dienen;12 dabei lässt das textliche Umfeld der jeweiligen Stelle oft erkennen, dass Athenaios aus älteren Quellen schöpft, die wahrscheinlich auch die Einordnung des Dichters in die Mittlere Komödie mitgeliefert haben: Bei der Zitierung von Versen des Dichters Mnesimachos (Ath. VII 329d; Mnesim. fr. 4,40 f.) vermerkt Athenaios zum Beginn des zweiten Verses eine Variante, mit der Dorotheos von Askalon, ein Grammatiker wahrscheinlich der frühen Kaiserzeit, in seiner „Sammlung von Wörtern“ (λέξεων συναγωγή) diese Stelle zitiert habe.13 Wenn man sich 10

11 12

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Marc Aurel, Ad se ipsum XI 6: (1) Πρῶτον αἱ τραγῳδίαι παρήχθησαν ὑπομνηστικαὶ τῶν συμβαινόντων καὶ ὅτι ταῦτα οὕτως πέφυκε γίνεσθαι καὶ ὅτι, οἷς ἐπὶ τῆς σκηνῆς ψυχαγωγεῖσθε, τούτοις μὴ ἄχθεσθε ἐπὶ τῆς μείζονος σκηνῆς· ... (2) μετὰ δὲ τὴν τραγῳδίαν ἀρχαία κωμῳδία παρήχθη, παιδαγωγικὴν παρρησίαν ἔχουσα καὶ τῆς ἀτυφίας οὐκ ἀχρήστως δι’ αὐτῆς τῆς εὐθυρρημοσύνης ὑπομιμνῄσκουσα· πρὸς οἷόν τι καὶ Διογένης ταυτὶ παρελάμβανεν. μετὰ ταῦτα τίς μέση κωμῳδία καὶ λοιπὸν νέα πρὸς τί ποτε παρείληπται, κατ’ ὀλίγον ἐπὶ τὴν ἐκ μιμήσεως φιλοτεχνίαν ὑπερρύη, ἐπίστησον. ὅτι μὲν γὰρ λέγεται καὶ ὑπὸ τούτων τινὰ χρήσιμα οὐκ ἀγνοεῖται, ἀλλὰ ὅλη ἐπιβολὴ τῆς τοιαύτης ποιήσεως καὶ δραματουργίας πρὸς τίνα ποτὲ σκοπὸν ἀπέβλεψεν; Genaue Besprechung der sieben Stellen bei Nesselrath (1990: 68–78). Ath. VII 293a: Σωτάδης δ’, οὐχ ὁ τῶν Ἰωνικῶν ᾀσμάτων ποιητὴς ὁ Μαρωνίτης, ἀλλ’ ὁ τῆς μέσης κωμῳδίας ...; Ath. VII 329d: ... Μνησίμαχος ἐν Ἱπποτρόφῳ (ποιητὴς δ’ ἐστὶν οὗτος τῆς μέσης κωμῳδίας) ...; Ath. IX 387a: Μνησίμαχος δ’ ἐν Φιλίππῳ (εἷς δὲ καὶ οὗτός ἐστι τῆς μέσης κωμῳδίας ποιητῶν); Ath. X 422 f.: Ἐπικράτης ὁ Ἀμβρακιώτης (μέσης δ’ ἐστὶ κωμῳδίας ποιητής) ...; Ath. XIII 587d: Νικόστρατος δὲ ὁ τῆς μέσης κωμῳδίας ποιητής ... Ath. VII 329d: μνημονεύει αὐτοῦ Μνησίμαχος ἐν Ἱπποτρόφῳ (ποιητὴς δ’ ἐστὶν οὗτος τῆς μέσης κωμῳδίας)· λέγει δ’ οὕτως· „μύλλος, λεβίας, σπάρος, αἰολίας, / θρᾷττα, χελιδών, καρίς, τευθίς.“ Δωρόθεος δ’ ὁ Ἀσκαλωνίτης ἐν τῷ ὀγδόῳ πρὸς τοῖς ἑκατὸν τῆς λέξεων συναγωγῆς θέτταν γράφει, τοι μαρτημένῳ πε-

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fragt, wie Athenaios an diese Information gelangte, ist die wahrscheinlichste Antwort, dass er sie einer lexikographischen Quelle entnehmen konnte, in der sowohl die Verse als auch die von Dorotheos bevorzugte Variante verzeichnet waren. Es spricht auch sehr viel dafür, dass in dieser Quelle auch die Epochenzuweisung zur Mittleren Komödie enthalten war.14 Ähnliches lässt sich über das Umfeld der Stelle im 13. Buch sagen, in der der Komödiendichter Nikostratos als Vertreter der Mittleren Komödie ausgewiesen wird (587d): Diese Stelle fungiert hier als Beleg für eine Hetäre namens Okimon, und ihr Umfeld bilden weitere Ausführungen über Hetären, in denen Komiker­ und Rednerzitate kombiniert sind; dabei könnten die Komikerzitate auf die ganz in der Nähe (nämlich in 586a) des Nikostratos­Zitats genannte Schrift über Κωμῳδούμενοι (d. h. „Leute, die in der Komödie verspottet werden“) zurückgehen, die Herodikos von Babylon, ein Autor des 2. Jh.s v. Chr., verfasst hat. Auch hier ist die Wahrscheinlichkeit hoch, dass die Einordnung des Nikostratos in die Mittlere Komödie auf die hier benutzte Quelle und vielleicht eben auf den genannten Herodikos zurückgeht.15 Ein weiterer Autor einer Schrift über Κωμῳδούμενοι wird von Athenaios im 11. Buch angeführt (482c) und zwar zu einem Exkurs (zu einem Mann namens Euripides, der aber nicht der Tragödiendichter war) innerhalb des Kapitels κυμβία („kleine Becher“) im Rahmen des großen alphabetisch aufgebauten Gefäßekatalogs, den dieses 11. Buch des Athenaios bietet. Für diesen Exkurs wird als Quelle „Antiochos von Alexandria (in seiner Schrift) über die in der Mittleren Komödie Verspotteten“ genannt.16 Es ist eher unwahrscheinlich, dass Athenaios die Schrift des Antiochos17 selbst eingesehen hat; er könnte sie aber in einem „Stück kommentierender Komödien­Erklärung“18 gefunden haben, das innerhalb eines ὑπόμνημα des großen Sammlers Didy-

14

15 16

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ριτυχὼν τῷ δράματι διὰ τὸ ἄηθες τοῦ ὀνόματος αὐτὸς διορθώσας ἐξήνεγκεν. ὅλως δ’ οὐδ’ ἔστι τὸ {τῆς θρᾴττης} ὄνομα παρὰ οὐδενὶ τῶν Ἀττικῶν. Es ist nämlich auffällig, dass Athenaios Verse aus dem gleichen Mnesimachos­ Stück bereits zweimal vorher im 7. Buch zitiert 301d, 322e), aber erst beim dritten Zitat die Epochenzuweisung hinzufügt; dies spricht sehr dafür, dass er sie aus der zitierenden Quelle einfach mitübernommen hat. Vgl. Nesselrath (1990: 74). Ath. XI 482c: Ἀντίοχος ὁ Ἀλεξανδρεὺς ἐν τῷ Περὶ τῶν ἐν τῇ μέσῃ κωμῳδίᾳ κωμῳδουμένων ποιητῶν. Er ist einer von insgesamt drei namentlich bekannten Κωμῳδούμενοι­Autoren; die beiden anderen, ein Ammonios und der schon erwähnte Herodikos von Babylon, lassen sich ins 2. Jh. v. Chr. datieren, und man darf annehmen, dass Antiochos ebenfalls in dieses zeitliche Umfeld gehört. Wenn dem so ist, wäre die „Mittlere Komödie“ bereits im 2. Jh. v. Chr. ein gut eingeführter Begriff gewesen. Nesselrath (1990: 77).

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mos gestanden haben könnte. Dieser wird nämlich (erneut) nicht weit von dem Zitat aus Antiochos explizit von Athenaios angeführt (in 481f), und es gibt auch noch vier weitere Didymos­Erwähnungen in diesem Umfeld. Besonderer Art ist schließlich die Erwähnung der Mittleren Komödie in Ath. VIII 336d; hier muss einer der Teilnehmer an dem von Athenaios beschriebenen „Gelehrten­Gastmahl“ namens Demokritos die etwas außergewöhnliche Herkunft eines der von ihm präsentierten Zitate erläutern: „Alexis in seinem Stück „Der Lehrer der Verschwendungssucht“, wie Sotion von Alexandria in seinen Büchern „Über die Sillen des Timon“ sagt – ich nämlich habe dieses Drama nicht gefunden; obwohl ich mehr als achthundert Stücke der sogenannten Mittleren Komödie gelesen und davon Auszüge gemacht habe, bin ich nicht auf den „Lehrer der Verschwendungssucht“ gestoßen, und ich weiß auch nicht, ob es von jemand der Katalogisierung gewürdigt worden ist; denn weder Kallimachos noch Aristophanes haben es katalogisiert, ja, auch nicht diejenigen, die die Kataloge in Pergamon erstellt haben – Sotion also sagt, in dem Stück sei ein Diener namens Xanthias dargestellt, der seine Mitsklaven zum luxuriösen Leben auffordere ...“19 Diese Worte sind dem Deipnosophisten Demokritos in den Mund gelegt, um seine Zuhörer mit seinem umfassenden literarischen Wissen zu beeindrucken; sie dürfen also keineswegs ohne weiteres als Zeugnis entsprechend umfassender Studien des Autors Athenaios selbst gedeutet werden.20 Bemerkenswert bleibt aber, dass „Mittlere Komödie“ auch hier als fester Begriff („sogenannte“) eingeführt wird, der mithin geraume Zeit vor Athenaios kreiert worden sein dürfte. Zusammenfassend lässt sich festhalten, dass sich bei den bei Athenaios zu findenden Zitaten aus Dichtern oder Stücken der „Mittleren Komödie“ oft noch mehrere Überlieferungsstufen erkennen lassen:21 Athenaios selbst dürfte vor allem auf Lexika und Glossare der frühen Kaiserzeit zurückgegriffen haben, die ihrerseits von spätalexandrinischen Grammatikern abhängig sind (hier ist vor allem an den unermüdlichen Didymos Chalkenteros zu denken). Diese schöpften ihrerseits aus mittelalexandrinischen Spezialschriften (wie 19

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Ath. VIII 336d: Ἄλεξις δ’ ἐν Ἀσωτοδιδασκάλῳ, φησὶ Σωτίων ὁ Ἀλεξανδρεὺς ἐν τοῖς περὶ τῶν Τίμωνος σίλλων· (ἐγὼ γὰρ οὐκ ἀπήντησα τῷ δράματι· πλείονα τῆς μέσης καλουμένης κωμῳδίας ἀναγνοὺς δράματα τῶν ὀκτακοσίων καὶ τούτων ἐκλογὰς ποιησάμενος οὐ περιέτυχον τῷ Ἀσωτοδιδασκάλῳ, ἀλλ’ οὐδ’ ἀναγραφῆς ἀξιωθέν τινι σύνοιδα· οὔτε γὰρ Καλλίμαχος οὔτε Ἀριστοφάνης αὐτὸ ἀνέγραψαν, ἀλλ’ οὐδ’ οἱ τὰς ἐν Περγάμῳ ἀναγραφὰς ποιησάμενοι) – ὁ δὲ Σωτίων φησὶν ἐν τῷ δράματι Ξανθίαν τινὰ οἰκέτην πεποιῆσθαι προτρεπόμενον ἐπὶ δυπάθειαν ὁμοδούλους ἑαυτοῦ ... Vgl. Nesselrath (1990: 69 f.). Vgl. Nesselrath (1990: 78 f.).

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etwa den oben genannten Κωμῳδούμενοι­Autoren), deren Vorbilder (und zum Teil auch Quellen) hochalexandrinische Philologen wie Eratosthenes von Kyrene und Aristophanes von Byzanz waren (zu ihnen mehr unten S. 27–29). Für das ebenfalls in das spätere 2. Jh. n. Chr. gehörende Onomastikon des Iulius Pollux, in dem ebenfalls siebenmal von „(Dichtern der) Mittleren Komödie“ die Rede ist, ergibt sich ein ähnliches Bild: In Pollux’ Benennung von Komödienepochen scheinen eine Zwei­ und eine Dreiteilung durcheinander zu gehen,22 was nicht für selbstständige Systematisierungsarbeit des Autors, sondern vielmehr für Übernahme aus unterschiedlichen früheren Quellen spricht. Besonders auffällig ist, dass Pollux an den erwähnten sieben Stellen von der „Mittleren Komödie“ oder von „Mittleren Komödiendichtern“ spricht, ohne jeweils auch einen individuellen Dichter aus dieser Epoche anzuführen. So heißt es in I 232: „Der Baum selbst [zu der Frucht κοκκύμηλον / Pflaume] wird in der Mittleren Komödie in männlicher Form als κοκκύμηλος bezeichnet“,23 und im nächsten Kapitel steht ganz ähnlich: „Die Mittlere Komödie nennt die Frucht im Neutrum συκάμινον [Maulbeere], den Baum aber bezeichnet sie im Maskulinum: ,Der Maulbeerbaum trägt, wie du siehst, Maulbeeren‘.“24 Εs ist höchst eigenartig, dass als Herkunftsquelle für einen bestimmten Vers eine ganze Komödienepoche angegeben wird; dies lässt sich nur damit erklären, dass es sich um ein extrem verkürztes Zitat handelt, bei dem auf einer bestimmten Überlieferungsstufe die Herkunftsangabe aus einem bestimmten Stück weggelassen wurde.25 Dass dies wirklich so war, zeigt ein Fall, wo Pollux noch zwei verschiedene Überlieferungsstufen tatsächlich bewahrt hat: In II 197 heißt es, die Böden von medizinischen Töpfen würden „in der Mittleren Komödie“ πτερνίδες genannt; in IV 182 wird zum gleichen Sachverhalt nunmehr ein individueller Komödiendichter, Alexis, zitiert.26 Weitere fünf Sammelzitate (mit Angaben „haben die Dichter der Mittleren Komödie genannt / wird in der Mittleren Komödie so genannt“) finden sich

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24

25 26

Genaueres dazu bei Nesselrath (1990: 80). Poll. I 232: τὸ δὲ δένδρον αὐτὸ ἐν τῇ μέσῃ κωμῳδίᾳ ἀρρενικῶς φέρεται ὁ κοκκύμηλος. Poll. I 233: δὲ μέση κωμῳδία τὸν μὲν καρπὸν συκάμινον οὐδετέρως καλεῖ, τὸ δὲ δένδρον ἀρρενικῶς ἐκφέρεται· „ὁ συκάμινος συκάμιν’, ὁρᾷς, φορεῖ“. Vgl. Nesselrath (1990: 101). Poll. II 197: καὶ πτερνίδες ἐν τῇ μέσῃ κωμῳδίᾳ καλοῦνται οἱ πυθμένες τῶν ἰατρικῶν λεκανίδων; IV 182: λεκάνη, ς τὸν πυθμένα Ἄλεξις πτερνίδα καλεῖ. Vgl. Nesselrath (1990: 99 f.). Natürlich müssten ursprünglich sogar noch mehr Dichter genannt gewesen sein, um eine Sammelbezeichnung wie „Mittlere Komödie“ zu rechtfertigen.

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im siebten Buch;27 auch für sie ist die beste Erklärung, dass sie eine Verkürzung gegenüber einem einst erheblich ausführlicheren Bestand darstellen, in dem tatsächlich mehrere Dichter der Mittleren Komödie als Belegautoren genannt waren. Bezeichnenderweise treten solche Sammelzitate nach Buch VII nicht mehr auf; gerade Buch X präsentiert sein Komödienmaterial ganz anders: Hier werden viel mehr, vor allem aber viel genauere individuelle Komikerzitate angeführt.28 Dass Pollux seine Komödienzitate (und auch ihre Epochenzuweisungen, wo vorhanden) immer nur aus vermittelnden (und dabei jeweils verschiedenen) Quellen nahm, zeigt eine Reihe von Fällen, in denen die gleichen Komödienzitate wiederholt präsentiert, dabei aber jeweils anders eingebettet sind.29 Tritt die Wiederholung im 10. Buch auf (das ist in vier von sechs Fällen so), erweist sich die Quelle in der Regel als ausführlicher zitierend, besser unterrichtet und damit wohl auch älter. Als Fazit lässt sich festhalten, dass sowohl Athenaios als auch Pollux mit ihren Zeugnissen einer Komödiendreiteilung auf ältere Traditionen zurückgehen, die sich mit großer Wahrscheinlichkeit im Hellenismus ansiedeln lassen. Diese Wahrscheinlichkeit lässt sich durch einen ausgesprochen materialreichen Text noch erhöhen, der sich unter den Komödien­Prolegomena befindet, die sich in manchen alten Aristophanes­Handschriften erhalten haben: die sogenannten Prolegomena III Koster.30 Hier können davon nur Auszüge vorgeführt werden, die aber zeigen dürften, dass dieser Text hochwertige literarhistorische Informationen bietet, die auf hellenistische Quellen zurück­ gehen müssen. Gleich die Einleitung verrät eine äußerst nüchterne Haltung, die vor allem Überlieferungen (zum Teil auch widersprüchliche) referiert und ihre Glaubwürdigkeit zunächst einmal offen lässt: „Die Komödie, heißt es, sei erfunden worden von Susarion; ihre Bezeichnung habe sie – so sagen die einen –, daher, dass Leute in den Dörfern (κῶμαι) herumzogen und Darbietungen zeigten, als es eben noch keine Städte gab, sondern die Menschen in Dörfern 27

28 29 30

Poll. VII 17: τοῦ δ’ ἀλείπτου οὐκ ὄντος ἐν χρήσει ἀλείπτριαν εἰρήκασιν οἱ μέσοι κωμικοί; VII 69: τὰ δὲ μέλανα ἱμάτια ὄρφνινα ἐκάλουν, τὸ δὲ ἄκναπτον ἱμάτιον ὀρεινὸν οἱ μέσοι κωμικοί ... ...; VII 71: τὸ δὲ μιτύβιον, ἔστι μὲν καὶ τοῦτο Αἰγύπτιον, εἴη δ’ ἂν κατὰ τὸ ἐν τῇ μέσῃ κωμῳδίᾳ καψιδρώτιον καλούμενον ...; VII 78: τοὺς δὲ τὰς ἐσθῆτας ἀπομισθοῦντας τοῖς χορηγοῖς οἱ μὲν νέοι ἱματιομίσθας ἐκάλουν, οἱ δὲ μέσοι ἱματιομισθωτάς ; VII 162: εἴρηται ἐν τῇ μέσῃ κωμῳδίᾳ κατασταμνίζειν τὸν οἶνον τὸ κατερᾶν. Zu den Gründen vgl. Nesselrath (1990: 92. 100 f.). Behandelt bei Nesselrath (1990: 94–100). Zu ihnen vgl. Nesselrath (1990: 45–51).

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wohnten; die ihnen widersprechen, sagen dagegen, ‚Dörfer‘ hießen bei den Athenern nicht κῶμαι, sondern δῆμοι, und die Komödie nennen sie so, weil sie auf den Straßen Feste feierten (ἐκώμαζον). Die gleiche Gattung nennen sie auch ‚Trygodia‘, weil denen, die am Lenäenfest Erfolg hatten, Most gegeben wurde, den sie τρύξ nannten, oder weil sie, da noch keine Masken erfunden waren, ihr Gesicht mit Weinhefe (τρύξ) einschmierten und dann Theater spielten. Es hat drei verschiedene Stadien der Komödie gegeben: die eine war die ‚Alte‘, eine andere war die ‚Neue‘ und eine weitere war die ‚Mittlere‘.“31 Es folgt eine knappe Charakteristik der Alten Komödie und ihrer bedeutendsten Dichter: „Die Dichter der Alten Komödie strebten nicht nach einer wahren [= realen] Handlung, sondern nach gewandtem Scherz und traten unter diesen Voraussetzungen in ihre Wettkämpfe ein; noch erhalten sind von ihnen insgesamt 365 Stücke, die falsch zugeschriebenen eingerechnet. Ihre namhaftesten Dichter sind Epicharm, Magnes, Kratinos, Krates, Pherekrates, Phrynichos, Eupolis und Aristophanes.“32 Nach etwas genauerer Vorstellung der genannten acht Dichter wendet sich der Text der Mittleren Komödie zu: „Die Dichter der Mittleren Komödie befassten sich nicht mit poetischer Erfindung, sondern blieben bei der alltäglichen Sprechweise und haben Tugenden des (prosaischen?) Ausdrucks, so dass ein dichterischer Stil bei ihnen selten ist. Alle sind sehr mit (der Konstruktion von) Handlungen beschäftigt. Zur Mittleren Komödie gehören 57 Dichter, und von diesen sind 617 Stücke erhalten. Ihre namhaftesten Dichter sind Antiphanes und †Stephanos†.“33 31

32

33

Prolegomena de Comoedia III 1–8 Koster: τὴν κωμῳδίαν ηὑρῆσθαί φασιν ὑπὸ Σουσαρίωνος, τὴν δὲ ὀνομασίαν ἔχειν οἱ μέν, ὅτι ἐπὶ τὰς κώμας περιιόντες ᾖδον καὶ ἐπεδείκνυντο μήπω πόλεων οὐσῶν, ἀλλ’ ἐν κώμαις οἰκούντων τῶν ἀνθρώπων, οἱ δὲ ἀντιλέγοντές φασι μὴ κώμας καλεῖσθαι παρὰ Ἀθηναίοις, ἀλλὰ δήμους, καὶ κωμῳδίαν αὐτὴν καλοῦσιν, ἐπεὶ (5) ἐν ταῖς ὁδοῖς ἐκώμαζον. τὴν αὐτὴν δὲ καὶ τρυγῳδίαν φασὶ διὰ τὸ τοῖς εὐδοκιμοῦσιν ἐπὶ τῷ Ληναίῳ γλεῦκος δίδοσθαι, ὅπερ ἐκάλουν τρύγα, ὅτι μήπω προσωπείων ηὑρημένων τρυγὶ διαχρίοντες τὰ πρόσωπα ὑπεκρίνοντο. γεγόνασι δὲ μεταβολαὶ κωμῳδίας τρεῖς· καὶ μὲν ἀρχαία, δὲ νέα, δὲ μέση. Prolegomena de Comoedia III 9–13 Koster: οἱ μὲν οὖν τῆς ἀρχαίας κωμῳδίας ποιηταὶ οὐχ ὑποθέσεως ἀληθοῦς, ἀλλὰ (10) παιδιᾶς εὐτραπέλου γενόμενοι ζηλωταὶ τοὺς ἀγῶνας ἐποίουν· καὶ φέρεται αὐτῶν πάντα τὰ δράματα τξε´ σὺν τοῖς ψευδεπιγράφοις. τούτων δέ εἰσιν ἀξιολογώτατοι Ἐπίχαρμος, Μάγνης, Κρατῖνος, Κράτης, Φερεκράτης, Φρύνιχος, Εὔπολις, Ἀριστοφάνης. Prolegomena de Comoedia III 42–46 Koster: τῆς δὲ μέσης κωμῳδίας οἱ ποιηταὶ πλάσματος μὲν οὐχ ψαντο ποιητικοῦ, διὰ δὲ τῆς συνήθους ἰόντες λαλιᾶς λογικὰς ἔχουσι τὰς ἀρετάς, ὥστε σπάνιον ποιητικὸν εἶναι χαρακτῆρα παρ’ αὐτοῖς. κατασχολοῦνται δὲ πάντες περὶ τὰς ὑποθέσεις. τῆς μὲν οὖν μέσης κωμῳδίας εἰσὶ

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Das Ende des gerade übersetzten Textes ist deutlich gestört, denn während Antiphanes sicherlich einer der bedeutendsten Mese­Dichter ist, kann man das gleiche von dem obskuren Stephanos nicht behaupten; ferner wird im Folgenden auch nur Antiphanes etwas genauer behandelt, und so liegt die Annahme nahe, dass der Text in einem früheren Überlieferungsstadium vollständiger (und korrekter) gewesen sein muss. Sehr knapp fällt die Darstellung der Neuen Komödie aus: „Zur Neuen Komödie haben 64 Dichter gehört; von diesen sind die namhaftesten Philemon, Menander, Diphilos, Philippides, Poseidippos und Apollodoros.“34 Von diesen sechs Dichtern werden dann nur die ersten drei noch etwas näher behandelt, und dann bricht der Text ab. Trotz der in ihm offensichtlich vorhandenen Lücken und seines abrupten Endes aber darf er als eine der besten Gesamt­ darstellungen der Entwicklung der attischen Komödie gelten, die uns noch erhalten sind. Er ist ein weiteres wichtiges Indiz dafür, dass die Komödiendreiteilung bereits auf hellenistische Zeiten zurückgeht. 2. Welcher hellenistische Philologe erfand die Dreiteilung der Komödie? Nachdem die im vorangehenden Abschnitt vorgestellten Texte es sehr wahrscheinlich haben werden lassen, dass eine Periodisierung der attischen Komödie in drei Epochen zum ersten Mal in hellenistischer Zeit vorgenommen wurde, stellt sich die Frage, ob sich diese „Erfindung“ noch genauer lokalisieren lässt. In der Tat gibt es unter den aus hellenistischer Zeit bekannten Philologen mehrere Kandidaten, die eine solche Konzeption entwickelt haben könnten; sie sollen im Folgenden nacheinander besprochen werden. 2.1. Kallimachos? Der aus Kyrene gebürtige und in Alexandria tätige Kallimachos war nicht nur einer der größten hellenistischen Dichter, sondern auch ein bedeutender Philologe und Literaturwissenschaftler und vor allem wohl der erste namhafte Bibliothekar, den die unter Ptolemaios I. gegründete Große Bibliothek, die zum alexandrinischen Museion gehörte, hatte; als solcher schuf er den ersten umfassenden Katalog dieser Bibliothek, die „Tafeln derjenigen, die in jeglicher Art von Bildung hervorglänzten, und ihrer Werke, in 120 Büchern“

34

ποιηταὶ νζ´, καὶ τούτων δράματα φέρεται χιζ´. τούτων δέ εἰσιν ἀξιολογώτατοι Ἀντιφάνης καὶ †Στέφανος†. Prolegomena de Comoedia III 53 f. Koster: τῆς δὲ νέας κωμῳδίας γεγόνασι μὲν ποιηταὶ ξδ´, ἀξιολογώτατοι δὲ τούτων Φιλήμων, Μένανδρος, Δίφιλος, Φιλιππίδης, Ποσείδιππος, Ἀπολλόδωρος.

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(Πίνακες τῶν ἐν πάσῃ παιδείᾳ διαλαμψάντων, καὶ ὧν συνέγραψαν, ἐν βιβλίοις κ´ καὶ ρ´). Bei der Erarbeitung dieses Katalogs dürfte sich Kallimachos einen so enzyklopädischen Überblick über die Bestände der alexandrinischen Bibliothek erworben haben, dass er auf jeden Fall die Voraussetzungen dafür gehabt haben dürfte, auch eine Dreiteilung der Komödienepochen vorzunehmen, wie sie in hellenistischer Zeit begründet worden zu sein scheint. Da die Pinakes jedoch anscheinend alphabetisch und nicht chronologisch angeordnet waren,35 ergab sich jedenfalls für die Anlage dieses Katalogs keine zwingende Notwendigkeit, eine solche Periodisierung vorzunehmen; insofern reicht allein die Tatsache, dass Kallimachos diesen gewaltigen Bibliothekskatalog schuf, nicht aus, um ihm auch die Komödiendreiteilung zuzuschreiben. Bei einer anderen Katalog­Arbeit des Kallimachos jedoch könnte man eher damit rechnen. Er schuf nämlich auch eine „Tafel und Übersicht über die Theaterregisseure, die es in chronologischer Abfolge und von Anfang an gegeben hat“ (Πίναξ καὶ ἀναγραφὴ τῶν κατὰ χρόνους καὶ ἀπ’ ἀρχῆς γενομένων διδασκάλων36); ein Teil dieses Pinax ist offenbar noch in einer in Rom gefundenen großen Inschrift (IG Urb. Rom. 215–222) erhalten:37 Auf dieser Inschrift finden sich Angaben über die Dichter Telekleides, Kallias, Lysippos, Aristomenes, die alle zur Alten Komödie gehörten, aber auch ein großes Stück über den Dichter Anaxandrides, der ein wichtiger Vertreter der Mittleren Komödie war. Wie sich aus dem Anschauungsmaterial der römischen Inschrift ergibt, waren in diesem Pinax „offenbar sämtliche athenischen Komödiendichter in chronologischer Folge, entsprechend ihrem jeweils ersten Auftreten, verzeichnet ..., wobei zu den Stücken vermerkt war, wann sie aufgeführt wurden, auf welchen Platz sie dabei gelangten und ob später (...) noch ein schriftlicher Text von ihnen vorhanden war.“38 Was sich freilich auf den Bruchstücken der römischen Inschrift nicht findet, sind Epochenzuweisungen der einzelnen Dichter zu einer „Alten“, „Mittleren“ oder „Neuen“ Komödie. Diese aber findet man in einem hier bereits vorgestellten Text, den Prolegomena de Comoedia III Koster. Die in diesen Prolegomena vorhandenen Gesamtzahlen zu Dichtern und Stücken von jeder der drei Epochen dürften sehr wahrscheinlich auf einer katalogartigen Erfassung dieser Dichter und ihrer Stücke basieren; von daher liegt die Vermutung sehr nahe, dass die Pro35 36

37

38

Vgl. dazu Nesselrath (1990: 173 mit Anm. 66). Dieser Pinax ist unter den Werken des Kallimachos im Suda­Artikel über ihn (κ 227) aufgeführt. Diese Ansicht wurde zuerst von Körte (1905) vertreten und hat danach eigentlich durchgehend Zustimmung gefunden; vgl. Nesselrath (1990: 174 Anm. 70). Nesselrath (1990: 174).

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legomena III ein Extrakt aus dem kallimacheischen Pinax sein könnten,39 und wenn sie es sind, dann könnte Kallimachos in der Tat der Erfinder oder ein früher Anwender der Komödiendreiteilung sein. 2.2. Dionysiades von Mallos? Natürlich ist es nicht zwingend, dass nur einer der „großen Namen“ der alexandrinischen Philologie die Komödiendreiteilung erfunden hat; es könnte auch einer aus der „zweiten Reihe“ gewesen sein. Ein gutes Beispiel dafür ist Dionysiades von Mallos,40 Mitglied einer Gruppe alexandrinischer Tragödiendichter, die als die „Pleiade“ bekannt waren und alle ins 3. Jh. v. Chr. gehören. In dem ihm gewidmeten Suda­Artikel (δ 1169) wird Dionysiades auch ein Werk (in Prosa) mit dem Titel „Charaktere oder Komödienliebhaber“ (Χαρακτῆρες Φιλοκώμῳδοι) zugeschrieben, „in dem er [so der Suda­Artikel] „die Charaktere der Dichter darstellt“ (ἐν ᾧ τοὺς χαρακτῆρας ἀπαγγέλλει τῶν ποιητῶν). Entscheidend ist hier die Frage, welcher Dichter: Behandelte Dionysiades nur einige Dichter der Alten Komödie – wie dies etwa der kurze dem Platonios zugewiesene Text Περὶ διαφορᾶς χαρακτήρων tut, in dem nur von Kratinos, Eupolis und Aristophanes die Rede ist –, dann musste seine Schrift keine Epocheneinteilung der Komödie enthalten; ging sie jedoch über Autoren der Alten Komödie hinaus, dann hätte eine solche durchaus nahegelegen. 2.3. Eratosthenes? Ein weiterer „großer Name“ der alexandrinischen Wissenschaft, der Universalgelehrte (und Dichter) Eratosthenes von Kyrene, lässt sich ebenfalls aus der Reihe der Kandidaten für eine Erfindung der Komödiendreiteilung nicht ausschließen, denn zu seinem umfangreichen (wenn auch leider weitestgehend verlorenen) Oeuvre gehörten einmal zwölf Bücher „Über die Alte Komödie“ (Περὶ τῆς ἀρχαίας κωμῳδίας); schon der Titel dieses Werks lässt erwarten, dass Eratosthenes den Begriff „Alte Komödie“ in Abgrenzung zu anderen Komödienepochen verwendete, und soweit sich dies aus den erhaltenen Fragmenten des Werks noch erkennen lässt, reichte sein Inhalt „von der Erklärung einzelner Wörter ... über die Frage der Autorschaft einzelner Stücke ... bis zu der gründlichen Erörterung der chronologischen Zusammenhänge zwischen mehreren Stücken“.41 Da Eratosthenes ferner vor allem 39 40 41

Vgl. Nesselrath (1990: 174 f.). Vgl. Nesselrath (1990: 175 f.). Nesselrath (1990: 177 f.).

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für seine chronologischen Studien (auch in anderen Bereichen) bekannt ist,42 liegt auch von daher ein Interesse an Epocheneinteilung nahe. In unserem Zusammenhang verdient vor allem Fragment 48 Strecker (= FGrHist 241 F 19 = Cic. Att. VI 1,18) aus Περὶ τῆς ἀρχαίας κωμῳδίας Beachtung. Aus ihm geht hervor, dass Eratosthenes die offenbar weitverbreitete Meinung bekämpfte, der Komödiendichter Eupolis sei von dem athenischen Politiker und Feldherrn Alkibiades bei der Fahrt der athenischen Flotte nach Sizilien im Meer ersäuft worden (weil er Alkibiades zu sehr verspottet hatte); dies widerlegte Eratosthenes durch den (aus attischem Urkundenmaterial, das schon Aristoteles in seinen Didaskaliai zusammengestellt und dann Kallimachos in seinem oben erwähnten Πίναξ ... τῶν ... διδασκάλων verarbeitet hatte, leicht zu führenden) Nachweis, dass Eupolis auch nach der Sizilischen Expedition (in deren Vorfeld er doch angeblich ums Leben gekommen war) noch Stücke auf der athenischen Bühne aufführte.43 Da nun in anderen Zusammenhängen die Frage des Endes des Eupolis mehrfach mit einem Wechsel der Komödienepochen zusammengebracht wird,44 ist es zumindest denkbar, dass sich Eratosthenes im Umfeld des fr. 48 mit der Frage eines solchen Epochenwechsels auseinandergesetzt hat; auch er ist also auf jeden Fall ein ernstzunehmender Kandidat für die Erfindung der Komödiendreiteilung.45 2.4. Aristophanes von Byzanz? Der vierte (und letzte) ernstzunehmende Kandidat für die Konzipierung der Dreiteilung der Komödienepochen ist der in den späteren Jahrzehnten des 3. und den ersten Jahrzehnten des 2. Jh.s v. Chr. tätige Philologe Aristophanes von Byzanz. Er ist bekannt für seine Ergänzung und Verbesserung der kallimacheischen Pinakes (Πρὸς τοὺς Πίνακας Καλλιμάχου, fr. 368 f. Slater)46 sowie für seine lexikalischen Forschungen (Λέξεις / Γλῶσσαι) – in denen er eine Reihe von Komödiendichtern, darunter auch jüngere (bis einschließlich 42 43

44 45

46

Vgl. Pfeiffer (1970: 204 f.). Eratosth. fr. 48 Strecker: quis enim non dixit Εὔπολιν τὸν τῆς ἀρχαίας ab Alcibiade navigante in Siciliam deiectum esse in mare? redarguit Eratosthenes; adfert enim quas ille post id tempus fabulas docuerit. Vgl. Nesselrath (1990: 178 f.). Dagegen hält Geus (2002: 292 mit Anm. 20) es für unwahrscheinlich, dass die Komödiendreiteilung auf Eratosthenes zurückgeht. Vgl. Nesselrath (1990: 181 f.). Vgl. auch die Notiz bei Ath. VIII 336e = fr. 402 Slater, aus der hervorgeht, dass Aristophanes Ergänzungen zur Katalogisierung des Kallimachos vornahm: οὐ περιέτυχον τῷ Ἀσωτοδιδασκάλῳ, ἀλλ’ οὐδ’ ἀναγραφῆς ἀξιωθέν τινι σύνοιδα· οὔτε γὰρ Καλλίμαχος οὔτε Ἀριστοφάνης αὐτὸ ἀνέγραψαν (die Übersetzung dieses Passus findet sich oben S. 21 Anm. 19).

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Diphilos) zitierte47 –, daneben aber auch für seine besondere Vorliebe für die Neue Komödie und namentlich für Menander,48 die sich auch in einer Reihe wissenschaftlicher Werke niedergeschlagen hat: So untersuchte er „Menanders Übernahmen von seinen Vorgängern und Zeitgenossen auf der Bühne“49 in der Schrift „Nebeneinandergestellte Auszüge aus Menander und denen, von denen er übernahm“ (Παράλληλοι Μενάνδρου τε καὶ ἀφ’ ὧν ἔκλεψεν50 ἐκλογαί, fr. 376 Slater); er verfasste die mutmaßlich erste Schrift über Masken bzw. Theaterrollen (Περὶ προσώπων), in der auch von der Erfindung diverser Komödienrollen die Rede war;51 und er schrieb nicht zuletzt ein Werk über athenische Hetären (Περὶ ἑταιρῶν / Περὶ τῶν Ἀθήνησιν ἑταιρίδων, fr. 364– 366 Slater), das den Grundstock für weitere Abhandlungen dieser Art bildete, von denen sich noch ein Niederschlag im umfangreichen Hetärenreferat des 13. Buches des Athenaios erhalten hat. Wie die ausführlichere Titelvariante zeigt, ging es Aristophanes dabei (auch oder vor allem) um reale „Hetären in Athen“; gerade diese tauchen noch sehr oft in erhaltenen Fragmenten aus Stücken der Mittleren Komödie auf, so dass Aristophanes sicher auch diese Stücke zur Kenntnis genommen haben wird.52 Vor allem sein großes Interesse an der späteren attischen Komödie und an Menanders Oeuvre gerade auch im Vergleich zu dem seiner Vorgänger lassen es als sehr wahrscheinlich erscheinen, dass Aristophanes von Byzanz die Unterschiede zwischen den Komödien der Menander­Zeit und denen der Jahrzehnte davor distinkt wahrgenommen hat; dies aber ist die beste Voraussetzung dafür, dass er eine „Neue“ Komödie der Zeit Menanders von einer vorausgehenden „Mittleren“ (die sich ihrerseits wieder von der davor existierenden „Alten“ abhob) unterscheiden konnte – sei es, dass er diese Unterscheidung selbst einführte, sei es, dass er sie bereits von Vorgängern (Kallimachos oder Dionysiades oder Eratosthenes) übernehmen konnte. 47 48

49 50

51

52

Vgl. Nesselrath (1990: 182 Anm. 97). Bezeichnend ist der (in Iamben gefasste) Spruch, der dem Aristophanes zugeschrieben wird (Syrian. In Hermog. II p. 23,8 Rabe = Ar. test. 7 Slater = Menander test. 83): „O Menander und Leben, wer von euch beiden hat den anderen nachgeahmt?“ (ὦ Μένανδρε καὶ βίε, πότερος ἄρ’ ὑμῶν πότερον ἀπεμιμήσατο;) Nesselrath (1990: 182). Zu dem etwas überraschenden, weil negativ klingenden ἔκλεψεν vgl. Nesselrath (1990: 182 Anm. 98). Vgl. fr. 363 Slater = Ath. XIV 659a: Μαίσων γέγονε κωμῳδίας ὑποκριτής, Μεγαρεὺς τὸ γένος, ὃς καὶ τὸ προσωπεῖον εὗρε τὸ ἀπ’ αὐτοῦ καλούμενον Μαίσωνα, ὡς Ἀριστοφάνης φησὶν ὁ Βυζάντιος ἐν τῷ περὶ προσώπων, εὑρεῖν αὐτὸν φάσκων καὶ τὸ τοῦ θεράποντος πρόσωπον καὶ τὸ τοῦ μαγείρου. Weiteres zu Aristophanes’ Schrift bei Nesselrath (1990: 184 f.).

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3. Die „andere“ Dreiteilung: Nachwirkung des Peripatos? In der im vorangehenden Abschnitt behandelten Komödiendreiteilung, die wahrscheinlich im 3. Jh. oder spätestens im frühen 2. Jh. v. Chr. konzipiert wurde, waren die Unterscheidungskriterien vor allem literarischer Natur (wie sie etwa in den Skizzen der Prolegomena III teilweise noch zum Ausdruck kommen): Entwicklung des Handlungsgefüges, der Diktion, auch der Rollen. Nun werden aber in weiteren Texten, die als Prolegomena in den Aristo­ phanes­Handschriften den eigentlichen Stücken vorangestellt sind, zum Teil auch noch andere Kriterien sichtbar, um verschiedene Entwicklungsstufen der Komödie zu unterscheiden; und vor allem spielt hier der Zusammenhang der Stücke mit der Politik eine Rolle. Solche Zusammenhänge zwischen Komödie und Politik werden bereits bei Aristoteles konstatiert: Im dritten Kapitel der Poetik vermerkt er, dass die Megarer in Muttergriechenland beanspruchen, die Komödie begründet zu haben, und zwar, als bei ihnen die Demokratie herrschte;53 und im siebten Buch der Politik stellt er einen Zusammenhang von politischer Volkserziehung und öffentlichen Dramenaufführungen (namentlich von Komödien) her, indem er es für richtig hält, dass jüngere Leute nicht vor einem bestimmten Alter sich „Iamben“ (also Spott­Präsentationen) und Komödien anschauen sollten.54 Wenn nun in manchen Komödien­Prolegomena die Epochenentwicklung der attischen Komödie von politischen Entwicklungen abhängig gemacht wird, darf man darin mit einiger Sicherheit aristotelisch­peripatetischen Einfluss erblicken. Ein Text, in dem dieser Zusammenhang sehr ausführlich zur Sprache kommt, ist ein Traktat unter der Überschrift „Aus den (Ausführungen) des Platonios über den Unterschied der Komödien(epochen)“ ( Ἐκ τῶν Πλατωνίου περὶ διαφορᾶς κωμῳδιῶν), wobei die einleitenden Worte Ἐκ τῶν darauf hinweisen, dass es sich um einen Auszug aus einem älteren Text handelt. Schon im ersten Satz setzt sich der Verfasser das Ziel, den jeweils unterschiedlichen Charakter (τύπος) der Alten und der Mittleren Komödie darzulegen.55 Dazu 53

54

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Arist. Poetik 3 p. 1448a31 f.: τῆς μὲν γὰρ κωμῳδίας [scil. ἀντιποιοῦνται] οἱ Μεγαρεῖς οἵ τε ἐνταῦθα ὡς ἐπὶ τῆς παρ’ αὐτοῖς δημοκρατίας γενομένης καὶ οἱ ἐκ Σικελίας ... Arist. Politik VII 17 p. 1336b20–23: τοὺς δὲ νεωτέρους οὔτ’ ἰάμβων οὔτε κωμῳδίας θεατὰς θετέον, πρὶν τὴν λικίαν λάβωσιν ἐν ᾗ καὶ κατακλίσεως ὑπάρξει κοινωνεῖν δη καὶ μέθης, καὶ τῆς ἀπὸ τῶν τοιούτων γιγνομένης βλάβης ἀπαθεῖς παιδεία ποιήσει πάντως. Platon. Diff. com. 1 f.: Καλὸν ἐπισημήνασθαι τὰς αἰτίας δι’ ἃς μὲν ἀρχαία κωμῳ­ δία ἴδιόν τινα τύπον ἔχει, δὲ μέση διάφορός ἐστι πρὸς ταύτην.

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charakterisiert er die Zeit der Dichter Aristophanes, Kratinos und Eupolis als eine der völlig schrankenlosen Demokratie, der auch der völlig schrankenlose Spott dieser Dichter entsprochen habe (Z. 2–14). Dann aber sei die Demokratie von Oligarchen beschränkt und die Komödiendichter eingeschüchtert worden; Eupolis sei sogar von dem, gegen den er seine Bapten geschrieben habe, im Meer ersäuft worden (Z. 14–21). Dies habe Auswirkungen auf die Stücke gehabt: Die Chorpartien (gemeint ist hier wohl vor allem die Parabase, in der die Dichter sich oft sehr freimütig zu äußern pflegten) seien verschwunden, und Aristophanes und Kratinos hätten nunmehr Stücke wie den Aiolosikon und die Odysseis produziert, in denen es nicht mehr um politischen Spott gegangen sei. Diese beiden Stücke würden bereits den τύπος der Mittleren Komödie repräsentieren, mit harmlosem „innerliterarischem“ Spott und ohne Chorpartien, vor allem ohne Parabasen (Z. 21–34). Im folgenden wird das Phänomen „Parabase“ genauer erläutert und hinzugefügt, dass Stücke mit Parabasen in die Zeit der Demokratie gehörten, Stücke ohne Parabasen dagegen in die der sich anschließenden Oligarchie (Z. 35–45). Danach wird der Text recht repetitiv, indem er noch einmal darauf hinweist, dass die Dichter der Mittleren Komödie die Sujets gewechselt und die Chorpartien fortgelassen hätten, was noch einmal an den Odysseis des Kratinos exemplifiziert wird (Z. 45–61). Es folgt noch ein Abschnitt über den Wandel auch der verwendeten Masken, wobei nunmehr die Masken der Alten Komödie, die reale Personen wiedergaben, denen der Mittleren und der Neuen Komödie gegenübergestellt werden, die nur noch allgemeine komisch­karikierte Typen dargestellt hätten; bemerkenswerterweise wird nun noch ein neues politisches Motiv für diese Verharmlosung eingeführt: Furcht vor den Makedonen (Z. 62–72). Aus welcher Zeit stammt dieser Text? Er muss relativ spät sein, denn seine Kenntnis der attischen Geschichte und auch der Theaterentwicklung wirkt sehr schablonenhaft und ist zumindest teilweise auch falsch: Kratinos starb bereits gegen Ende der 420er Jahre v. Chr., und seine Odysseis lassen sich keinesfalls als ein für die Mittlere Komödie „typisches“ Stück auffassen.56 Bemerkenswert ist vor allem, dass dieser Text keinen einzigen der Dichter der Mittleren Komödie mehr zu kennen scheint, die man sowohl in den Prolegomena III als auch bei Athenaios (Ende des 2. Jh.s n. Chr.) noch findet; stattdessen versucht er (gleichsam „ersatzweise“), die späteren Schaffensjahre des

56

Zu den Odysseis vgl. Nesselrath (1990: 236–239); zu weiteren historischen Ungenauigkeiten und Fehlern des Platonios vgl. Nesselrath (1990: 31–34).

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Aristophanes und des Kratinos57 als Zeit einer „typischen“ Mittleren Komödie einzuführen. Ein weiterer Text, die sogenannten Prolegomena de Comoedia IV Koster, zeigt ganz ähnliche Tendenzen. Er beschreibt zunächst die Anfänge der Komödie aus nächtlichen Spottgesängen in Dörfern (κῶμαι – dies soll den Νamen „Kom­ödie“ erklären), die Übeltäter bloßstellten; dies habe so sehr gefallen, dass man die Komödie als schrankenlose „Tadel­Institution“ öffentlich etabliert habe (Z. 1–11). Dann aber habe die Schlechtigkeit immer mehr zugenommen; die Reichen und Herrschenden hätten den uneingeschränkten Spott in der Komödie unterbunden und zunächst nur noch indirekt­insinuierenden zugelassen, später aber auch diesen verboten und Witze nur noch gegen Fremde und Angehörige der Unterschicht erlaubt (Z. 12–15); insgesamt wird die politische Entwicklung, die zur Wandlung der Komödien führte, noch schematischer und abstrakter skizziert als bei Platonios. Zum Abschluss werden Protagonisten für die drei Komödienepochen genannt: für die „erste“ Aristophanes und Eupolis, für die „zweite“ Platon (der Komödiendichter, nicht der Philosoph), für die dritte Menander (Z. 16 f.). Es ist sehr bezeichnend, dass auch dieser Text – wie Platonios – keinen wirklichen Vertreter einer „Mittleren Komödie“ mehr kennt, sondern den Komödiendichter Platon nennt, der sowohl zeitlich (er ist ein etwas jüngerer Zeitgenosse des Aristophanes) als auch von der Art seiner Stücke her noch ganz in die „Alte Komödie“ gehört.58 Hier ist also keine wirkliche Kenntnis der historischen Entwicklung vorhanden, sondern es wird irgendwie die (offenbar traditionelle) Vorstellung einer Dreiteilung so gut es geht angewandt. Dagegen sehen die sogenannten Prolegomena de Comoedia V Koster vom Politischen als konstitutivem Element der Komödienentwicklung wieder weitgehend ab (und stehen damit eher in der Tradition der Prolegomena III): Hier wird gleich zu Anfang eine Dreiteilung der Komödie konstatiert, dann aber wird merkwürdigerweise nur eine Reihe von Unterschieden zwischen einer „Neuen“ und einer „Alten“ Komödie ausgeführt, und die „Mittlere“ bleibt ein bloßer Name (Z. 1–10). Dann folgt eine interne Differenzierung der „Alten“ Komödie: In ihrer Urform (mit der als Protagonist der Name des Dich-

57

58

Nach dem Beginn der Sizilischen Expedition 415 v. Chr., weil da Eupolis angeblich umkam (vgl. oben) ? Aber da war ja auch schon Kratinos tot ... Zu Platon vgl. Nesselrath (1990: 35–37); Pirrotta (2009: 59). Dagegen stellt Rosen (1995) an Platon Züge heraus, die seiner Meinung nach die Ansicht antiker Texte, dass Platon ein Vertreter der Mittleren Komödie gewesen sei, rechtfertigen könnten, und betont seine „importance ... in the transition from Old to Middle Comedy“ (1995: 137).

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ters Sannyrion59 verbunden wird) geht es dieser Komödie nur um die Erzeugung von „Gelächter“ (es ist nicht von politischem Spott die Rede) (Z. 11–15). Dann aber tritt Kratinos auf und bringt die bisher sehr regellose Komödie „in Form“, indem er z. B. die Drei­Schauspieler­Regel einführt;60 außerdem fügt er dem „Anmutigen“ (d. h. dem Scherztreiben) das „Nützliche“ hinzu, indem er die Komödie zum Züchtigungsinstrument gegen schlechte Bürger macht (hier kommt nun also das Politische sekundär hinein) (Z. 15–19). Die immer noch vorhandenen Reste von „Altertümlichkeit“ und „Unordnung“ beseitigt dann Aristophanes und führt die Komödie gewissermaßen zur Vollendung (d. h. er verwirklicht, aristotelisch gesprochen, ihre Entelechie), indem er mit seinem Plutos ein Stück schafft, das zum Vorbild auch der späteren (d. h. der Neuen) Komödie wird: „Sein Stück Plutos führt eine Neuerung hinsichtlich seiner Handlungsgestaltung (πλάσμα) ein; es hat nämlich eine ‚gleichsam wahre‘ [ὡς ἀληθής, d. h. lebensnah­wahrscheinliche] Handlung und verfügt nicht (mehr) über Chorpartien, was Eigenschaften der neueren [nicht: der Neuen] Komödie sind.“61 Es ist bemerkenswert, wie hier zum einen anstelle einer dreiteiligen Entwicklung, die über die Alte Komödie hinaus bis zu Menanders Zeit führt, eine dreiteilige Entwicklung innerhalb der Alten Komödie tritt, und wie zum anderen diese Evolution eine wirkliche Höherentwicklung skizziert, die in Aristophanes als Vorwegnehmer der ganzen späteren Komödie kulminiert. Aristotelisch gesprochen erreicht die Komödie also mit Aristophanes die ihr bestimmte φύσις.62 Die drei in diesem Abschnitt vorgestellten Texte63 haben gemeinsam, dass sie deutliches aristotelisch­peripatetisches Erbe zeigen; von Aristoteles angefangen hatte ja auch der Peripatos sich immer für Literaturgeschichte interessiert. Aristoteles freilich hatte – wie am Anfang gesehen – an seinem historischen Standpunkt noch nicht drei, sondern nur zwei Komödienepochen unterscheiden können, und es scheint, dass seine Schule dies nicht selbständig zu einer Dreiteilung weiterentwickelt hat. Die drei hier vorge59

60

61

62

63

Dies könnte eine Korruptel für den sonst in diesem Zusammenhang mehrfach genannten Susarion sein; vgl. Nesselrath (1990: 51). Kratinos wird hier gleichsam zum „Sophokles“ der attischen Komödie; vgl. Nesselrath (1990: 53 + Anm. 62). Prolegomena de Comoedia V Koster, Z. 24–26: τὸ τούτου δρᾶμα ὁ Πλοῦτος νεωτερίζει κατὰ τὸ (25) πλάσμα· τήν τε γὰρ ὑπόθεσιν ὡς ἀληθῆ ἔχει καὶ χορῶν ἐστέρηται, ὅπερ τῆς νεωτέρας ὑπῆρχε κωμῳδίας. Vgl. Arist. Poet. 4 p. 1449a14 f.: πολλὰς μεταβολὰς μεταβαλοῦσα τραγῳδία ἐπαύσατο, ἐπεὶ ἔσχε τὴν αὑτῆς φύσιν. Hinzugefügt werden könnte noch ein Text aus den Scholien zu Dionysios Thrax (I 3 p. 18,13–20,12 Hilgard); vgl. dazu Nesselrath (1990: 36–38).

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stellten Texte –  die kaum früher als die spätere Kaiserzeit oder Spätantike sein können  – enthalten zwar eine Komödiendreiteilung, doch wirkt diese entweder recht schematisch übergestülpt und passt damit nicht so recht zu den anderen Inhalten dieser Texte, oder sie ist recht kreativ auf Neues bezogen (wie die Dreiteilung der Alten Komödie in den zuletzt behandelten Prolegomena V). Dies könnte darauf hinweisen, dass eine Komödiendreiteilung in der Tat nicht vom Peripatos, sondern von der alexandrinischen Philologie entwickelt wurde, dann aber als „Topos“ der Komödienentwicklung sich so fest etablierte, dass diesen Topos auch Texte übernahmen, die sonst eigentlich in aristotelischer Tradition standen.

Athenaeus’ Aristophanes and the Problem of Reconstructing Lost Comedies S. Douglas Olson

The primary material with which the papers in this volume are concerned is the thousands of generally very brief, disconnected fragments of Greek comedy. All of us working in the field are concerned to recover something real and “true” about these fragments, and thus about the dramatic genre or genres they represent and the society that produced them. What I propose to do below is to use the fragments of Aristophanes’ eleven preserved comedies quoted in Athenaeus’ Learned Banqueters to consider some ways in which such efforts can go wrong, in particular when we ask questions to which the ancient sources allow no answers or trust them when we cannot. Many readers will think immediately of K. J. Dover’s famous attempt to carry out a cognate experiment with the various bits and piece of Frogs found in various ancient sources,1 although Dover’s conclusions  –  cautious though they are  –  strike me as far too optimistic about which aspects of the play might be recovered had we nothing but these “Frogments”. I argue in any case that systematic examination of the fragments of the preserved comedies in Athenaeus makes clear that reconstruction of the plots of lost comedies is almost inevitably doomed to failure by the poverty of our sources, on the one hand, and by the unrepresentative nature of the material preserved for us, on the other. A substantial further implication of this is that we must be exceedingly cautious when trying to reconstruct the tendencies of individual poets, periods, and the like. This is particularly true of the comedy of the first three­quarters of the 4th century (the so­called “Middle Comedy”), for which Athenaeus is far and away our most significant source. The principle is nonetheless more broadly applicable, and has to do with the nature of the sources we have inherited from antiquity. My results are not intended to be discouraging so much as to suggest that we must think carefully and strategically about where and how to best invest our energy in this exceedingly rich but exceedingly problematic and badly damaged primary material.

1

K. J. Dover, “Frogments”, in: David Harvey and John Wilkins (eds.), The Rivals of Aristophanes (London, 2000), pp. xvii–xix.

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1. Athenaeus of Naucratis and the Nature of the Experiment Nothing is known of Athenaeus of Naucratis except what can be extracted from his one surviving work, the Deipnosophistai or Learned Banqueters, which is the tale of a long, elaborate dinner­party – really a series of dinner­ parties  –  held in Rome around the year 200 of our era, in the house of a wealthy Roman named Larensius. The guests are a group of expatriate Greek intellectuals, and the text is supposedly an account of their conversation, which consists of an almost non­stop series of quotations from ancient Greek literature, in particular comedy. The nominal topics of discussion at these dinners are the various items of food and drink that are brought to the table, the entertainment that is provided, and the like. But the real subject is luxury in all its manifestations. No over­arching “argument” is apparent. Instead, the reader is offered a transcript of a cacophonous, ill­disciplined conversation among the dinner­guests and the texts they quote, a diverse “banquet of words”, as Athenaeus himself several times describes it. Since Athenaeus was from Egypt, he may have had access at some point to the Library in Alexandria or to portions of it, but he must also have used the personal library of his patron Larensius, which the introductory sections of the Learned Banqueters describe – flatteringly, but surely not entirely inaccurately – as enormous (1.3a–b).2 What texts the historical Athenaeus saw, and where he saw them, remains obscure. What matters for us is that the quotations he preserves are a fundamental source for hundreds of ancient authors. Many of these, such as the epistolographer and anecdotalist Lynceus of Samos, the gastronomic parodist Archestratus of Gela, the grammarian Agallis of Corcyra, and the comic poet Ephippus, are preserved exclusively in Athenaeus or in sources that draw from him. Many other authors are preserved partially or almost entirely by Athenaeus: two­thirds or more of the fragments of the comic poets Alexis, Amphis, Anaxilas, Anaxandrides, and Antiphanes, for example, to offer only a subset of names that begin with alpha, are drawn from the Learned Banqueters. Athenaeus thus stands at what is in some ways the most important point in the history of the texts with which this volume is concerned: virtually the last known historical figure who may actually have read hundreds of now lost comedies complete, but also almost at the very beginning of what is for us today a long, frustrating trail of disembodied quotations, citations of odd words, plot summaries, and the like. If everything we have of e. g. Archedicus, Matro of Pitana, or Macho 2

For the historical Athenaeus and his patron, see Braund, in: David Braund and John Wilkins (eds.), Athenaeus and his world: reading Greek culture in the Roman Empire (Exeter, 2000), pp. 3–22.

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comes from the Learned Banqueters, it is difficult to control the situation in any way that lets us see what we are missing, even if we are certainly missing something. What I propose to do below is to provide that control, at least in the case of comedy. To set the stage (as it were) for this argument, I begin not with Aristophanes but with Herodotus. 2. “The Fragments of Herodotus” in the Learned Banqueters Section I of my Appendix represents Book 1 of Herodotus’ Histories as it might be reconstructed on the basis of excerpts preserved in the Learned Banqueters. I should point out from the first that I have stacked the deck in our favor – which is to say, in favor of Athenaeus and Herodotus – by including a number of fragments that we know are from Book 1, but that are assigned in The Learned Banqueters simply to “Herodotus (generally)”. In Jacoby’s Fragmente der griechischen Historiker, these would be “fragments without book­ number”. But some might have been given to Book 1 by conjecture, so to be generous, and for the sake of the argument, I include them here. Athenaeus’ “fragments of Herodotus” fall into two broad areas of geographical interest; since there are a number of them and they span a broad range of time, I submit that it would seem a “reasonable assumption” that they represent a rough sample of the contents and concerns of Book 1. Four fragments (my “A fragments”) concern the early kings of Lydia, and are arranged in the Appendix in chronological order, following the general principles of Jacoby. Fr. 1 notes that there was a famine in the time of Atys, and indicates an interest in coordinating cultural and historical developments in the Lydian world with those in Greece. Fr. 2 refers to a dedication at Delphi by Atys’ successor Alyattes, and thus appears to represent additional evidence of Herodotus’ interest in links between Greece and Lydia. Fr. 3 treats Lydian military practices and might perhaps be connected with fr. 4, part of an anecdote about an anonymous king’s war (or contemplated war) against people from a rough and rugged land. Athenaeus’ observation here, that Herodotus was actively interested in figs and the benefits they bring, is particularly intriguing, for all ten of Athenaeus’ fragments of Herodotus in fact have to do with food, games, music, or expensive vessels, and the impression that emerges is that Book 1 of the Histories was intensely focused on social practices and the easy Lydian lifestyle, and on food and drink in particular. The Greek world, meanwhile, seemingly functioned as an “other”, a point of reference but nothing more. That actual Greeks figured at all in Book 1 is not apparent.

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The second set of fragments (my “B fragments”), all having to do with Persia, confirm these impressions. Fr. 5 is a lengthy comparison of Greek and Persian banqueting customs, which presents the Persians as actively comparing their own practices to Greek practices, to the disadvantage of the Greeks. But the fragment also shows the historian himself engaging in the same activity, and it is difficult not to hear in his observation that Persians do not vomit or urinate in front of one another a bit of quiet censure of the cruder practices of their less­civilized Hellenic neighbors. In that light, it is worth asking whether the point of fr. 6 is that the Persian king drinks exclusively water from the Choapses River or that he drinks only water, particularly given the claim in fr. 7 that drinking wine makes a man abusive and crazy. If one follows this line of argument, fr. 8 might be taken as further evidence of the problematic effect of contacts with the Greek world; perhaps the Persians learned not just pederasty but how to drink (frr. 5 and 7) from their neighbors to the west. The subject of the final two fragments is again “food” broadly writ: in fr. 9, the palm­trees around Babylon and how they are fertilized and their fruit used, and in fr. 10, sacrificial animals. The attention to figs in lines 4–8 of fr. 9 seemingly confirms Athenaeus’ claim in fr. 4 that the fruit was a subject of particular interest to Herodotus, while the implication of the combination of frr. 10 and 2 is that Easterners are at least as pious as Greeks, perhaps more so. What we have preserved of Herodotus Book 1 in the Learned Banqueters thus “leaves little doubt”, one might be inclined to say did one not know the Histories themselves, that the work was fundamentally ethnographic in character, with a thin “historical” overlay or framework. Nominally, Herodotus treated various kings, wars, and the like. But his real topic in Book 1 was how the Lydians and the Persians lived: what they ate and drank, the resources at their disposal, and how they managed and organized their desires, but also the games they played, the clothes they wore, the instruments they listened to, and the sacrifices they made. The focus of the work was on the East, with the Greeks serving only as occasional interlocutors or, better put, corrupters: Alyattes makes offerings in Delphi, while the Greeks introduce pederasty in Persia, vomiting and urinating their way through their own ugly symposia. Closely linked to this is a strong moralizing focus: the historian emerges as interested in good and bad behavior, and in folly and wisdom and their consequences; fr. 7 is particularly revealing in this regard. “Initial advantage Persia”, one might say; and if Persia lost the great battles of the early 5th century BCE, one might easily hypothesize that Herodotus assigned responsibility for that turn of events to the way in which Hellenic depravity gradually undermined the old states and peoples to the east. In any case, the

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Histories were really a history of luxury and of all that goes into creating and maintaining – and perhaps losing – a culture of luxury. Finally, we might reasonably speculate that the Herodotus of the Histories is to be identified with Herodotus of Lycia, several brief fragments of whose On Figs are preserved at Athenaeus 2.75f, 78c–d. Some of the connections and hypotheses advanced above may be foolish. But none of them obviously pushes the evidence much more aggressively than reconstructions of lost comedies routinely do, and the fact remains that the picture of Herodotus Book 1 that can be derived from what survives of the work in the Learned Banqueters is profoundly wrong. A few major themes of the historian’s work are represented in one way or another: the “wise advisor” in fr. 3, for example, and the moralizing character of the Histories as a whole. But the general picture is badly, seemingly incurably distorted. The problem is in part a matter of content; inter alia, Athenaeus preserves none of Herodotus’ references in Book 1 to the Athenians and the Spartans, or to Croesus, Solon, and Cyrus. The distinctly “Greek” focus of the narrative has also vanished, as has its deep concern with the sources of the great, defining conflict between East and West, while the alleged fascination with figs is an illusion. But the real problem is that the intellectual focus of the fragments is misplaced: what Athenaeus has preserved is a collection of trivialities, weakly embedded in a vague and ultimately misleading historical and geographic framework. If what we have in Section I of the Appendix might reasonably be called fragments of a history of luxury rather than of the events leading up to the Persian Wars, that is because these are better conceived of as fragments of Athenaeus than of Herodotus. What various kings and nationalities eat, and drink; the types of parties they throw; the musical instruments they listen to; their sexual practices; and the consequences of such behavior for individual careers and the history of states – those are Athenaeus’ themes, and they have fundamentally shaped his selection of material from Herodotus Book 1. Similar, and for our purposes even more disturbing tendencies can be seen in the case of Aristophanes. 3. “The Fragments of Aristophanes” in the Learned Banqueters Section II of my Appendix is an edition of the fragments of the preserved plays of Aristophanes as we have them in the Learned Banqueters, given in the alphabetical order of the Greek titles, as in Kassel­Austin. We actually know, of course, what went on in all these comedies. But what I propose to do is to pretend that that information is lost, and to try to put the plays together as best we can on the basis of the Athenaean “fragments”.

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I begin with Acharnians, fr. 1 of which comes with a brief introduction in which Athenaeus or his source tells us that the reference is to “the magnificence of the barbarians”. A fortuitous overlap with fr. 5a of Herodotus Book 1 allows for the hypothesis that the barbarians in question are Persians, and that what is being celebrated is a Persian birthday; Herodotus’ fundamental claim, after all, is that whole roasted animals were not served on an everyday basis but on this day alone, and only by the rich. Speaker A in Aristophanes fr.  1, who was entertained by a wealthy Persian (or so he says), refers in verse 4 to Cleonymus and is thus most likely an Athenian. The nationality of Speaker B – who is consistently dubious of Speaker A’s claims, including by saying in the final line “The bird was called a ‘Gull’” – is unclear. That Speaker B does not engage directly with Speaker A suggests, at any rate, that he is a bomolochus (a “mocker”); since we know from Herodotus that Speaker A’s claims are not as ridiculous as they might seem, Speaker B must be wrong, and one wonders if the dispute between the two men goes somehow to the core of the action. In any case, who Speaker A is addressing is uncertain, but a third character is certainly onstage. The remaining fragments consistently suggest a great assembling, display, and vetting of banquet materials. In fr. 2, an eel is exhibited; the adjective “powerful” (κρατίστη) used of it often appears in political and social contexts, so perhaps it is predicated of the food by transference from the man whose meal this is, or from the group that has contributed it. In any case, the eel is certainly being tested for compliance to recognized high standards. In fr. 3, a piglet is described. In this case, its size appears to be in dispute and it has been judged deficient – it seems to be missing a crucial part (a sufficiently long tail perhaps?). But equally intriguing is the Doric coloring of the Greek: someone has come from the Peloponnesian side, with a problematic contribution to the meal. Nor was he or she the only “enemy character” in Acharnians, for fr.  4 shows that a “roll­eating Boeotian” also took part in the action, and fr. 5 suggests that water­birds of all sorts were fetched from Megara (an odd, perhaps fantastic detail). The catalogue of cakes in fr. 6 fits easily in this context; perhaps the “roll­eating” Boeotian has brought or will make them. Fr. 7 refers once again to a banqueting or symposium context, but the vessel in question is small and damaged, so this may have been another questionable or even rejected contribution, like the piglet in fr. 4. We know from Thucydides that the rural deme of Acharnai was hard hit by Spartan ravaging in the early years of the Peloponnesian War, and enough emerges from the fragments preserved in Athenaeus to suggest that Acharnians was a panHellenic peace­play, with food collected from all over the Greek world, and the various contributions scrutinized but doubtless all accepted in the

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end. It also seems clear that this was all done on the model of similar happy events in the Persian world. Perhaps the hero was Speaker A in fr. 1, the sort of man who had in fact been to Persia, facing but ultimately overcoming the reservations of less well­traveled and thus less sophisticated individuals, for the common good. Frogs, the second play in the corpus, is almost entirely obscure, throwing us back on the evidence of the title. The obvious parallels are Wasps – except that we know nothing from Athenaeus about the role the eponymous insects took in that play – and Birds, about the plot of which we have a few crucial bits of information, discussed below. On that basis, one might conjecture a visit by the hero or heroes of Frogs to Frogland; it may thus be significant that the instruments said to be used in place of a lyre in fr. 8 are shells. The heroes, or their new frog friends or enemies, may accordingly have danced a “swamp­dance”, or have joked about people in Athens behaving just like them in their new home, or the like. But beyond that we cannot responsibly go. Slightly more can be said about the third play, Peace. Someone proposed sailing somewhere in a Naxian­made ship (fr. 9), not an Athenian one; physical abuse, in one case of women in particular, figured in the story (frr. 10 and 11); the poet Melanthius was disparaged for his gluttony (fr. 12); and a bit of back­and­forth about banqueting took place, with one character interrogating another about drinking vessels (fr. 13) and an order issued to buy salt­ fish (fr. 14), intriguingly for consumption in the countryside. The “homebred quail” in fr.  15 may also have been on the menu for this meal, so perhaps someone was asked to fetch them from his house or farm. Given the reconstruction of Acharnians argued for above, the plot of Peace as well might easily have involved a gathering of Greeks, including in this case islanders (and thus “allies”), for a great feast of reconciliation somewhere outside Athens’ city walls, with everyone – including Melanthius? or not including Melanthius? –  invited, and with all parties contributing from what they or their land had at its disposal, or would have had if there were peace. More can be done with Knights. Fr. 16, in trochaic tetrameters, seemingly refers to the Athenian knights themselves, although intriguingly in the third person; perhaps the chorus are actually referring to enemy cavalry. (Note that the ‘canteen­cup’ was particularly associated with Spartans.) Frr. 17–20, esp. frr.  17–18, make it clear that one character in Knights was a sausageseller and another a sycophant. In the case of frr. 17–18, Athenaeus tells us expressly that fr. 18 came after fr. 17 (καὶ ἑξῆς), so they must belong to the same scene. Indeed, the second fragment is easily understood as following directly upon the first: the sycophant threatens the sausage­seller with false

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charges, and the sausage­seller asks to be left alone. The shift in meter suggests that fr. 19 belongs to a different scene, perhaps the same as frr. 21 and 22, both likewise in iambic tetrameter, and some sort of dynamic of “seafood vs. beef” appears to emerge from the text. Frr. 23–5 make it apparent that prophecies, at least some of them from Bakis, also played a role in Knights. The corruption in fr. 23 makes it impossible to be sure what sort of snake was in question in this prophecy. But fr.  25 is better preserved, so perhaps the beleaguered sausage­seller of frr. 17–18 was offered a reward by the god if he undertook to do something, for example stand up to sycophants and other trouble­makers. The evidence of Athenaeus thus suggests that one central theme of the play was the petty corruption of Athenian political and social life by informers, and that it showed an average, peaceful citizen deciding to resist such harassment, with the support of the gods and presumably of the chorus as well. Doubtless the tone was morally uplifting. Very little can be said about the fragments of Assemblywomen, Thesmophoriazusae, and Lysistrata, all of which are badly represented in Athenaeus. The three brief fragments of the first play have to do with anointing with perfume, figs, and bread. This may thus have been another banquet­comedy, like Acharnians and Peace; or the women may have “assembled” only in order to have a good time; or perhaps they met to pass laws about dining, in which case fr. 29 is part of an order or complaint addressed to the city’s men about their proposed contribution to the dinner. As for the garlands in fr. 31 from Thesmophoriazusae, they are most economically explained as intended for use in the Thesmophoria festival that gave the play its title. The fragments of Lysistrata, finally, allow us to say little more about the plot than that it combined persuasion (and thus presumably rhetoric) and drinking (fr. 32). Fr. 33 is expressly called a pun by Athenaeus and is certainly obscene, the “sea­squirt” being an erect, ejaculating phallus, and the “nettle­mommy” a vagina. As for the title, an obvious possibility is that the heroine of the play was a female counterpart of the Athenian politician Lysistratus of Cholargus, whose floruit belongs in the 420s BCE, giving us a rough date for the drama. We appear to be on slightly more solid ground with Clouds. The gloss that accompanies fr. 34 shows that an old man got an education in basic natural history from another character. One might compare fr. 35, in which someone asks to be made into sausage for “the thinkers”, although the remark is difficult to understand; perhaps the words belong to a talking animal. It is in any case worth pointing out in this connection that there is no positive evidence whatsoever in favor of the thesis that fr.  61, cited by Athenaeus without a play­title and referring to Socrates and Chaerephon, belongs to Clouds; whatever sort of education was offered in this play, it was patently

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not Socratic. One would like to know how Speaker A in fr. 34 could reach old age without learning the difference between a rooster and a hen, but perhaps he was an urban character who had to be introduced to “real life” in the countryside. The reference to pheasants (or horses) in fr. 36, and certainly to horses in fr. 37, and the identity of the chorus, perhaps as bringers of rain, are all intriguingly suggestive in this connection. If Speaker A in fr.  34 is notably naive about rural affairs, the first speaker in fr. 38 is similarly baffled by basic details of political life. Perhaps it was not just the old man from the city who got an education, therefore, but a young man from the country whom he educated in turn; note the suggestion here that corruption may have been a theme in this play, as in Knights. Or in these plays, one might better say, for the lemmata to frr. 38–40 show that Athenaeus knew two plays entitled Clouds by Aristophanes, and the question becomes whether he distinguished consistently between them. Despite the efforts up to this point to make comprehensive sense of the fragments, therefore, we may in the case of Clouds have tattered bits and pieces of a pair of comedies, not necessarily connected in any way except their title. The same may be true of Wealth (see fr. 49), although in that case there is less to get jumbled up or to make sense of. Finally, one incredible, fortuitous detail, which is that fr. 40 (from Clouds) appears to refer to fr.  22 (from Knights), although it remains unclear who “imitated my image of the eels”, i. e. by throwing the city into complete and constant turmoil; perhaps corrupt political figures like those referred to in fr. 38. At any rate, Knights must be earlier than Clouds – or earlier than one Clouds or another. For Birds, we have a substantial ancient scholarly summary of the plot, introducing fr. 42. Two old men are seeking a quiet city to settle in, and have decided to live with the birds. When abruptly attacked (or at least startled) by a fierce­looking bird on their arrival in Birdland, they exchange the words that follow. The text is corrupt, but one old man must be interrogating the other about the terrible creature they have just seen, and it is accordingly worth considering whether the “guard bird” was a character in the play at all or merely something one of the visitors saw or claimed to see. Regardless of what has gone wrong in verse 2, the speaker says that he is already a bird, so part of the preparation for moving to Birdland has apparently been to don bird­costumes in advance. One wonders whether frr. 43 and 44 are part of the same, badly battered conversation. Or do the two characters not even know one another until they come into contact at the beginning of Birds, having both had the same crazy idea? The general outline of the plot of Wealth is similarly summarized in the introduction to fr. 47. The idea seems quite bland – the god merely “appears”,

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and the world changes  –  but the surviving fragments all have to do with feasting, so perhaps most of the play concerned the banquet whose preparations are referred to in fr. 47, with particular attention to the question of who had once been hungry but now was rich, and vice versa (frr. 48–9). That this was the case is suggested by what survives of Wasps, which was clearly a banquet­ or symposium­education play (thus the introduction to frr. 51–2). Indeed, in this one, unique case we have enough bits and pieces of the text to posit a series of logically connected actions: a preparation scene, in which preferences for the great meal are discussed or debated (frr. 51–4); an actual onstage meal and drinking party (frr. 55–7); and a retrospective account of the event by one or more characters, describing their own behavior and that of others (frr. 57–8). Note also the fascinating fr. 56, apparently featuring talking food of a type well­known e. g. from Crates fr. 16. 4. An Evaluation As most readers of this paper will already be aware, the reconstructions of Aristophanes’ plays offered above  –  like the reconstruction of Herodotus Book 1 put forward in Section 2 – are all strikingly wrong. In some cases, the evidence might have been put together in a different fashion, which is to say that I might have “guessed better” about the contents and action of the plays. One could also argue – indeed, I show below – that I have often overreached in terms of what I have done with the material preserved for us in the Learned Banqueters. What matters more, however, are the ways in which these reconstructions have gone wrong, and why. If we treat the “fragments of Aristophanes” in Athenaeus as a test case, in other words, what can we do, and what ought we probably not to do, when confronted with similar fragments of genuinely “lost” Greek comedies? To begin once again with Acharnians, fr. 1 is not about a Persian birthday party, despite Herodotus, although it is about Persian hospitality as experienced by an Athenian ambassador. The second half of the fifth line, as given in the Appendix, is misassigned – all of it belongs to Speaker A – and that misassignment in turn has distorted the dynamic of the conversation, making Speaker B (who is in fact the hero, Dicaeopolis) seem to be much more of a bomolochus than he really is. The most substantial, consistent problem with the reading of the fragments of Acharnians offered above, however, was the thesis that almost all the other fragments were part of “a great assembling, display, and vetting of banquet materials”. There is some feasting in the play, and a Boeotian does come onstage, as does a Megarian Doric­speaker. But the verses preserved in the Learned Banqueters are drawn from a random scatter

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of scenes and contexts in the play and do not belong together. Even worse (because this is not our fault), Athenaeus has offered us a combination of actively and passively bad information. κρατίστην in fr. 2, on which I tried to build a minor interpretative point, is a false reading – at least, the manuscript tradition of Aristophanes’ play has the metrically indifferent ἀρίστην – and despite fr. 5a, the poet does not say that the ἀτταγᾶς was common in Megara, but includes it in a catalogue of birds imported from Boeotia. Fr. 3, finally, is in its original context obscene, something that would be very difficult to get from Athenaeus’ presentation of the material. As for Frogs, the reconstruction based on the model of Birds is more or less entirely incorrect. Argument from analogy did not work in this regard, and it was unfortunate that fr.  8 seemed to support it  –  particularly since Aristophanes does not even use the word κογχύλια in his play. The reconstruction of Peace failed in some of the same ways as the reconstruction of Acharnians. The “Naxian­made ship” is a joke that has nothing to do with ships. The same is true of the “homebred quail”, which are not quail at all but a metaphorical reference to human beings. Fr. 13, meanwhile, is so corrupt that it could never be successfully restored, and the potentially significant imperative in fr. 15 is actually not an imperative at all. Once again, some of the reconstructed “themes” for Peace – an end to the war and feasting – were not entirely wrong, although the former is obvious from the title, and the latter is a safe guess for almost any comedy. But the attempt to fit together the various bits and pieces of the text preserved by Athenaeus into a “plot” was misguided, which is to say unsuccessful: the result is nothing like the play Aristophanes wrote. The case of the reconstructed Knights is not much better. We can identify one character (the sausage­seller) and the chorus – although fr. 16 does not in fact refer to the knights but to their horses, and it is difficult to see how one could discover that from what we have. But Demos is missing from the fragments; we get no sense of the plot as a whole; and the reconstructed “argument” (or call it what you will) involving a decent, hard­working citizen standing up for himself and society is out and out wrong, for the fundamental joke in the real Knights is that the sausage-seller is worse than his opponent. In this case, moreover, we are actively misled by Athenaeus, according to whom fr. 18 follows directly after fr. 17. In fact, fr. 17 is lines 302–4 of Knights, and fr. 18 is lines 160–1, and they have nothing to do with one another. Sorting by meter turns out to be useful, at least for less common meters like iambic tetrameter: frr. 19, 21, and 22 do in fact all go together. Sorting by “theme” is less effective: the oracular material in frr. 23–5 is not part of a single scene, and phrases like Athenaeus’ κἀν τῷ αὐτῷ δὲ ἔφη (“he said also in the same

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play”) mean nothing more than that: somewhere else in the same play these words appeared. In the case of Assemblywomen, Thesmophoriazusae, and Lysistrata, even the most obvious deductions from the titles told us little that is significant about the plots, although the prosopographically oriented guess about Lysistratus and Lysistrata was particularly bad. Fr. 29 has nothing to do with figs, or at least very little, and is instead an obscenity, while fr. 33 is not an obscenity; how one could be aware of either fact without access to the complete text is unclear. Fr. 31 also has the first two words transposed, and although there is no effect on the meaning of the line in this case, the change would be undetectable if we did not have the complete play, and it raises the possibility – or likelihood – that many such errors lurk undetected elsewhere. The situation with Clouds is even more astonishing: from what Athenaeus preserves for us, we would have no idea that the play had anything to do with Socrates. Clouds is an education play, but it is not a play about an urban character pushed into the countryside (quite the contrary), and all the scattered references to birds and horses and clouds do not make it such. Nor are the speakers of the various fragments who they appeared to be, and in fr. 34 the words as I have given them in the Appendix are not even properly divided between the speakers. The issue of the two versions of Clouds is a red herring, at least in the sense that all the lines preserved by Athenaeus are included in the version we have complete, and the same is true of Wealth. Nor is political corruption a significant issue in Clouds, despite fr. 38. Fr. 40 of Clouds does refer to fr. 22 of Knights, and there the reconstruction was correct. But that the reference in Clouds is to other comic poets allegedly stealing Aristophanes’ material would probably not be the first interpretation a naïve reader would offer of the passage. With Birds, the ancient scholarly summary of the play is invaluable, except that it cannot be trusted in matters of detail, since fr. 42.1 is spoken not by one of the old men but by the Hoopoe’s bird­servant. This confusion leads easily and naturally to a series of bad deductions and false problems. The men are not already costumed as birds, for example, and frr. 43 and 44 are neither part of the same scene nor even closely connected to one another. Something similar has happened with Wealth: the “plot summary” does not really summarize the plot, and once again we have a hint at “two versions”, even though all of Athenaeus’ fragments come from the play preserved for us. So too in the case of Wasps, the ancient scholarly summary of the action preserved along with frr. 51–2 is not strictly speaking “wrong”; anyone who knows the play will see that the adjectives ἄγριος καὶ φιλοδικαστής used to describe Philocleon are highly significant. But neither is it adequate or even

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really appropriate to call Wasps a “banquet­ or symposium­education play”, which is what the ancient commentator’s remarks seemingly require us to do, leading to the slippery slope in which all the remaining fragments are painstaking re­assembled into a structure that never was. 5. Conclusions and Directions From time to time, the fragments of Aristophanes preserved in Athenaeus suggest, we can identify individual characters in lost plays and make limited sense of their interactions with one another – although most often we are able to do so only when we have help of one sort or another. One enterprise we appear to be very bad at is recovering plots, even when we have (say) 8 or 10 fragments of a play along with hints of various sorts from ancient sources. One need think only of Clouds (with no hint of Socrates) or Wasps (with no recognizable evidence that the play concerned itself with the Athenian court system) to see that this is so. In both cases, a few basic elements of the plot, even if badly misunderstood – sophistic education in the case of Clouds, training in symposium procedures in the case of Wasps – can be identified. But that is all, and many other seemingly reasonable hypotheses about the contents of the plays turn out to be colossally, horrifyingly wrong. And when all we have is a title, we are reduced to desperate shots in the dark: the plot of Frogs, for example, is utterly inscrutable on the basis of the fragments in Athenaeus, as is that of Lysistrata. Even in a case like Knights, being able to guess the identity of the chorus, and perhaps even to find a fragment referring to its behavior, is of no help for recovering the plot of the play as whole. Plot reconstruction, therefore, must be taken off the table: except in the most extraordinary circumstances, for example when we have a papyrus fragment of a hypothesis, this is something we cannot do – or, better put, something we cannot do correctly, even when it is tempting to believe we can. Even when we attempt only to reconstruct plot “elements”, scenes, series of lines and conversations, or the like, there is no apparent benefit to trying to make all the various bits and pieces of a play fit together in a coherent way. The temptation is obvious: if fr. A patently refers to a symposium, there is an overwhelming impulse to integrate frr. B and C, which might also refer to a symposium, with it into a small bit of dramatic or descriptive action; and if fr. D is spoken by an identifiable character, and fr. E might continue the remark, or be a response to it, the lines fall together by means of something approaching philological gravity. But again and again in the case of the fragments of Aristophanes’ plays preserved in the Learned Banqueters, this approach proves to be a failure. The material we have comes from widely

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scattered contexts in the plays, not from favored individual scenes, and most of it seems to have been selected for “hard philological reasons” – the use of a specific rare word, for example, or a reference to an important custom or person – without any real “literary” orientation. Attempts at reconstruction that assume that the broken pieces of a comedy we have can be made to fit neatly together as part of a coherent, logical whole thus approach the problem from a misguided direction, and the cleverer the scheme, and the more elaborate the effort to give all the fragments a significant place within it, the more likely it is to be wrong. In a few isolated cases, we are helped in the process of reconstruction by ancient scholarly comments on fragments. In every case, these are remarks about scenes rather than plot-summaries. Wasps contains a symposium education scene, but is not a “symposium education play”, and the summary of the opening scene of Birds tells us nothing about what went on in the comedy after that. But even in such cases, the ancient scholarship is often wrong in matters of detail. The two old men visiting Birdland do not speak both lines preserved in fr. 42; Aristophanes does not claim in fr. 5 that the ἀτταγᾶς is common in Megara; and fr. 18 does not follow directly after fr. 17 in Knights. And where simple ancient carelessness is not involved, our own ignorance can still make it difficult to see the point. Thus in the case of the φιλοδικαστής old man in the introductory comments to frr. 51–2 of Wasps: who would ever guess how important the adjective is or (more important) who would be taken seriously by other scholars if he did make such a suggestion? To all this must be added the fact that texts are often quoted incorrectly, sometimes in a form that could never be emended effectively (for example, fr. 13, from Peace). Finally, a number of significant aspects of the original texts are difficult to get right from fragments, or even to see. Changes of speaker, and thus the tone and character of a conversation, are one example. Obscenity is another, and identifying every fig tree, piglet, or shellfish as a previously undetected bit of sexual innuendo is a solution worse than the problem it is designed to address. So too with irony, and even “humor”. Fr. 16 of Knights is very funny, provided one is aware that the subject is horses, not their riders. But how could one divine that fact today, without access to the complete play? Nor, finally, is the problem that I have confined myself to Athenaeus rather than collecting material from all the ancient sources. Adding information from Pollux (one of our other most significant sources for comic fragments), for

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example, makes almost no difference to my conclusions,3 and in any case, it must be stressed again that for many authors Athenaeus is our only source, while for many others he is by far the most important source. One might take all this evidence of Athenaeus’ handling (or mishandling) of the extant plays of Aristophanes as a basis for a call for greater creativity and freer thinking about real comic fragments: we ought to anticipate even more corruption, and thus rewrite more aggressively than we tend to do; odd details in ancient scholarly comments should receive substantial interpretative emphasis; double meanings must be sought everywhere. But we might do better to take seriously the character of the material we have, and thus the tradition of inquiry to which it – and we – belong. Except for Aristophanes, we have no complete pre­Menandrian comedies, and it seems that we cannot effectively reconstruct scenes or plays, much less poets and their tendencies, or periods and theirs. When we attempt to recover these “irrecoverables”, what we create instead are fictional texts that recapitulate the interests and prejudices of our sources, as in the case of the non­Herodotean “Herodotus Book 1” reconstructed in the first section of this paper. It is unsurprising that the Aristophanic plays assembled out of the quotations in the Learned Banqueters are mostly concerned with dinner parties, on the one hand, and with various aspects of natural history, on the other. For that is what Athenaeus was interested in, and the result is a demonstrably false picture of our playwright. In a strange, seemingly backward fashion, Athenaeus has thus effectively “influenced” many other ancient authors, genres, and periods, despite the fact that they date centuries earlier than the Learned Banqueters, for we get much of them through him, with all his biases, failures, and idiosyncratic interests. The traditional modern understanding of “Middle Comedy” as a

3

In the case of Acharnians, for example, we get a number of additional verses (* = actual quotation of the text) and some stray words, but no sense at all of the larger action of the play, or even of individual scenes: 74* ἐξ ὑαλίνων ἐκπωμάτων καὶ χρυσίδων (10.68), 87 βόες κριβανῖται (10.110), 108* ἀχάνας χρυσίου (10.164), 181* σφενδάμνινοι (10.35), 340 λαρκίδια τὰ ἀγγεῖα τῶν ἀνθράκων (10.111), 453 σπυρίδιον, ὃ καὶ πλέκος εἴρηκε παρατραγῳδῶν (10.92), 507* ἀλλ’ ἐσμὲν αὐτοὶ νῦν γε περιεπτισμένοι (7.24), 888* τὴν ἐσχάραν μοι δεῦρο καὶ τὴν ῥιπίδα (10.9), 934* ψοφεῖ λάλον τι καὶ πυριρραγές (7.164), 937* φαίνειν ὑπευθύνοις λυχνοῦχος (10.116), 1007* φέρε τοὺς ὀβελίσκους, ἵνα πήξω τὰς κίχλας (10.95), 1034* σὺ δ’ ἀλλά μοι σταλαγμὸν εἰρήνης ἕνα / εἰς τὸν καλαμίσκον ἐνστάλαξον τουτονί (10.168), 1063 τὸ δὲ ἀγγεῖον εἰς ὃ ἐξεχεῖτο τὸ μύρον, ἐξάλειπτρον ἐκαλεῖτο (10.121), 1137 κοῖται κοιτίδες (10.137); note the bad reference at 10.72. This material would patently enrich any reconstruction of the play, but my fundamental thesis is that it would not improve it.

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genre dominated by descriptions of food and drink, symposia, and prostitutes is only the most obvious example. What we have in the Learned Banqueters and a number of other, less substantial sources like it, are thousands of snippets, most of them no more than 3 to 5 lines long, from hundreds of individual comedies. These fragments allow us read across texts, to learn about fish, symposium behavior, and social practices, or about vocabulary, usage, and the like. That is a different project from putting plays or poets back together, and one might call it a scholarly box, and a somewhat constricted box, for that is what it is. But it is not a box of our own making, and the fact that we inhabit it, tells us something important about who we are as scholars and what we can hope to accomplish. We have little choice but to read Greek comedy in a fragmented, almost sideways fashion, because that is how Hellenistic and Roman scholars appear to have read it. Almost all of what we have of the genre except for Aristophanes and Menander comes from ancient lexica, commentaries, and academic treatises of other sorts, often highly condensed or damaged. In rare cases, we can read against the grain of this work, or supplement the material it preserves for us with other sources, and we can only be grateful for such opportunities. By and large, however, we are where the Alexandrian and Pergamene scholars and their Roman­period successors left us, with the outlines of our project and many of its limits set two thousand years ago or more.4 I do not intend this as a discouraging comment. Exciting work remains to be done, and we have only begun to build the tools to do it. But we must be sure that the tasks we set ourselves fit the material we have inherited.

4

Cf. Dover (above, n. 1), p. xix: “The predominant purpose of citation is lexical or morphological, and where it is not linguistic its interests are prosopographical and antiquarian. In those circumstances, what we learn from citations about the literary and theatrical aspects of Old Comedy cannot be more than incidental. ... One gross error in a citation may lead us badly astray, and a flexible mind open to alternative interpretations is indispensable.” Unfortunately, the final recommendation appears to produce more problems than it solves.

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Appendix Section I: A Reconstruction of Herodotus Book 1 (from Athenaeus; * = fragments specifically assigned to Book 1, others added by conjecture)

A. The History and Customs of the Lydians fr. 1 (ap. 1.19a) ῾Ηρόδοτος (1.94.3) δὲ οὐ καλῶς εἴρηκεν ἐπὶ ῎Ατυος διὰ λιμὸν εὑρεθῆναι τὰς παιδιάς. Herodotus (1.94.3) is wrong to assert that these games were invented in Atys’ time as a result of a famine. fr. 2 (ap. 5.210b) ῾Ηγήσανδρος δὲ ὁ Δελφὸς ἐν τῷ ἐπιγραφομένῳ ῾Υπομνήματι Ἀνδριάντων καὶ Ἀγαλμάτων Γλαύκου φησὶ τοῦ Χίου τὸ ἐν Δελφοῖς ὑπόστημα οἷον ἐγγυθήκην τινὰ σιδηρᾶν, ἀνάθημα ᾿Αλυάττου· οὗ ὁ ῾Ηρόδοτος (1.25.2) μνημονεύει ὑποκρητηρίδιον αὐτὸ καλῶν. Hegesander of Delphi in his treatise entitled On Statues of Men and Gods says that the support­stand in Delphi made by Glaucus of Chios is a sort of iron enguthêkê and was dedicated by Alyattes; Herodotus (1.25.2) mentions it, but refers to it as a hupokrêtêridion. fr. 3 (ap. 12.517a–b et 14.627d) εἰς τοὺς πολέμους δὲ ἐξιόντες οἱ Λυδοὶ παρατάττονται μετὰ συρίγγων καὶ αὐλῶν, ὥς φησιν ῾Ηρόδοτος (1.17.1). When the Lydians march off to war, they use Pan­pipes and pipes to keep their ranks in order, according to Herodotus (1.17.1). fr. 4* (ap. 3.78d–e) ὁ δὲ θαυμασιώτατος καὶ μελίγηρυς ῾Ηρόδοτος ἐν τῇ πρώτῃ τῶν ῾Ιστοριῶν (1.71.2–3) καὶ μέγα ἀγαθόν φησιν εἶναι τὰ σῦκα οὑτωσὶ λέγων· βασιλεῦ, σὺ δ᾿ ἐπ᾿ ἄνδρας τοιούτους παρασκευάζεαι στρατεύεσθαι, οἳ σκυτίνας μὲν ἀναξυρίδας, σκυτίνην δὲ τὴν ἄλλην ἐσθῆτα φορέουσι, σιτέονταί τ᾿ οὐχ ὅσα ἐθέλουσιν, ἀλλ᾿ ὅσα ἔχουσι, χώρην ἔχοντες τρηχείην· πρὸς δὲ οὐκ οἴνῳ, νὴ Δία, χρέονται, ἀλλ᾿ ὑδροποτέουσιν· οὐ σῦκα ἔχουσι τρώγειν, οὐκ ἄλλο οὐθὲν ἀγαθόν. The admirable, sweet­voiced Herodotus in Book 1 (1.71.2–3) claims that figs are a very good food in the following words: O King, you are preparing to mount an expedition against men who wear leather pants, and whose other clothing is leather as well; who do not eat as much as they want but as much as they have; and who inhabit a rough country.

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Furthermore, they drink not wine but water, and have no figs to eat nor anything else that is good. B. The History and Customs of the Persians fr. 5a (ap. 4.143f–4b) Ηρόδοτος (1.133) δὲ συγκρίνων τὰ τῶν ῾Ελλήνων συμπόσια πρὸς τὰ παρὰ Πέρσαις φησίν· μέρην δὲ Πέρσαι ἁπασέων μάλιστα ἐκείνην τιμᾶν νομίζουσι τῇ ἕκαστος ἐγένετο. ἐν ταύτῃ δὲ πλέω δαῖτα τῶν ἄλλων δικαιεῦσι προτίθεσθαι· ἐν τῇ οἱ εὐδαίμονες αὐτῶν βοῦν καὶ ὄνον καὶ ἵππον καὶ κάμηλον προτιθέαται ὅλους ὀπτοὺς ἐν καμίνοις· οἱ δὲ πένητες αὐτῶν τὰ λεπτὰ τῶν προβάτων προτίθενται. σίτοισί τε ὀλίγοισι χρέονται, ἐπιφορήμασι δὲ πολλοῖσι καὶ οὐκ ἁλέσι. καὶ διὰ τοῦτό φασι Πέρσαι τοὺς Ἕλληνας σιτεομένους πεινῶντας παύεσθαι, ὅτι σφίσιν ἀπὸ δείπνου παραφορέεται οὐδὲν λόγου ἄξιον· εἰ δέ τι παραφέροιτο, ἐσθίοντας ἂν οὐ παύεσθαι. οἴνῳ δὲ κάρτα προσκέαται· καί σφιν οὐκ ἐμέσαι ἔξεστιν, οὐκ οὐρῆσαι ἀντίον ἄλλου. ταῦτα μέν νυν οὕτω φυλάσσεται. μεθυσκόμενοι δὲ εἰώθασι βουλεύεσθαι τὰ σπουδαιότατα τῶν πρηγμάτων· τὸ δ᾿ ἂν ἅδῃ σφίσι βουλευομένοισι, τοῦτο τῇ ὑστεραίῃ νήφουσι προτιθεῖ ὁ στεγέαρχος ἐν τοῦ ἂν ἐόντες βουλεύωνται. καὶ ν μὲν ἅδῃ καὶ νήφουσι, χρέονται αὐτῷ· εἰ δὲ μή, μετιεῖσι. τὰ δ᾿ ἂν νήφοντες προβουλεύσωνται, μεθυσκόμενοι ἐπιδιαγινώσκουσι. Herodotus (1.133) compares Greek symposia to those the Persians celebrate, saying: The Persians think it appropriate to show the most honor to the day one was born. On that day they consider it right to serve a larger meal than on other days; on it the wealthy ones serve an ox, a donkey, a horse, and a camel, all roasted whole in ovens, whereas the poor serve small herd­animals. They do not eat much bread or cakes, but consume many side­dishes, not all at the same time. This is why the Persians say that the Greeks stop eating while they are still hungry, because the Greeks are not served anything worth eating after dinner; but if anything like this were served, they would not stop eating. They are very fond of wine, and are not allowed to vomit or urinate in front of another person. These are the customs they keep. It is their practice to consider the most serious matters when they are drunk. Whatever they decide, the next day the master of the house where they have their discussions sets it before them when they are sober. If the idea also pleases them when they are sober, they adopt it; otherwise they let it go. As for proposals they make when they are sober, they take a careful look at them while drunk.

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fr. 5b* (ap. 14.640e–f) (ἐπιφορήματα) καὶ ῾Ηρόδοτος ἐν πρώτῃ (1.133.2). (dainties) also Herodotus in Book 1 (1.133.2). fr. 6 (ap. 2.45a–b) ὁ Περσῶν βασιλεύς, ὥς φησιν ἐν τῇ πρώτῃ ῾Ηρόδοτος, ὕδωρ ἀπὸ τοῦ Χοάσπεω πιεῖν ἄγεται τοῦ παρὰ Σοῦσα ῥέοντος, τοῦ μόνου πίνει ὁ βασιλεύς. τοῦ δὲ τοιούτου ὕδατος ἀπεψημένου πολλαὶ κάρτα ἅμαξαι τετράκυκλοι μιόνειαι κομίζουσαι ἐν ἀγγείοις ἀργυρέοισιν ἕπονταί οἱ. According to Herodotus in Book I, the Persian King has drinking­water brought for him from the Choaspes River, which flows past Susa; this is the only water the King drinks. Large quantities of four­wheeled mule­ carts carrying boiled water of this sort in silver vessels follow him. fr. 7 (ap. 14.613b) κατιόντος γοῦν τοῦ οἴνου ἐς τὸ σῶμα, ὥς φησιν ῾Ηρόδοτος (1.212.2), ἐπαναπλέει κακὰ ἔπεα καὶ μαινόμενα. The fact is, according to Herodotus (1.212.2), that when wine descends into our body, foul, insane words emerge in its wake. fr. 8 (ap. 13.603a) Πέρσας δὲ παρ᾿ ῾Ελλήνων φησὶν ῾Ηρόδοτος (1.135) μαθεῖν τὸ παισὶν χρῆσθαι. Herodotus (1.135) claims that the Persians learned about sex with boys from the Greeks. fr. 9* (ap. 14.651b–d) ῾Ηρόδοτος (1.193.4–5) δ᾿ ἐν τῇ δευτέρᾳ περὶ Βαβυλῶνος λέγων φησίν· εἰσὶ δ᾿ αὐτόθι φοίνικες πεφυκότες ἀνὰ πᾶν τὸ πεδίον, οἱ πλεῦνες αὐτῶν καρποφόροι, ἐκ τῶν καὶ σιτία καὶ οἶνον καὶ μέλι ποιέονται. τοὺς συκέων τρόπον θεραπεύουσιν· τῶν γὰρ φοινίκων οὓς ἔρσενας καλέουσι, τούτων τὸν καρπὸν περιδέουσι τῇσι βαλανηφόροισι τῶν φοινίκων, ἵνα τε πεπαίνῃ σφιν ὁ ψὴν τὴν βάλανον ἐνδύνων καὶ μὴ ἀπορρείῃ ὁ καρπὸς τοῦ φοίνικος· ψῆνας γὰρ δὴ φορέουσιν ἐν τῷ καρπῷ οἱ ἔρσενες καθάπερ οἱ ὄλονθοι. Herodotus (1.193.4–5) says in his discussion of Babylon in Book 2: There are date­palms there that grow everywhere in the plain; the majority bear fruit, and are the source of their grain, wine, and honey. They care for them as one does for a fig tree: they tie the fruit of what they refer to as the male palms to the fruit­bearing female palms, so that the fig­wasp can enter the fruit and make it ripen for them, and to keep the fruit from falling off of the tree; for the male trees produce fig­wasps in much the same way as the flowers of the wild fig do.

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fr. 10* (ap. 9.396c) ῾Ηρόδοτος δ᾿ ἐν τῇ πρώτῃ (1.183.2) φησὶν ὅτι ἐν Βαβυλῶνι ἐπὶ τοῦ χρυσοῦ βωμοῦ οὐκ ἔξεστι θύειν ὅτι μὴ γαλαθηνὰ μοῦνα. Herodotus in his Book I (1.183.2) claims that nothing can be sacrificed on the gold altar in Babylon except sucklings.

Appendix Section II: The Fragments of the Eleven Preserved Aristophanic Comedies (after Athenaeus) Acharnians fr. 1 (ap. 4.130f–1a) ᾿Αριστοφάνης δ᾿ ἐν ᾿Αχαρνεῦσι (85–9) καὶ αὐτὸς τῶν βαρβάρων ἐμφανίζων τὴν μεγαλειότητά φησιν· (Α) εἶτ᾿ ἐξένιζεν παρετίθει θ᾿ μῖν ὅλους ἐκ κριβάνου βοῦς. (Β) καὶ τίς εἶδε πώποτε βοῦς κριβανίτας; τῶν ἀλαζονευμάτων. (Α) καὶ ναὶ μὰ Δί᾿ ὄρνιν τριπλάσιον Κλεωνύμου παρέθηκεν μῖν. (Β) ὄνομα δ᾿ ν αὐτῷ φέναξ. Aristophanes in Acharnians (85–9) as well describes the barbarians’ magnificence and says: (A) Then he entertained us, and served us whole oxen prepared in a baking shell. (B) Who ever saw oxen prepared in a baking shell? What bullshit! (A) And, by Zeus, he served us a bird three times as big as Cleonymus. (B) It was called a “gull”! fr. 2 (ap. 7.299a) ᾿Αριστοφάνης ἐν μὲν ᾿Αχαρνεῦσι (889)· σκέψασθε, παῖδες, τὴν κρατίστην5 ἔγχελυν. Aristophanes in Acharnians (889): Children, behold this powerful eel! fr. 3 (ap. 9.374f–5a) καὶ ἐν ᾿Αχαρνεῦσι (786–7)· νέα γάρ ἐστιν. ἀλλὰ δελφακουμένα ἕξει μεγάλην τε καὶ παχεῖαν κ ρυθράν. And in Acharnians (786–7): Because she’s young! But once she grows into a sow, she’ll have a big, fat, thick one! 5

κρατίστην Athenaeus: ἀρίστην Aristophanes

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fr. 4 (ap. 3.112f–13a) ᾿Αριστοφάνης δ᾿ ἐν ᾿Αχαρνεῦσιν (872)· ὦ χαῖρε, κολλικοφάγε Βοιωτίδιον. Aristophanes in Acharnians (872): Greetings, little roll­eating Boeotian! fr. 5a (ap. 9.388b) (ἀτταγᾶς) ἐν δ᾿ ᾿Αχαρνεῦσιν (875) καὶ ὡς πλεοναζόντων αὐτῶν ἐν τῇ Μεγαρικῇ And in Acharnians (875) he alludes to (francolins) being abundant in Megarian territory. fr. 5b (ap. 9.395e–f) τῆς δὲ νήττης καὶ κολυμβάδος ... μνημονεύει μετὰ καὶ ἄλλων λιμναίων πολλῶν ᾿Αριστοφάνης ἐν ᾿Αχαρνεῦσι (875–6) διὰ τούτων· νάσσας κολοιοὺς ἀττάγας φαλαρίδας τροχίλους κολύμβους. Aristophanes in Acharnians (875–6) mentions the duck and the grebe ..., along with many other marsh­birds, in the following passage: ducks, jackdaws, francolins, coots, plovers, grebes. fr. 6 (ap. 14.646d) ᾿Αριστοφάνης ᾿Αχαρνεῦσι (1092)· πλακοῦντες, σησαμοῦντες, ἴτρια Aristophanes in Acharnians (1092): cakes, sesame­cakes, itria. fr. 7 (ap. 11.479b) ᾿Αριστοφάνης ἐν ᾿Αχαρνεῦσι (459)· κοτυλίσκιον τὸ χεῖλος ἀποκεκρουμένον. Aristophanes in Acharnians (459): a little cup with a chipped rim. Frogs fr. 8 (ap. 14.636d–e) Δίδυμος δέ φησιν εἰωθέναι τινὰς ἀντὶ τῆς λύρας κογχύλια καὶ ὄστρακα συγκρούοντας εὔρυθμον χόν τινα ἀποτελεῖν τοῖς ὀρχουμένοις, καθάπερ καὶ ᾿Αριστοφάνην ἐν Βατράχοις (cf. 1305–6) φάναι. Didymus claims that rather than playing a lyre, some people make it a practice to strike shells or potsherds against one another to produce a

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rhythmic sound to accompany dancers, as Aristophanes says in Frogs (cf. 1305–6). Peace fr. 9 (ap. 11.486e) ᾿Αριστοφάνης τε γὰρ ἐν Εἰρήνῃ (143) φησί· τὸ δὲ πλοῖον ἔσται Ναξιουργὴς κάνθαρος. Thus Aristophanes says in Peace (143): And my ship will be a Naxian­made kantharos. fr. 10 (ap. 3.111a) ᾿Αριστοφάνης ἐν Εἰρήνῃ (123)· καὶ κολλύραν μεγάλην καὶ κόνδυλον ὄψον ἐπ᾿ αὐτῇ. Aristophanes in Peace (123): a big roll, and a knuckle­sandwich to go with it. fr. 11 (ap. 10.424b) (κύαθος) καὶ τὸ ἐν Εἰρήνῃ (541) ᾿Αριστοφάνους· ὑπωπιασμέναι (kyathos) also the type of vessel referred to in Aristophanes’ Peace (541): with black eyes fr. 12 (ap. 8.343c) (Μελάνθιος) κωμῳδοῦσι δ᾿ αὐτὸν ἐπὶ ὀψοφαγίᾳ ... ᾿Αριστοφάνης ἐν Εἰρήνῃ (1009–14) They mock (Melanthius) for gluttony ... Aristophanes in Peace (1009–14). fr. 13 (ap. 11.485a) ᾿Αριστοφάνης Εἰρήνῃ (916)· † τί δῆτα πίοις οἴνου κύλικα λεπαστήν; †6 Aristophanes in Peace (916): † Why indeed might you drink a cup of wine a lepastê? † fr. 14 (ap. 3.119c–d) ὑποκοριστικῶς δ᾿ εἴρηκεν ᾿Αριστοφάνης ἐν Εἰρήνῃ (563)· ἀγόρασόν7 τι χρηστὸν εἰς ἀγρὸν ταρίχιον. Aristophanes uses the word in the diminutive in Peace (563): Buy a little piece of good saltfish to take into the country!

6 7

Thus Athenaeus : φήσεις ⟨γ᾿⟩, ἐπειδὰν ἐκπίῃς οἴνου νέου λεπαστήν Aristophanes. ἀγόρασόν Athenaeus: ἐμπολήσαντές Aristophanes.

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fr. 15 (ap. 9.393c) ᾿Αριστοφάνης δ᾿ ἐν Εἰρήνῃ (788) συνεσταλμένως ἔφη διὰ τὸ μέτρον· ὄρτυγες οἰκογενεῖς Aristophanes in Peace (788) pronounces it short for metrical reasons: domestically­bred quail Knights fr. 16 (ap. 11.483d–e) ᾿Αριστοφάνης ῾Ιππεῦσιν (599–600)· εἰς τὰς ἱππαγωγοὺς εἰσεπήδων ἀνδρικῶς, πριάμενοι κώθωνας, οἱ δὲ σκόρδα καὶ κρόμυα. Aristophanes in Knights (599–600): they bought canteen­cups and jumped bravely into the horse­transports, while others purchased garlic and onions. frr. 17–20 (ap. 3.94c–d) κοιλιῶν μνημονεύει ᾿Αριστοφάνης ἐν ῾Ιππεῦσι (300) (fr. 17)· φήσω σε ἀδεκατεύτους κοιλίας πωλεῖν. καὶ ἑξῆς (160–1) (fr. 18)· τί μ᾿, ὦ ἀγαθέ, οὐ πλύνειν ἐᾷς τὰς κοιλίας πωλεῖν τε τοὺς ἀλλᾶντας, ἀλλὰ καταγελᾷς; καὶ πάλιν (356–8) (fr. 19)· ἐγὼ δὲ νυστραν βοὸς καὶ κοιλίαν ὑείαν καταβροχθίσας κᾆτ᾿ ἐκπιὼν τὸν ζωμὸν ἀπόνιπτος λαρυγγιῶ τοὺς ῥήτορας καὶ Νικίαν ταράξω. καὶ πάλιν (1178–9) (fr. 20)· δ᾿ ᾿Οβριμοπάτρα γ᾿ ἑφθὸν ἐκ ζωμοῦ κρέας καὶ χόλικος νύστρου τε καὶ γαστρὸς τόμον. Aristophanes mentions tripe in Knights (300) (fr. 17): I’ll denounce you for selling tripe on which no tithe has been paid. And immediately after this (160–1) (fr. 18): Look, mister – why don’t you let me soak my tripe and sell my sausages, instead of making fun of me? And again (356–8) (fr. 19): But I’ll gobble down cow­belly and hog­tripe, and drink up the broth; and then, without washing my hands, I’ll throttle the politicians and harass Nicias. And again (1178–9) (fr. 20): Athena Strong­like­her­Father gave you meat stewed in broth and a cut of fourth-stomach tripe and paunch.

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fr. 21 (ap. 7.311d) καὶ ᾿Αριστοφάνης δ᾿ ἐν ῾Ιππεῦσι (361) μνημονεύει ὡς διαφόρων γινομένων τῶν περὶ τὴν Μίλητον λαβράκων, ὅταν οὕτως λέγῃ· ἀλλ᾿ οὐ λάβρακας καταφαγὼν Μιλησίους κλονήσεις. Aristophanes in Knights (361) also refers to the sea-bass caught around Miletus as exceptionally good, when he says the following: But you won’t go on the rampage after you eat Milesian sea­bass! fr. 22a (ap. 7.299b) ᾿Αριστοφάνης ῾Ιππεῦσιν (864)· ὅπερ γὰρ οἱ τὰς ἐγχέλεις θηρώμενοι πέπονθας. Aristophanes in Knights (864): Because you’re in the same situation as people hunting eels. fr. 22b (ap. 7.299c–d) ὅταν δ᾿ ᾿Αριστοφάνης ἐν ῾Ιππεῦσι (864–7) λέγῃ· ὅπερ γὰρ οἱ τὰς ἐγχέλεις θηρώμενοι πέπονθας. ὅταν μὲν λίμνη καταστῇ, λαμβάνουσιν οὐδὲ ἕν· ἂν δ᾿ ἄνω τε καὶ κάτω τὸν βόρβορον κυκῶσιν, αἱροῦσι· καὶ σὺ λαμβάνεις, ν τὴν πόλιν ταράττῃς, When Aristophanes says in Knights (864–7): Because you’re in the same situation as people hunting eels: when the marsh is still, they don’t catch anything; but if they stir up the mud, they catch them. Similarly, you make a profit, if you stir up the city. frr. 23–4 (ap. 11.460c) ᾿Αριστοφάνης ἐν ῾Ιππεῦσι (198) (fr. 23)· γαμφηλαῖσι δράκοντα † κόλλαιμον † αἱματοπώτην. κἀν τῷ αὐτῷ δὲ ἔφη (fr. 24)· πολλῷ γ᾿ ὁ Βάκις διεχρῆτο τῷ ποτηρίῳ. Aristophanes in Knights (198) (fr. 23): a [corrupt] blood­drinking serpent in its beak. He also said in the same play (fr. 24): Bakis certainly got a lot of use out of that cup! fr. 25 (ap. 11.783f) ᾿Αριστοφάνης ῾Ιππεῦσι (1094–5)· κατασπένδειν κατὰ τῆς κεφαλῆς ἀρυβάλλῳ ἀμβροσίαν. Aristophanes in Knights (1094–5): and to be using a dipper to pour ambrosia over your head.

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fr. 26 (ap. 7.328e) ᾿Αριστοφάνης ῾Ιππεῦσι (662)· αἱ τριχίδες εἰ γένοιντο ἑκατὸν τοὐβολοῦ. Aristophanes in Knights (662): if the pilchards were 100 for an obol. fr. 27 (ap. 10.446d) (πίομαι) καὶ ᾿Αριστοφάνης ῾Ιππεῦσι (1289)· κοὔποτ᾿ ἐκ ταὐτοῦ ποτηρίου. (piomai, ‘drink’) Also Aristophanes in Knights (1289): And never from the same cup. Assemblywomen fr. 28 (ap. 15.691b) ᾿Αριστοφάνης ἐν ᾿Εκκλησιαζούσαις (1117)· τις μεμύρισμαι τὴν κεφαλὴν μυρώμασι. Aristophanes in Assemblywomen (1117): I who have had my head anointed with perfumes. fr. 29 (ap. 3.77d) διφόρου δὲ συκῆς μνημονεύει καὶ ᾿Αριστοφάνης ἐν ᾿Εκκλησιαζούσαις (707–8)· ὑμᾶς δέ γε ὡς θρῖα λαβόντας διφόρου συκῆς. Aristophanes in Assemblywomen (707–8) mentions a double­bearing fig tree: and you in the meantime, taking hold of the leaves of a double­bearing fig tree. fr. 30 (ap. 3.110a) μνημονεύει δὲ τοῦ μὲν ᾿Αριστοφάνης ἐν ᾿Εκκλησιαζούσαις (843) φάσκων· λάγανα πέττεται8 Aristophanes mentions it in Assemblywomen (843), where he says: Wafer­bread is being baked. Thesmophoriazusae fr. 31 (ap. 15.680c) ᾿Αριστοφάνης ἐν Θεσμοφοριαζούσαις (458)· στεφάνους πλέξαι9 συνθηματιαίους εἴκοσιν 8 9

λάγανα πέττεται Athenaeus: λαγῶ᾿ ἀναπηγνύασι, πόπανα πέττεται Aristophanes στεφάνους πλέξαι Athenaeus: πλέξαι στεφάνους Aristophanes

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Aristophanes in Thesmophoriazusae (458): to weave 20 bespoke garlands. Lysistrata fr. 32 (ap. 11.502b) διὰ δὲ τὴν τοιαύτην πρόποσιν ἐκαλεῖτο καὶ κύλιξ φιλοτησία, ὡς ἐν Λυσιστράτῃ (203)· δέσποινα Πειθοῖ καὶ κύλιξ φιλοτησία. It was referred to as a friendship cup because of toasting of this sort, for example in Lysistrata (203): Lady Persuasion and cup of friendship. fr. 33 (ap. 3.90b) τὸ δ᾿ ἐν Λυσιστράτῃ (548–9) ᾿Αριστοφάνους πέπαικται· ἀλλ᾿ ὦ τηθῶν ἀνδρειοτάτη καὶ μητριδίων ἀκαληφῶν The passage in Aristophanes’ Lysistrata (548–9) represents a play on words: O most manly of sea­squirts and nettle­mommies. Clouds fr. 34 (ap. 9.374c) ἐν δὲ Νεφέλαις (665–6) διδάσκων τὸν πρεσβύτην περὶ ὀνόματος διαφορᾶς φησι· (Α) νῦν δὲ πῶς με χρὴ καλεῖν; (Β) ἀλεκτρύαιναν. (Α) τὸν δ᾿ ἕτερον; (Β) ἀλέκτορα. In Clouds (665–6), when he’s teaching the old man to distinguish among words, he says: (A) So how should I refer to it now? (B) As a roosteress. (A) And the other? (B) A rooster. fr. 35 (ap. 3.94f) ᾿Αριστοφάνης ἐν Νεφέλαις (455–6)· ἔκ μου χορδὴν τοῖς φροντισταῖς παραθέντων. Aristophanes in Clouds (455–6): Let them make me into sausage and serve it to the thinkers (cf. fr. 61 ap. 5.188c (= Nu. 103–4) τοὺς † ωτας † τοὺς ἀνυποδήτους λέγεις, ὧν ὁ κακοδαίμων Σωκράτης καὶ Χαιρεφῶν

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Are you talking about the guys with no shoes, including the miserable Socrates and Chaerephon?) fr. 36 (ap. 9.387a) καὶ τὸ ἐν Νεφέλαις (109) δὲ ἐπὶ τῶν ὀρνίθων ἔγωγε ἀκούω καὶ οὐκ ἐπὶ ἵππων ὡς πολλοί· τοὺς φασιανοὺς οὓς τρέφει Λεωγόρας. I take the use of the word in Clouds (109) to refer to birds rather than to horses, as most authorities do: the pheasants Leogoras is raising. fr. 37 (ap. 11.467b) ᾿Αριστοφάνης Νεφέλαις (122)· οὔτ᾿ αὐτὸς οὔθ᾿ ὁ ζύγιος οὔθ᾿ ὁ σαμφόρας. Aristophanes in Clouds (122): neither you yourself, nor the yoke­horse, nor the san-bearer. fr. 38 (ap. 4.171c–d) ᾿Αριστοφάνης ἐν προτέραις Νεφέλαις (1196–1200) διὰ τούτων· (Β) πῶς οὐ δέχονται δῆτα τῇ νουμηνίᾳ αἱ ἀρχαὶ τὰ πρυτανεῖα, ἀλλ᾿ ἕνῃ τε καὶ νέᾳ; (Α) ὅπερ οἱ προτένθαι γὰρ δοκοῦσίν μοι παθεῖν· ἵν᾿ ὡς τάχιστα τὰ πρυτανεῖα ὑφελοίατο, διὰ τοῦτο προυτένθευσαν μέρᾳ μιᾷ. Aristophanes in the first Clouds (1196–1200), in the following lines: (B) Then why don’t the magistrates accept the sureties on New Moon Day, but on the Old­and­New Day? (A) I think the same thing happens to them as to the food-inspectors— in order to embezzle the sureties as quickly as possible, they start tasting them one day early. fr. 39 (ap. 8.345f) ᾿Αριστοφάνης ἐν Νεφέλαις δευτέραις (983)· ὀψοφαγεῖν οὐδὲ κιχλίζειν. Aristophanes in the second Clouds (983): to eat gluttonously but not to giggle. fr. 40 (ap. 7.299b) καὶ δευτέραις Νεφέλαις (559)· τὰς εἰκοὺς τῶν ἐγχέλεων τὰς ἐμὰς μιμούμενοι.

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And in the second Clouds (559): mimicking my image of the eels. fr. 41 (ap. 2.64f) (κιχλαί) μέμνηται τούτων καὶ ᾿Αριστοφάνης ἐν Νεφέλαις (339). Aristophanes mentions thrushes in Clouds (339). Birds fr. 42 (ap. 9.387a) φασιανικοῦ δὲ ὄρνιθος ὁ διστος ᾿Αριστοφάνης ἐν δράματι ῎Ορνισιν. ᾿Αττικοὶ δ᾿ εἰσὶ δύο πρεσβῦται ὑπὸ ἀπραγμοσύνης πόλιν ζητοῦντες ἐν ᾗ κατοικήσουσιν ἀπράγμονα· καὶ αὐτοῖς ἀρέσκει ὁ βίος ὁ μετ᾿ ὀρνίθων. ἔρχονται οὖν ὡς τοὺς ὄρνιθας καὶ αἰφνίδιον αὐτοῖς ἐπιπτάντος ἑνὸς τῶν ὀρνίθων ἀγρίου τὴν ὄψιν, δείσαντες ἑαυτοὺς παραμυθούμενοι λέγουσι τά τ᾿ ἄλλα καὶ τάδε (67–8)· †ὅδε† δὴ τίς ἐστιν ὄρνις; οὐκ ἐρεῖς; ἐπεὶ† κεχοδὼς ἔγωγε Φασιανικός. As for the pheasant, the delightful Aristophanes mentions it in his play Birds. Two old men from Attica are tired of complications, and are looking for a city where they can settle that has none; and life with the birds appeals to them. They accordingly go visit the birds, and suddenly a wild­ looking bird flies toward them. They are frightened and try to encourage one another by saying various things, including the following (67–8): What sort of a bird is this one, in fact? Tell me! Since I’m a Phasian shat! frr. 43–4 (ap. 9.397e) καὶ ἐν ῎Ορνισιν ᾿Αριστοφάνους (102) (fr. 43)· Τηρεὺς γὰρ εἶ σύ; πότερον ὄρνις ταὧς; καὶ πάλιν (269) (fr. 44)· ὄρνις δῆτα. τίς ποτ᾿ ἐστίν; οὐ δήπου ταὧς; And in Aristophanes’ Birds (102) (fr. 43): You’re Tereus? Are you a bird – or a peacock? And again (269) (fr. 44): It’s obviously a bird. But what bird is it? I don’t suppose it’s a peacock? fr. 45 (ap. 9.398c) ὁ χαρίεις ᾿Αριστοφάνης ἐν τοῖς ῎Ορνισι μνημονεύει ἐν τούτοις (882–4)· πορφυρίωνι καὶ πελεκᾶντι

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καὶ πελεκίννῳ καὶ φλέξιδι καὶ τέτρακι καὶ ταὧνι. The witty Aristophanes mentions them in his Birds as follows (882–4): to the purple gallinule and both types of pelican and the phlexis and the tetrax and the peacock. fr. 46 (ap. 9.388b) (ἀτταγᾶς) καὶ ᾿Αριστοφάνης ἐν ῎Ορνισιν (249) (francolin) Also Aristophanes in Birds (249). Wealth fr. 47 (ap. 6.229e) ἐν τῷ Πλούτῳ δράματι κατὰ τὴν τοῦ ὁμωνύμου θεοῦ ἐπιφάνειαν τοὺς ἰχθυηρούς φησι πίνακας ἀργυροῦς ἀναφανῆναι καθάπερ καὶ τὰ ἄλλα ἅπαντα, λέγων ὡδί (812–5)· ὀξὶς δὲ πᾶσα καὶ λοπάδιον καὶ χύτρα χαλκῆ γέγονε· τοὺς δὲ πινακίσκους τοὺς σαπροὺς τοὺς ἰχθυηροὺς ἀργυροῦς πάρεσθ᾿ ὁρᾶν· ὁ δ᾿ ἱπνὸς γέγονεν † ἐξαπίνης ἐλεφάντινος. In his play Wealth he says that when the god by the same name appeared, the fish­platters were discovered to be silver, like everything else. He puts it thus (812–5): Every vinegar­cruet, casserole­dish and cookpot has turned to bronze; you can see that the miserable little fish­platters are silver; and our oven is suddenly made of ivory. fr. 48 (ap. 4.170d) καὶ ᾿Αριστοφάνης Πλούτῳ (1005)· πρὸ τοῦ δ᾿ ὑπὸ τῆς πενίας ἅπαντ’ ἐπήσθιον. Also Aristophanes in Wealth (1005): Previously I used to eat anything because of my poverty. fr. 49 (ap. 9.368d) ᾿Αριστοφάνης Πλούτῳ δευτέρῳ (1128)· οἴμοι δὲ κωλῆς ν ἐγὼ κατήσθιον. Aristophanes in the second Wealth (1128): Alas for the ham I used to gobble down! fr. 50 (ap. 2.67c–d) ᾿Αριστοφάνης δὲ ἐν Πλούτῳ (720) φησίν· ὄξει διέμενος Σφηττίῳ.

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Aristophanes says in Wealth (720): drenched in Sphettian vinegar. Wasps frr. 51–2 (ap. 5.179a–b) καὶ ᾿Αριστοφάνης ἐν Σφηξὶ (1208–9) ποιεῖ τὸν ἄγριον γέροντα καὶ φιλοδικαστὴν καταρρυθμιζόμενον εἰς βίον μερον ὑπὸ τοῦ παιδός (fr. 51)· παῦε· ἀλλὰ δευρὶ κατακλινεὶς προσμάνθανε ξυμποτικὸς εἶναι καὶ ξυνουσιαστικός. διδάξας τε αὐτὸν ὡς δεῖ κατακλίνεσθαί φησιν (1214–5) (fr. 52)· ἔπειτ᾿ ἐπαίνεσόν τι τῶν χαλκωμάτων, ὀροφὴν θέασαι, κρεκάδι᾿ αὐλῆς θαύμασον. And Aristophanes in Wasps (1208–9) represents the fierce old man devoted to jury­duty as being converted to a tame way of life by his son (fr. 51): Cut it out! Lie down here and learn how to behave at symposia and in company! Again, after teaching him how he ought to lie down, he says (1214–5) (fr. 52): Then praise one of the bronze objects; take a look at the ceiling; express your amazement at the tapestries in the hall. fr. 53 (ap. 7.315c) ᾿Αριστοφάνης Σφηξίν (493)· ν μὲν ὠνῆταί τις ὀρφῶς, μεμβράδας δὲ μὴ ᾿θέλῃ. Aristophanes in Wasps (493): if someone buys sea­perch but doesn’t want smelt. fr. 54 (ap. 7.299b) ἐν Σφηξὶ (510) δὲ δοτική· οὐ χαίρω δὲ βατίσιν οὐδ᾿ ἐγχέλεσιν. The dative is attested in Wasps (510): I don’t like skate or eels. fr. 55 (ap. 14.641d) ᾿Αριστοφάνης Σφηξίν (1216)· ὕδωρ κατὰ χειρός· τὰς τραπέζας εἰσφέρειν. Aristophanes in Wasps (1216): Water over our hands! Bring in the tables!

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fr. 56 (ap. 9.385d) καὶ ᾿Αριστοφάνης Σφηξίν (331)· ἀποφυσήσας εἰς ὀξάλμην ἔμβαλε θερμόν. Also Aristophanes in Wasps (331): Blow off the ash and dip me in hot vinegar-brine (cf. Crates fr. 16.9 “Fish, get over here!” “But I’m not roasted on the other side yet!”) fr. 57 (ap. 10.424c) ᾿Αριστοφάνης δ᾿ ἐν Σφηξίν (855)· ἐγὼ γὰρ εἶχον τούσδε τοὺς ἀρυστίχους. Aristophanes in Wasps (855): because I had these ladles. fr. 58 (ap. 7.329b) Θασίαν ἐκάλουν ἅλμην. ὡς καὶ ἐν Σφηξὶν (1127) ὁ αὐτός φησι ποιητής· † καὶ γὰρ πρότερον δὶς ἀνθρακίδων ἅλμην πιών † They called it Thasian brine. As the same poet says in Wasps (1127): † for on a previous occasion twice drinking brine of fish fried on the coals † fr. 59 (ap. 3.90a) (ἀκαλήφη) καὶ ἐν Σφηξί (884) (spike­lavendar) likewise in Wasps (884) fr. 60 (ap. 9.396a) ᾿Αριστοφάνης τ᾿ εἴρηκεν ἐν Σφηξίν (511)· ἐν † ολοπαδι † πεπνιγμένον Aristophanes says in Wasps (511): smothered in [corrupt]

The Earliest Phase of ‘Comic’ Choral Entertainments in Athens. The Dionysian Pompe and the ‘Birth’ of Comedy1 Eric Csapo

This chapter seeks out the evidence for the time and context of the first performances of choral entertainments and the first performances of comedy at the Athenian Dionysia. This is a much­discussed question and requires the clearing away of more than one misconception, but I present the evidence as we go along. The main conclusion is a simple one: ‘comedy’ as we know it, requires the performance conditions that can only be offered by a theatre, and the Theatre of Dionysos, built ca. 500 BC, was the first in Athens to provide these conditions. Attic comedy did not, however, spring out of nothing: much of Attic comedy’s distinctive form and character is owed to the Dionysian entertainments that existed before the construction of the Theatre. 1. Processions of the City Dionysia Scholarship has treated our two greatest Athenian festivals very differently. The literature on the procession of the Panathenaia is rich and vast.2 The lit1

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I would like to express my heartfelt thanks to Bernhard Zimmermann and Stelios Chronopoulos for their invitation to participate at the Freiburg workshop on ‘Commenting Fragments’ and to contribute a paper to this volume. I would also like to thank all participants at the workshop for their good humour and helpful comments. I am grateful to Dick Green, Margaret Miller, Julia Shear, and Peter Wilson who offered help on various problems in this paper, to Stavros Paspalas, the AAIA, and Hans Goette for help with the illustrations, and to the ARC, DAI (Berlin), and CCANESA which provided material support during the research. Mansfield (1985); Robertson (1985); Kotsidu (1991); Neils (1992); several essays in Neils (1996a), esp. Neils (1996b) and Shapiro (1996); Wohl (1996); Maurizio (1998); Neils (2001: ch. 1); the brilliant and exhaustive dissertation, Shear (2001), which dedicates 110 pages to the procession of the Great Panathenaia (2001: 120–230) and several to the procession of the Small Panathenaia. One reason for the greater interest in the Panathenaic procession is of course its connection to the Parthenon frieze (for interpretations, see Neils 2001: ch.6). The procession therefore figures prominently in discussions of Athenian art and archaeology: e. g., recently Schneider / Höcker (2001: 147–52); Jenkins (2007: 94–106). The connection is challenged by Connelly (1996) and more recently by Fehr (2011).

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erature on the Pompe, the procession of the Great Dionysia, is comparatively slight.3 This is partly because interest in drama has nearly monopolised our attention for the Dionysia. The standard handbook, Pickard­Cambridge’s The Dramatic Festivals of Athens, gives little more than two pages to the Pompe; Spineto’s more recent book The Festival Context of Greek Drama has even less than that.4 Recent discussions of the Pompe make something of a virtue of this lack of interest, supposing it was rather a dull affair. Sourvinou­ Inwood said the procession ‘involved a certain solemnity’; Riu refers to it as the ‘solemn procession that inaugurates the festival’; Spineto says it had ‘la compostezza e la solemnità che l’occasione richiedeva’; Rothwell describes it as a dull ‘formal and dignified’ ritual.5 The perception that the Pompe was solemn, offical and dull owes much more to modern preconceptions than to ancient testimony. There are at least two reasons for this ‘sobrification’ of the Dionysian Pompe. One is certainly the poststructuralist trend for regarding processions, festivals, competitions and even drama as all about making good citizens, and the other is the closely related but distinguishable trend for viewing the polis as the structuring principle behind most cultural life.6 Ancient festivals have come to be regarded as a primary medium for the official implantation of citizen identity in the minds of individual citizens and the cultural imprinting of the political order on the community as a whole. Certainly, if one is looking for this kind of result, then the Panathenaia offers much more promising material than the Dionysia.7 Such a view of the Panathenaia is now commonplace: e. g. ‘through its regular performance, the [Panathenaic] procession acted both to define and to reinforce a clear model of the city’s social structure, setting out its range of members and their roles and relationship’.8 This would partly explain the far greater interest the Panathenaia has held for recent scholarship: it offers much more substance for what 3

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Herter (1938); a detailed study by Cole (1993); an influential study by Sourvinou­ Inwood (1994), expanded in Sourvinou­Inwood (2003); Csapo (2013); I know of the existence of, but have not seen, a forthcoming publication by Soi Agelidis Pickard­Cambridge (1968: 61–63); Spineto (2005: 228–230). Sourvinou­Inwood (2003: 70); Riu (1999: 13–14); Spineto (2005: 229), though he makes a quasi­exception for the phallos, speaking of ‘una valenza sacrale a qualcosa che comunemente è considerato indecente’ (2005: 230); Rothwell (2007: 18). For criticism of the latter see Vlassopoulos (2007); Kindt (2012). I do not suggest that these trends were unfruitful, just overdone. Parker (2005: 253): ‘Issues of prestige and social ranking, implicit in almost any ritual action, regularly become explicit when sources speak of the Panathenaic procession’. Nevett (2013: 97).

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a large current in modern scholarship has grown predisposed to look for. But the method of analysis that might better suit the Panathenaia has been transferred to the Dionysian Pompe and encouraged the same conclusions. Thus, for example, Sourvinou­Inwood, appealed to the Panathenaia as exemplary for understanding the Dionysian procession: ‘the pompe, which is the core of the festival, and, as far as we can tell, also the whole festival apart from the agones, resembled the Panathenaia in articulating, and being articulated by, the whole Athenian polis as one unit ...’.9 Following closely in Sourvinou­ Inwood’s train are Monoson for whom the Dionysia (and the Pompe) was mainly about ‘Representing the Unity of the Democratic Polis’ and ‘Enacting Democratic Norms’, (‘the [Dionysian] festival was a site where the class and status differences among the members of the polis were both highly visible and inscribed with meanings that helped diffuse the ever­present potential for civic unrest’),10 and Spineto for whom: Il fatto che vi partecipassero citadini ateniesi, sacerdoti, efebi e orfani di guerra, meteci, donne in veste rituale, mostra quanto ampio fosse il ventaglio di posizioni e ruoli sociali rappresentati nella processione. Si può dire che sfilasse, talvolta simbolicamente, talaltra concretamente, il corpo sociale, nelle sue varie componenti.11 It matters little that no procession in Athens is without citizens, priests or women in ritual vestments (meaning the kanephoroi) and that therefore every public ceremony in Athens could thus be said to be a concrete representation of the body politic.12 The fundamental belief is that indeed all public ceremonies function fundamentally to present the body politic with a mirror of itself. No ancient testimony supports the view that the Dionysian Pompe functioned to represent, consolidate, celebrate and perpetuate the political order, or that it was consequently (or coincidentally) also dull, solemn and official. 9 10

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Sourvinou­Inwood (1994: 281); Sourvinou­Inwood (2003: 72). Monoson (2000: 88–100), the quotations are subheadings of her ch. 4 (‘Citizen as Theates (Theater­Goer): Performing Unity, Reciprocity, and Strong­Mindedness in the City Dionysia’) and on p. 92. Spineto (2005: 229). The ephebes, mentioned by Spineto, belong to a different era (in which they also participated in most public sacrifices); the war orphans belong to a different ceremony on a different day of the Dionysia; and for the metics, see below. There is no mention in this list of the very large number of foreigners who attended and performed in the Pompe: they are less interesting for the ‘civic definition’ paradigm.

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Explicit characterisations are hard to find in the ancient literature. Plutarch uses the expression ἐπέμπετο δημοτικῶς καὶ ἱλαρῶς of the Dionysia in former times which must mean that the ‘procession was conducted in a popular and joyous manner’, but even this is cited by Spineto as supporting the proposition that the Pompe was ‘sobria ed essenziale’.13 It is true, the Middle Byzantine lexica, starting with the Suda, do report that ‘metics wore purple gowns and carried trays’ in the processions of Dionysos. But this is no foundation for claiming the procession was a ‘concrete representation of the body politic’, and, especially not, because it is likely in this case that the Suda has mistakenly transferred information about the Panathenaic procession to the Dionysian Pompe: all of our earlier sources on metics and trays, going back to the fourth century BC, say nothing of the Dionysia, but point pretty clearly to the Panathenaia as the festival in which metics carried trays).14 To this extent our Medieval sources are alone among ancient sources to share complicity with the recent trends that assimilate the two festivals. Different views of the Dionysian Pompe are possible and even implicit in much of the recent literature, even if it does not focus on the Pompe. If, for example, one sees the Pompe as a form of carnival, one can easily assign characteristics to it that are diametrically opposed to those just described. On this view, the Pompe could sooner be said to be about forgetting than learning one’s place, and to be more about letting loose than building models of the civic order. And far from being a dull, formal celebration of the social order, it can be described, on our evidence, as riotous, playful, creative and transgressive; it served, for the duration of the ritual, to invert the structure of the social order or even to render it unrecognisable. Anthropological models of ‘carnival’ are an obvious fit for a procession that our ancient sources associate above all with phallos­bearing and drunkenness.15 This is not to 13 14

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Plu. Moralia 527d; Spineto (2005: 228) Suda s. v. ἀσκοφορεῖν (α 4177, cf. s. v. σκαφηφορεῖν) draws its information from Harpocration (s. v. σκαφηφόροι), Photius (s. v. σκαφηφόροι), and indirectly from Demetrius of Phaleron’s On Legislation in Athens (Fortenbaugh and Schütrumpf [2000, no. 101], who say nothing about the Dionysia, but speak only of ‘processions’). Dinarchus fr. 16.5 Conomis suggests that the Panathenaic procession is mainly (or, more likely, solely) at issue (cf. Hsch. s. v. σκαφηφόροι [σ 865]: σκάφας γὰρ ἔφερον ἐν τοῖς Παναθηναίοις; see also [Ammon.] Diff. 247 Nickau, with Meier’s emendation of Ἀθηναίων to Παναθηναίων): see Whitehead (1977: 99). The Dionysia is only otherwise mentioned by the Etymologicum Magnum (s. v. ἀσκοφορεῖν), which reproduces almost word for word what we find in the Suda. The use of the analogy of ‘carnival’ to explain the Dionysia or the character of Old Comedy goes back at least as far as Mitchell (1820: xxiii­xxiv), and probably much further. The most important works relating ‘carnival’, ‘liminal rituals’, or ‘rituals

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suggest that a carnival model renders the Dionysian Pompe devoid of reference to the polis structure: transgression requires (and implies) order, and in this case arguably ultimately serves the social order,16 but the experience is very different.17 It might not have been necessary to argue this point had it not been for the influence of Sourvinou­Inwood’s discussions of the Dionysian processions. Sourvinou­Inwood was the leading theorist and advocate of the concept of ‘Polis Religion’, an interpretive trend that has made a huge impact on scholarship of the last quarter century.18 It mapped religious practice onto polis structure, just as in the case of the Panathenaia. In order to do this (with, in my view, far too much creative manipulation of the evidence) Sourvinou­ Inwood reversed the relative importance of the two processions for Dionysos that take place at the time of the Dionysia.19 The Eisagoge (or ‘Introduction’) became in her view the religiously significant event. It took the icon of Dionysos from outside the city in a night procession (which she called the ‘Komos’) to the very heart of the city: in the Archaic period to the Prytaneion in the Old Agora; and in the Classical period to a place called the ‘Eschara’ in the Agora near the new Prytaneion. The procession, in her view, was a ‘xenismos’, a reception held for the god, by the city of Athens, as a formal welcome to the polis. As such it contained choral entertainments as well as feasting. The Pompe, on the next day, was by contrast an insignificant civic ceremony and a short one, leading from the Agora to the Theatre: in the Classical pe-

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of reversal’ to Greek comedy are Carrière (1989); Goldhill (1991: 176–188); Möllendorff (1995); Platter (2007); Bierl (2009: 267–325) and to Greek festivals are Hoffmann (1989); Auffarth (1991); Versnel (1993). Remarkably, apart from Bierl (2009), they have almost nothing to say about the Pompe, and often little direct bearing on the Dionysia. For carnival and Pompe, see: Csapo (1997); Bierl (2009: 267–325); Csapo (2013). Halliwell (2008: 155–263) tends in this direction too, though he criticises the specific model of Bakhtin which overstresses the seditious elements of carnival (cf. 204–206). Versnel (1993: 115–121). In reaction to the (mainly French) structuralist vision of Dionysos as a god of ‘revolution’ (cf. Auffarth 1991: 256–257), there was a tendency among Classical scholars, particularly in the 1990s to stress Dionysos’ and even carnival’s function as defender and perpetrater of the status quo: see, e. g. Henderson (1990); Goldhill (1991: 176–188); Pelling (2000: 125). Experience: Parker (2011: ch. 6), note esp. p. 206: ‘At festivals of self­celebration such as the Panathenaea, everything is decorous, ordered, hierarchical. But in other festival contexts very different forms of behaviour were permitted or even de rigueur’ – a segue to discussion of, inter alia, the Dionysia. See esp. Parker (2011: 57–61); Kindt (2012). Sourvinou­Inwood (1994) and (2003: 67–200).

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riod a distance of significantly less than a kilometer; but in the Archaic period a distance of less than 200 meters from most plausible locations for the Old Agora.20 This, she argues, was the solemn procession, despite the phalloi (which cannot be disengaged from the Pompe because our evidence is firm in this regard). Sourvinou­Inwood’s history of the processions indeed keeps shifting its perameters to accommodate the evidence and is built upon various functional equations: between the hearth of the Prytaneion in the Old Agora, the Eschara of the New Agora, and finally the temple of Melpomenos in the Kerameikos; between the Theatre and the Agora; and to a certain extent between the ‘Introduction’ and the ‘Pompe’, as if the latter were simply a kind of ritual mopping­up after the celebration of the former. One can understand the attraction of this theory for Polis Religion: it centers the Dionysia upon a ritual designed to receive the god into the symbolic heart of the city. But this could be done only by leaving a very strained and paradoxical interpretation on the evidence for the Introduction and the Dionysia. The Introduction, which our sources make clear was not part of the Dionysia (see below), in Sourvinou­Inwood’s argument effectively became the whole of the Archaic Dionysia. The Pompe, conversely, hitherto regarded as the main event of the Archaic Dionysia, effectively became an insignificant appendix. Sourvinou­Inwood’s treatment of the Pompe has left its mark on two of the more important recent contributions to the study of the Dionysian procession in Athens by Hedreen (2004) and Rothwell (2007): even though both of them would recognise the Athenian Dionysian procession as transgressive and creative, both misplace this creativity and transgression by attributing it to the Introduction / ‘Komos’, not the Pompe. It is not possible in this chapter to undertake a full refutation of all of Sourvinou­Inwood’s complex arguments, but her influential intervention does make it necessary to begin with some general observations about the different character of the two processions. The Introduction probably began on Elaphebolion 9, though after sunset, so by religious reckoning, measuring holy days from sunset to sunset,21 on the first day of the Dionysia (Elaphebolion 10), though it was still not considered part of the Dionysia. This is made clear from an inscription of 123/2, honoring the ephebes, where we read:22

20 21 22

A recent and persuasive discussion by Schmaltz (2006). Parke (1977: 49–50). IG II² 1006 + 1031; Reinmuth (1961: no. 10); Perrin­Saminadayar (2007: 206–17, T 26 = SEG 57, 36).

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12 ... εἰσήγαγον δὲ [κ]αὶ τὸν Διόνυσον ἀπὸ τῆς ἐσχά­ non stoich. 13 ­ρας εἰς τὸ θέατρον μετὰ φωτὸς καὶ ἔπεμ[ψ]αν τοῖς Διον[υσίοις] ταῦρον ἄξιον τοῦ θεοῦ ὃν καὶ ἔθυσαν ἐν [τῶ]ι ἱερῶι τῆι πομπῆι... 76 ...[ὁμοίως δὲ καὶ τ]ὸν Διό[νυσο]ν συνεισήγαγ[ε]ν εἰς τὸ θέατρον· (12) ... they (the ephebes) [a]lso introduced Dionysos from the eschara (13) into the theatre by torchlight and at the Dionysia they proces[s]ed a bull worthy of the god which they also sacrificed in [t]he sanctuary at the Pompe ... (76) [in the same way he (the kosmetes of the ephebes) also] joined them (the ephebes) in introduc[i]ng Dio[nyso]s into the theatre. In line thirteen the Dionysia and its procession, the Pompe, are clearly distinguished from the Introduction.23 It is indeed from this decree honoring the ephebes and their kosmetai, three others like it, and (at best) three much later literary sources that we derive all of our information about the Introduction: the obscure ceremony excites no mention in Greek letters or epigraphy before the late second century BC. The Introduction, at least in the Late Hellenistic period, was a midnight torchlight procession in which the icon of Dionysos Eleuthereus was taken from an altar, called the ‘eschara’, to his Sanctuary and deposited ‘in the theatre’. Sourvinou­Inwood’s argument that the Introduction was a xenismos at the heart of the city depends heavily on the term ‘eschara’. It is mentioned only in our late decrees honouring the ephebes and in a fictional letter of Menander by Alkiphron where he expresses the wish to ‘to bind my head with Attic ivy and hymn each year the Dionysos at the eschara’.24 Unlike our epigraphic sources which focus upon the movement from the ‘eschara’ to the theatre, our literary sources, like this letter by Alkiphron, are much more interested in the activities that take place before the Introduction. Pausanias and Philostratos both write about the ritual removal of the icon of Dionysos Eleuthereus from his Sanctuary beside the theatre to a shrine near the Academy outside the walls of Athens (and along the main road to Eleutherai, the supposed origin of the idol). Nearly all scholars had therefore taken the eschara mentioned on the stones and in Alkiphron to refer to an altar at a temple by the Academy. Sourvinou­Inwood, however, argued that the eschara in question is not at the Academy but in the Agora.25 The Introduction would, according to Sourvinou­Inwood, have gone from the Academy to the eschara in the Agora; it is the Pompe that takes the icon from the Eschara in the Agora 23

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The same might be inferred from the absence of any mention of the ‘Introduction’ in the Law of Euegoros, below. Alciphr. 4.18.16. Sourvinou­Inwood (1994: 281–284; 2003: 92–93).

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to the Theatre (despite the fact that the inscription just quoted above clearly states that [before the Dionysia] the ephebes ‘introduced Dionysos from the eschara to the theatre’). To support her argument Sourvinou­Inwood was able to point to the existence of a ‘pit altar’ in the heart of the Agora, just south of the Altar of the Twelve Gods, that the American excavators called the ‘Eschara’. There are however several problems with this theory. First, no ancient source ever mentions an ‘eschara’ in the Agora and the term ‘eschara’ was only hesitantly applied by the modern excavators,26 who moreover took the term to refer to a ‘pit altar’, although recent research has rendered that interpretation highly problematic.27 An ‘eschara’ appears in fact to be ‘a hearth or a grill, often portable and made of metal’ but which could be placed on a raised altar; alternatively the term ‘eschara’ could be used of a raised altar where the upper parts are made of metal to protect the stone.28 Chances are therefore that the Eschara of the Agora is not in fact an ‘eschara’. A second problem with Sourvinou­Inwood’s theory is that the ‘Eschara’ in the Agora ceased to be used or even be visible in the Hellenistic period, and so cannot be the eschara mentioned in the Ephebic inscription.29 Sourvinou­Inwood attempts to avoid this problem by shifting the eschara to the shrine of Dionysos Melpomenos in post­Classical times,30 but there is no evidence for anything called an ‘eschara’ there either: the theory, as Sourvinou­Inwood herself recognised, is ‘undoubtedly based on insufficient evidence’ and ‘lack[s] a firm anchoring’.31 The most recent study of the ‘Eschara’ of the Agora indicates, in fact, that it was covered by a wall as early as ca. 430–420 BC.32 The most serious problem, however, is that our inscriptions speak of ‘introducing’ the god ‘from the eschara’ and there is no sense in which the ephebes can be said to introduce the god to the city unless the eschara is located outside the city’s boundaries (and it is especially awkward, if as Sourvinou­Inwood urges, the eschara in question were the notional heart of the city). As we will see below, the ancient evidence that connects performances of sacrifice or hymns in the Agora refers unambiguously to the Pompe, not the Introduction. Another term of primary importance to Sourvinou­Inwood’s argument is equally problematic. She claims that the Introduction was also known as the ‘Komos’. The word ‘komos’ in Greek has a wide and fairly loose ambit, but 26 27 28 29 30 31 32

E. g. Thompson / Wycherley (1972: 132). Ekroth (2002: 25–35). Ekroth (2002: 35, 54–59). Thompson / Wycherley (1972: 132). Sourvinou­Inwood ((1973: 91–94). Sourvinou­Inwood (2003: 94, 132 n. 136). Gadbery (1992: 456 fig. 8, 464 n. 41, 475 pottery lot 380); cf. Ekroth (2002: 34).

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normally refers to any processional or procession­like movement attended by a mood of jubilation, wine and music.33 It is a loaded term for modern scholarship because the word ‘komoidia’ (‘comedy’) in origin must certainly mean ‘the song of the komos’. Much of the discussion of the origins or early history of comedy is devoted to discovering the komos in question. Apart from the use of the term to refer to the victory celebrations for victorious poets, actors and choruses (whence the suggestive and ‘sympathetic’ komoi that frequently end ancient comedies),34 the term appears in very few documents relating to the Dionysia. The most important is the ‘Law of Euegoros’ that appears in Demosthenes’ Against Meidias 1035: ‘Euegoros spoke: whenever there is ... for the City Dionysa the parade and the boys and the komos and the comedians and the tragedians (καὶ τοῖς ἐν ἄστει Διονυσίοις πομπὴ καὶ οἱ παῖδες καὶ ὁ κῶμος καὶ οἱ κωμῳδοὶ καὶ οἱ τραγῳδοί)... let it not be permitted for anyone either to distrain or to seize property of another person, not even from debtors who are overdue in their payments during those days’. The law (of which I cite only a small part) names a series of festivals in their chronological order within the archon year: Peiraeus Dionysia, Lenaia, City Dionysia, and Thargelia. Each festival is also detailed in a strict chronological order, beginning with a procession and following with competitions. It is therefore prima facie likely that the order of competitions is also in chronological order. Fortunately we have some control over this assumption. Records from the Rural Dionysia at Thorikos also list comic before tragic competitions.36 The Fasti (an inscription of ca. 345 BC) lists the events of the Dionysia in the following order: boys’ choruses, men’s choruses, comedy

33

34

35

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Lamer (1922). The word is studied in some isolation by scholars of epinicia: see most recently Eckerman (2010). ‘Sympathetic’ in the sense of anticipating (and as it were recommending) the chorus’ victory komos: Revermann (2006: 114–118); Wilson (2007: 267–284); Biles (2011: 87–88, 129–132, 165–166, 255–256). The available evidence allows no more precise date for the law than sometime before 348. Euegoros’ law presupposes the existence of the law establishing the Assembly in the Sanctuary of Dionysos (cf. MacDowell [1990: 230] on Dem. 21.10 ‘τὸν ἑξῆς νόμον’), but that may go back as far as the early fifth century. The name Euegoros is rare (LGPN has only four examples, all in Attica). For this reason MacDowell regards as ‘certain’, and Davies as ‘at least probable’ (1971: 360), Oikonomos’ identification (1912: 229) of the proposer of this decree with the son of Philoinos of Paiania, whose gravestone is recorded in IG II2 7045. If so, this is likely to be the same Euegoros who is called a ‘priest’ by the comic poet Eubulus (fr. 71). SEG 40.128.

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and tragedy.37 For the competitions, this is the reverse order of the generally perceived importance, and the habit therefore presumably reflects the actual order of events. This is also true at Delos where the Dionysia was modelled closely on Athens: IG XI 2, 105–133 give boys’ choruses before comedy before tragedy, except for the oddity of only a short period in which the order of comedy and tragedy is reversed (IG XI 2, 108–9). Euegoros’ summary of the events of the City Dionysia seems odd because it appears to refer to a second procession (komos), in the midst of the list of competitions, and because it omits the men’s chorus. For this reason Bergk, followed, among others, by Stahl and Deubner, wished to read καὶ οἱ παῖδες καὶ ὁ κῶμος and Foucart, more radically, wished to read καὶ οἱ παῖδες καὶ ὁ κῶμος, assuming that ‘boys’’ referred to a hymn sung during the Pompe, and so not itself a reference to the competitions.38 Marx, followed, among others, by Kirchner, solved the problem by taking the word ‘komos’ to refer to the men’s chorus.39 This view is accepted in many recent discussions.40 Sourvinou­Inwood’s argument41 that the komos is the Introduction or part of the Introduction is most uneconomical, because, as the Introduction comes first in the calendar of events (is in fact before the Dionysia), it requires one to suppose, not only that ‘men’s’ chorus’ fell out, but also that ‘komos’ was displaced from first place in its list to third, after ‘Pompe’, and ‘boys’. Bethe, most unpersuasively, interprets ‘pompe’ to refer to the Introduction and ‘komos’ to refer to the Pompe (what all other sources call ‘the Pompe’).42 ‘Komos’ would then have to be an archaising term (as indeed ‘dithyramb’ was, when applied to these choruses). Most likely the generic term ‘komos’ was used for the processional chorus until the introduction of a competition for boys’ choruses at which point the opposition of ‘men’s’ to ‘boys’’ became prevalent.43 The use of such an archaic term even as late as the middle of the 37 38 39 40

41 42

43

IG II2 2318, col. 1, l. 1 M.­O. On the date and character, see Millis (2014a: 428–34. Bergk (1879: 331), Stahl (1893: 4), Deubner (1966: 140), Foucart (1877: 175–179). Marx (1927: 222), Kirchner (on IG II2 2318). Ghiron­Bistagne (1976: 226–227), Ieranò (1997: 269: ‘la soluzione più economica’), Steinhart (2004: 63), and Csapo / Miller (2007: 12). Sourvinou­Inwood (2003: 69–81). Bethe (1926). Parker (2005: 318 n. 101) rejects the suggestion that ‘komos’ refers to the competition for mens’ choruses observing that the word ‘komos’ implies (processional) movement. We will argue below however that the men’s and boys’ choruses performed in the theatre were the transformations of processional dithyrambs that had been adapted to the theatrical space. The term was therefore archaising. Marx (1927: 222).

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fourth century is remarkable, but paralleled in ca. 345 by its use in the heading of the Fasti, apparently referring to the lyric contest of the Dionysia or their processional antecedents. Possibly the term gained currency in Athens as an official assertion of the Athenian claims to be the origin of comedy, which Aristotle tells us were based on the (correct) etymology of comedy (komoidia) from ‘komos’.44 In arguing that ‘komos’ must refer to the night procession (i. e. the Introduction) that brought the icon of Dionysos back from the Academy,45 Sourvinou­Inwood in effect argues that the Introduction is the procession that has all the characteristics that we might attribute to a ritual matrix for comedy: drunkenness, choral performance, the use of masks, even (astonishingly) choruses of Ithyphalloi are all shifted from the Pompe to the Introduction / Komos. But her poliocentric vision of the Dionysia can only be sustained by still more tortuous treatments of the sources. For example, Demosthenes mentions the accursed Kurebion, who participates in the komos at the processions without the mask (19.287: τοῦ καταράτου Κυρηβίωνος, ὃς ἐν ταῖς πομπαῖς ἄνευ τοῦ προσώπου κωμάζει) and Aeschines at the same trial refers to the same man, with the words: ‘But who ever saw him behaving indecently, either, by day, as you assert, in the Pompe of the Dionysia, or by night? For you certainly could not say that he went unnoticed: he is not unknown’ (2.151: τίς αὐτὸν εἶδε πώποτε ἀσχημονήσαντα, μεθ’ μέραν, ὡς σὺ φῄς, ἐν τῇ πομπῇ τῶν Διονυσίων, νύκτωρ; οὐ γὰρ ἂν τοῦτό γ’ εἴποις, ὡς ἔλαθεν· οὐ γὰρ γνοεῖτο). The scholiast to Demosthenes adds ‘those who processed for Dionysos paraded in imitation of his retinue, some, taking on the appearance of satyrs, imitated them, others Bakchai, others silens’. Despite Sourvinou­Inwood, these passages establish clearly: that the Pompe of the Dionysia included choral groups that might be called ‘komoi’; and that it was customary in the mid­to­late fourth century to wear a mask when participating in at least some komoi at the Pompe. Epikrates’ failure to wear a mask was just unusual enough to permit Demosthenes to conjure up a semblance of scandal. Jebb draws attention to Demosthenes’ use of the definite article: Epikrates participates in the komos at the parades without ‘the (usual) mask’.46 And yet Sourvinou­Inwood argues that Demosthenes’ κωμάζει is a technical term evoking the Introduction / Komos and that the point of comment is that Epikrates (alias ‘Kurebion’) has created scandal by violating the ‘solemnity’ of the Pompe by introducing behaviour appropriate to the Introduction / Komos. The Greek text cannot really support Sourvinou­ 44 45 46

Arist. Po. 1449a 37. Sourvinou­Inwood (2003: 69–99, esp. p. 89). Jebb (1870: 337); Halliwell (2008: 181 n.79).

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Inwood’s interpretation: κωμάζει is so broadly appropriate to public behaviour at the Dionysia that it cannot by itself be understood in any technical sense singling out a specific, let alone another specific event at the Dionysia47; if Demosthenes were trying to make a clear distinction between the Pompe and the Introduction / Komos he would not have used a generalising plural ‘at the parades’48; the definite article ‘the mask’ only makes sense if the mask was normally worn in the context cited, otherwise Demosthenes should have written ‘behaved at the Pompe as appropriate to the komos but without a mask’.49 Sourvinou­Inwood’s interpretation of this passage is untenable: the passage indicates that masks were worn at the Pompe of the Dionysia, and that the Pompe also included activities that might be expressed by the verb κωμάζειν.50 The close association of masks and mockery with the Pompe is also supported by the term ‘pompeuein’ meaning ‘to abuse people as at the Pompe’: our lexicographical sources for the expression make repeated reference to masks.51 In sum, the evidence for the Introduction is slim. There can be no doubt that it ‘re­enacts’ the original advent of Dionysos into the city. But our evidence says no more than that the icon of the god moved out to somewere in the direction of the Academy (the location of the ‘eschara’) and that it was brought back in a night procession ‘to the theatre’. It was in a sense an epiphanic procession and may have prepared for a xenismos, i. e. a feasting and entertaining of the god, but that xenismos and entertainment was provided by the Pompe. The Pompe is expressly said in the aetiological myth to re­enact ‘the disease’ inflicted upon the Athenians, which is the ‘madness’ inspired by the god, expressed in the myth of Pegasos as a state of priapism (and in the closely related myth of Ikarios as a state of drunkenness).52 In that sense the Pompe too is ‘epiphanic’ since it demonstrates the effect of the god’s presence upon the populace. But the Pompe is clearly also a sacrificial procession and, as we will see, full of music and choral dance – indeed the Athenian Pompe is very probably the most densely choral procession of all Greece. Whatever models or processional typologies one adopts, the combination of ‘Introduc47

48 49 50 51 52

Indeed the word is freely used of many private and public activities during the Dionysia: Pl. Laws 637a–b (cf. Dio 9.39.7); IG II2 2318, l. 1 with Halliwell (2008: 181 n. 80). Halliwell (2008: 181 n. 80). Jebb (1870: 222); Halliwell (2008: 181 n. 79). See Frontisi­Ducroux (1992); Halliwell (2008: 181 n. 80, 195 n. 118, 228 n. 31). Halliwell (2008: 181 n. 80); Csapo (2012). Σ Lucian DDeor. 1–5 Rabe, p. 211.14–212.8; Σ Lucian DMeretr. 7 Rabe, p. 279–280.

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tion’ and ‘Pompe’ is unique. They are not, as some think, a mere reduplication of one another, but rather appear to complement each other as stages of what elsewhere is usually combined into a single ritual action. The Introduction and the Pompe were probably separated from one another by at most a few hours: the Introduction seems to take place in the very early morning of Elephebolion 10 and the Pompe probably begins at sunrise on the same day. The Introduction brings Dionysos into the city and is focussed on the icon of the god. The Pompe brings sacrifice and entertainment to the god and is focussed on the ‘madness’ of the community caused by the god’s presence. The Pompe, it seems, presupposes the Introduction (although elsewhere only Piraeus seems similarly to separate into two processions Dionysos’ advent and the display of his ‘effect’). Practically, the processions differ in that the Introduction takes place in the dark and is suited to torchlight, but the Pompe takes place during daylight and is suited to the viewing of costumes, choruses and other festival furnishings. Theologically, the most interesting difference is that the icon of the god is present in the procession of the Introduction, but is only present at the destination of the Pompe. This does not, I think, require us to assume that in the minds of the worshippers the god is entirely absent from most of the Pompe: he is at least notionally present in some of the iconography that is inspired by the procession, and indeed it is likely that the phallos itself was thought to represent the god.53 In other parts of Greece the ‘epiphanic’ procession that brings in the god and the phallic procession appear to be combined in a single procession (e. g. the Dionysia in all demes except Piraeus, the Katagogia of Ephesos, the Pompe at Delos, the Pompai at Alexandria, Edessa, Methymna): this is possibly because in origin the phallos was the god.54 If anything, it is the Pompe that is primary, and the Introduction (which is not after all attested until Late Hellenistic times) that could be regarded as marginal or secondary (though I suspect the Introduction does have a much earlier history).

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Inscriptions make it clear that the phallos paraded in the Pompe of the Dionysia at Delos was there considered to be ‘an image of Dionysos’: see Vallois (1922). Cf. also Semos FGrH 396 F 24 (apud Ath. 622a); and Herakleitos F 15 DK where ὕμνοι (not necessarily but probably ‘hymns’) are sung to phalloi. Ephesos: Herakleitos F 15 DK; Plu. Ant. 24.4; Acta S. Timothei in Usener (1877); Keil (1935: 91–92, pl. 43). Delos: Nilsson (1906: 280–282); Herter (1938: 1678); Cole (1992: 30–32). Alexandria: Kallixeinos FGrH 627 F 2 (Ath. 201e). Edessa: Daux (1970); Chamoux (1974); Nikolaou (1985); Csapo (1997: 283). Methymna: Csapo (1997: 258–259 and n. 28). A pannychis may precede the phallophoria at Methymna: see Nilsson (1906: 282–283).

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No one has really explained how a procession bristling with phallos poles would succeed in being solemn, formal and dignified, and no one has ever doubted that the Pompe included the phallic procession, it is too well attested by our sources. Indeed in Athens and Attica only the Dionysian Pompe (City and ‘Rural’) included phallic processions,55 only the Pompe included phallic choruses,56 and indeed, of all Dionysian festivals, phallic imagery is only associated with the Dionysia, doubtless as a result of the centrality of the phallic procession.57 One would have to adopt the polite Victorian view that the phalloi were tolerated by an otherwise mortified populace only out of shame­faced piety and respect for ancestral symbols of fertility. But Dionysian phalloi were symbols of Dionysian madness, not fertility, and a madness designed to licence the transgressive mood of the procession.58 And they may not have been so very ancestral. 2. Evidence for the Archaic History of the Pompe Dionysos may have been in Athens a very long time.59 But Dionysos Eleu­ thereus, the god of the Dionysia and of the theatre, has a very different personality from the god of the Anthesteria or the god of the Lenaia, both of whom had probably been in Athens much longer. The myth of the introduction of Dionysos Eleuthereus into Attica is an aetiology for phallic processions (Σ Ar. Ach. 243 Wilson): ... Πήγασος ἐκ τῶν Ἐλευθερῶν – αἱ δὲ Ἐλευθεραὶ πόλις εἰσὶ τῆς Βοιωτίας – λαβὼν τοῦ Διονύσου τὸ ἄγαλμα κεν εἰς τὴν Ἀττικήν. οἱ δὲ Ἀττικοὶ οὐκ ἐδέξαντο μετὰ τιμῆς τὸν θεόν, ἀλλ’ οὐκ ἀμισθί γε αὐτοῖς ταῦτα βουλευσαμένοις ἀπέβη. μηνίσαντος γὰρ τοῦ θεοῦ νόσος κατέσκηψεν εἰς τὰ αἰδοῖα τῶν ἀνδρῶν καὶ τὸ δεινὸν ἀνήκεστον ν. ὡς δὲ ἀπεῖπον πρὸς τὴν νόσον κρείττω γενομένην πάσης ἀνθρωπείας μαγγανείας καὶ τέχνης, ἀπεστάλησαν θεωροὶ μετὰ σπουδῆς· οἳ δὴ ἐπανελθόντες ἔφασαν ἴασιν ταύτην εἶναι μόνην, εἰ διὰ τιμῆς ἁπάσης ἄγοιεν 55

56 57 58

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Herter (1938: 1675–1677); Pickard­Cambridge (1968: 36, 43–44, 57, 62); Parker (2005: 316–321). Csapo (2013: esp. p. 57). Pickard­Cambridge (1968: 36); Parke (1977: 109); The Dionysia is in fact generally thought to be a Peisitratid creation, if not later: for the historical evidence, see below. For the phallos as ‘madness’, see: Henrichs (1987b: 97); Csapo (1997: 259–260). The principal evidence is Thuc. 2.15.3–4 and Dionysos’ connection with the Anthesteria (see Burkert 1985: 237–242).

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τὸν θεόν. πεισθέντες οὖν τοῖς γγελμένοις οἱ Ἀθηναῖοι φαλλοὺς ἰδίᾳ τε καὶ δημοσίᾳ κατεσκεύασαν, καὶ τούτοις ἐγέραιρον τὸν θεόν, ὑπόμνημα ποιούμενοι τοῦ πάθους. ‘Xanthias [stand] the phallos [upright]’: ... Pegasos took the image of Dionysos from Eleutherai – Eleutherai is a city of Boeotia – and came to Attica. The people of Attica did not receive the god with honour, but this counsel of theirs did not go unpunished, because the god got angry and a sickness afflicted the men’s genitals and the affliction was incurable. As they succumbed to the sickness which proved beyond all human magic and science they were quick to send ambassadors (to the oracle). When the ambassadors returned they said the only cure was to process the god with all honours. So after they obeyed the report of the oracle, they constructed phalloi, private and public, and with these they kept honouring the god, making (the phallic parades) a memorial to their suffering. Initially rejected by the Athenians, Dionysos afflicted them with a state of permanent erection. In obedience to the Delphic oracle which commanded them ‘to celebrate / process the god with all honours’, they built phalloi ‘and honoured him with these’. The myth offers no suggestion of any fashion of honouring of the god except with a phallic procession. It is likely that this myth was known in Archaic and Classical Athens.60 Another myth, one more helpful to Sourvinou­Inwood’s interpretation, is implicit in a group of clay figurines seen by Pausanias (1.2.5.12–6.1), therefore pre­ca. 150 AD, which indicates that Dionysos, the other gods, and also Dionysos’ missionary Pegasos ‘who introduced the god to the Athenians’ (ὃς Ἀθηναίοις θεὸν ἐσήγαγε) were feasted by King Amphiktyon. Yet this does not necessarily indicate that the feasting was part of the ritual of the ‘Introduction’. King Amphiktyon is dated by the Parian Marble to 16th c. BC, but no one believes the cult of Eleuthereus in Athens goes back that far.61 60 61

Bacelar (2009). Taplin (2010: 247–248) even expresses doubts that the cult name Eleuthereus was known in Classical Athens. It is true that only very late sources clearly attest Dionysos Eleuthereus as the god of the Athenian theatre. This appears just to be bad luck. The supplement τὴν ἑορτὴν τοῦ Διονύσου το[ῦ Ἐλευθερέως] ‘the festival of Dionysos [Eleuthereus]’ seems likely for IG II3 306, ll. 22–23 (Dionysia 342 BC), although challenged by Lambert (2004: 90). A similar supplement ‘Dionysos Eleuthereus’ in ll. 39–40 of IG II3 416 (ἐν τῶι θεάτρωι τοῦ Διονύσο[υ τοῦ Ἐλευθερέως], ‘in the theatre of Dionyso[s Eleuthereus]) by Wilhelm (1943–1947: 162) is probably mistaken. These questions will be dealt with in more detail in Csapo / Wilson (forthcoming).

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How far then can we trace the history of the Athenian Dionysia? Dramatic records do not go back much earlier than 500 BC. The Fasti (IG II2 2318), as reconstructed, begin not much earlier than ca. 500 BC.62 The Didascaliae (IG II2 2319–2323a), a record of dramatic productions at the Athenian Dionysia and Lenaea, also ‘presumably went back to the end of the sixth century’.63 Reconstruction of the Victor Lists (IG II2 2325) is at least consistent with a starting date ca. 500 BC. We might co­ordinate this with the Marmor Parium’s date of 508 BC for the first competition for a men’s chorus, for which Hypodikos of Chalkis was didaskalos: it stands out in the early chronology as being about someone we otherwise know nothing about: so maybe it was not made up to create a history that was lacking.64 It also sits right at the beginning of the structural reforms of the Athenian democracy and in particular the creation of the Kleisthenic tribes that provided the men’s and boys’ lyric competitions. This is the first date that might be based on archival records. It is not just that the archival record offers nothing until just before the end of the sixth century. Iconography related to the contests of the Dionysia also takes us no further back. Most indicative are depictions of choregic tripod monuments awarded at the Dionysian contests for men’s and boys’ choruses. Representations of choregic tripods appear on over forty Attic vase-paintings.65 The known corpus stretches well into the fourth century BC, but only back as far as ca. 500 BC.66 The earliest certain representation of a tragedy in performance is not much later than this date.67 62

Millis / Olson (2012: 5) ‘most likely sometime near the end of the 6th century BCE’. See also Millis in this volume (p. 228–249); also Millis (2014a: 428–434). Millis (2014a: 434–440; quote on 437). The other early victories relating to drama, Choirilos (dated by Suda to 524/3– 521/0) and Phrynichos (dated by Suda to 512/1–509/8), are less reliable precisely because they were well known figures for whom dates needed to be invented, and there are indeed indications that they were invented: see West (1989); Scullion (2002). On Thespis and Sousarion, see below, pp. 88–91. Several additions should now be made to the list in Csapo (2010b: 126–130); for tripods representations in pottery generally, see Sakowski (1997), and Wilson Jones (2002). I know three representations dated ‘ca. 500 BC’: 1. Attic bf oinochoe, perhaps Painter of the Half­palmettes, ca. 500 BC, Munich 1810, ABV 429.9, CVA Deutschland 12 Munich 4 pl. 50.1–3; 2. Attic rf lekythos by the Berlin Ptr., ca.  500  BC, Froning (1971: pl. 2.1), once Basel market; 3. Attic rf calyx krater by Berlin Ptr., ca. 500 BC, Oxford 291, ARV2 205.122, CVA Oxford (1) pl. 21.3, LIMC 6 (1992) Nike 13, pl. 559. This is the Attic red­figured column krater, Mannerist Style (Basel, Antikensammlung BS 415; CVA (3) pl. 6.1–2, 7.3–5). It could be dated as early as 500 BC and certainly no later than 470. See Csapo (2010a: 6–8, fig. 1.2). The Attic hydria  

63 64

65

66

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The last decade of the sixth century is as far back as theatre records or theatre iconography go for a very good reason. Both the theatre and the old temple in the Sanctuary of Dionysos were built ca. 500 BC.68 Most scholars claim that there was an earlier theatre in the Athenian Agora, but this is based on ancient and modern errors, as I will explain later on. There are no theatre records before about 508 BC because quite simply there was no theatre in any sense of the term. If we want to write the history of comedy or tragedy in Athens before this period, we have to ask ourselves just what comedy or tragedy could be like without a theatre. I do not just mean without a formally constructed theatre, but without a fixed audience. We will come back to this. This does not mean there was no Dionysia in Athens before 508 BC and no cultic activity on the South Slope of the Acropolis. The earliest trace of

Fig. 1: Earliest Remnant in Sanctuary of Dionysos: Athens, NM 3131.  National Archae­ ological Museum, Athens. Photo: E.  Csapo, with permission. ©  Ηellenic Ministry of Education and Religious Affairs, Culture and Sports / Archaeological Receipts Fund

68

with tragic choregic iconography, St. Petersburg inv. no. B 201 (St. 1538), dated 490–480 BC, is not much later and possibly earlier: see Csapo (2010b: 98–100, fig. 7.12). Despinis (1996/7: 205–206) who dates the Old Temple on the basis of architectural and sculptural remains to 500–490 BC.

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construction in the area of the Sanctuary of Dionysos is a fragment of a relief that probably belongs to an altar: it is dated to 550 BC by Simon or 540– 530 BC by Despinis (Figure 1).69 The subject matter leaves no doubt that the construction belonged to Dionysos. It shows two ithyphallic pipe­playing satyrs and at least one dancing nymph. It proves that by the mid sixth century Dionysos Eleuthereus was already associated with satyrs, phalloi, music and choruses. If Dionysos had been in Attica for centuries, the artistic record gives no reflection of his importance until just before the mid­sixth century. Although Dionysian themes had already been popular elsewhere, it is not until the 570s BC that we first catch a glimpse of Dionysos and his entourage in Attic art. But about 560 BC there is a veritable explosion in the popularity of Dionysian imagery.70 Komasts, for example, had already been present in Corinthian and many other fabrics for nearly half a century. When they first appear in Attic pottery after 580 BC, the output is modest at first, and the komasts are derivative from Corinthian types, leading many to believe that they express nothing beyond iconographic imitation by Attic painters of Corinthian prototypes.71 At the same time satyrs (or silens) make their first appearance in Attic and Greek art generally, but in Attic art they quickly become extremely popular and soon completely replace komasts. Of greatest interest for our purposes is the fact that the Dionysian themes that suddenly appear in the iconographic big bang of 560 BC are themes that express the experience of Dionysian processions. Unlike the dominant orientation of Attic iconography towards myth, Dionysian ritual dominates the iconography, even in scenes that in outline are mythical. This is nowhere so well exemplified as in the early depictions of the Return of Hephaistos.72 In our very first depictions of Dionysos in Attic iconography, he appears in processions.73 On one of these, the François Vase of ca. 570 BC, Dionysos appears twice: once as part of the procession of gods arriving at the house of Peleus in the scene of the Wedding of Peleus and 69

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Athens NM 3131 (the dimensions are 0.45 x 0.69 x 0.21 m.); Simon (1997: 1129 no. 201); Despinis (1996/7: 198). Carpenter (1986); Hedreen (1992: 155–170); Shapiro (1995: 84–100); Isler­Kerényi (2004); Csapo / Miller (2007: 22–24); Smith (2010: 116). Smith (2007: 54–56); Smith (2010: 33–73). As brilliantly demonstrated by Hedreen (2004); cf. Carpenter (1986: 13–29). Attic bf dinos, by Sophilos, London BM 1971.11.­1.1., Paralipomena 19, 16bis; Attic bf volute­krater from Chiusi (François Vase), by Ergotimos and Kleitias, Florence Museo Archeologico 4209, ABV 76.1.

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Fig. 2: Attic bf dinos, Painter of Louvre E 876 (name vase) 570–560 BC. Distribution R.M.N. / ©  Les frères Chuzeville.

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Thetis, and a second time in the scene of the Return of Hephaistos, leading a procession that includes an ithyphallic donkey (holding Hephaistos), ithyphallic silens carrying wine (or in one case a nymph) or playing pipes, and nymphs playing cymbals. We have the remains of about twenty treatments of the subject down to the mid­sixth century.74 As in Figure 2, the treatment by the Painter of Louvre E 876 (570–560 BC), these vases show very little interest in the mythic narrative as such, but are concerned to depict the drunkenness, obscenity, music and dance of what often turns into, as here, a sacrificial procession: notice the ox, the goat, but above all the ritual dining taking place at the end of the procession. There is even a suggestion of a mask in the grotesquely large head of the seventh man to the right of the winejar (just left of piper). Not only does Dionysos suddenly appear in processional contexts, but Hedreen shows that the creatures of Dionysos after about 560 BC frequently shed their natural wildness, to move and dance in disciplined lines.75 Something has happened to make painters think of these mythical savage beasts as essentially choral, musical and processional creatures. Unfortunately, partly under the influence of Sourvinou­Inwood and partly because he feels the procession here described is ‘epiphanic’, Hedreen considers almost every Dionysian procession as the ritual background for this scene but the Pompe.76 Unquestionably connected with the Dionysian Pompe is another kind of image that appears suddenly in Attic art ca. 550 BC. Figure 3 gives our first images of processional phalloi (there is one on each side).77 The somewhat more elaborate side (conventionally, Side A) shows an elaborate phallos pole, resting on a base (also a phallos pole) and supported by a giant satyr (also part of the pole) who is represented as riding the phallos (the pole on the other side is similar, except ridden by a komast). The phallos­bearers (or ‘phallophoroi’), bent under the weight of this enormous pole, wear no costume, except for erect phalloi (the artist has added these in red paint). These are the commemorative symbols of the ‘disease’ that afflicted the Athenians in the aetiological myth. Greek vase­painting rarely shows the depth of a rank, but we should assume that any pole of this type would be supported on the left side by another six men. The position and gesture of the man in front mark him out as the exarchos or leader of the chorus: his arms out gesture suggests

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See Hedreen’s Appendix (1992: 183–184) which lists forty­nine Attic black­figured treatments of the subject from the sixth­century BC. Hedreen (2007). Hedreen (2004: 45–50). Attic bf cup, Florence 3897. Thorough discussion in Csapo (1997). Beautifully illustrated and updated discussion in Iozzo (2009).

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Fig. 3: Attic bf lip­cup, Florence 3897, ca. 550 BC. Photograph ©  Museo Archeologico Nazionale, Firenze.

he is singing to the chorus.78 The man riding the satyr and the man in back are not supporting the weight of the pole but adding to the entertainment and clearly part of the chorus. We are probably to imagine a chorus of fifteen (on the other side we see only the file of six men supporting the pole on the right side, implying, I would argue, a chorus of at least twelve). In Attic art this representation is unique, but that does not lessen its value. A comparable image appears on an East Greek neck­amphora of about the same time (dated 550–540 BC).79 The vase may have been a dedication by a Greek, possibly in the precincts of the temple of Ammon in Karnak.80 The painting as reconstructed shows a chorus of about fifteen men, most of whom are carrying a large ship with phallic attributes (though it could just as easily be reconstructed as a large phallos with naval attributes). Two of the chorus members ride atop the float on separate branching phalloi; one is dressed in a satyr costume and one in a komast costume. A piper is also present atop the float. Some have assumed that an Ionian rite is being depicted, but there are 78 79

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This gesture is studied in Csapo (2006–7). Oxford 1924.264; CVA Oxford ii, IId, pl. 10 (401), 24; Boardman (1958); Csapo (1997: figs. 8A­B). Purchased by Prof. Sayce in Luxor, said to have been found at Karnak. According to Clairmont, it is ‘likely that fragments of Greek pottery discovered in Karnak were found somewhere within the holy precincts of the temple of Ammon’; cited by Boardman (1958: 11); doubts expressed by Weber (2001: 140).

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several Egyptianising features.81 The choreuts do not, as in Athens, have erect phalloi on their costumes, but wear kilts (one of the Egyptianising features82). It does show that phallic processions of this sort are widespread elsewhere in the Mediterranean at this period, and of a sudden particular interest, possibly because of their novelty and imaginative qualities, to Greek vase­painters.83 From about 560 BC begins a series of over twenty Attic vase­paintings showing choruses with elaborate costumes, elaborate orchestration and often accompanied by a piper, usually moving in a straight line, but occasionally dancing around the piper. These vases have frequently been discussed, most cogently by Richard Green.84 The choruses are sometimes called ‘animal choruses’, sometimes ‘animal riders’, but neither term catches all the variations. I will call them ‘komos vases’, following the nomenclature suggested by Pickard­Cambridge (1962, but already in the first edition of 1927) who referred to them as representing some sort of ‘komos’. What the series of vases has in common, apart from outlandish costume (without any of the distinctive features of comic costume), is strange and funny ways of moving, either in 81

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Boardman (1958: 8–12); Boardman (1998: 137–138); el­Sabban (2000); Weber (2001: 141); Steinhart (2004: 94). For what it is worth Herodotos believed that the phallic procession for Dionysos was imported from Egypt by Melampous (2.48–49). Burkert (1972: 223). It is just possible that another variety of phallic entertainer, the ithyphalloi, also make their first appearance 570–560 BC. A fragment, probably by the painter Sophilos, may show a chorus of men in tri­phallic hats: Fuchs / Tusa (1964: 767 fig. 73); Blech (1982: 209 n. 133); Bierl (2009: 283 n. 47). The identification is particularly interesting given Aristophanes’ comedy called Triphales, in which, to go by the few remaining fragments, there are a lot of jokes on hats and on the number three: test. 4, fr. 559, 561 (with note by Kassel and Austin), 563, 566, 569, and cf. 567, 568, and also the association of Ithyphalloi and Triballoi (names of youth gangs) in D. 54.14–17, 20, 39. One of the komos vases (see below) may also show phallic hats (this time bi­phallic): the black­figure cup by the Heidelberg Painter, Amsterdam 3356, ABV 66, 57, Green (1985: 99–100, no. 1). Webster associates this chorus with Ithyphalloi (1970: 34, 36). The projections are not obviously ‘feathers’ as sometimes claimed. Compare also the ‘horse ears’ on the bf hydria in a Swedish private collection, Green (1985: 100–101, no. 2). Apart from the feminine garments and the possible phalloi the chorus has no direct connections to Ithyphalloi found in the fifth­century: see Csapo (2013). The association of these dancers with Ithyphalloi is therefore possible but problematic. Green (1985); Green (1994: 28–34); Green (2007: 166–168); Green (2010: 71–74); see also Smith (1881); Poppelreuter (1893: 1–23); Pickard­Cambridge (1962: 151–162), which includes additions by T. B.L. Webster; Webster (1970: 20–21, 93); Sifakis (1971: 73–93); Csapo (2003: 86–90); Steinhart (2004: 20–21); Rusten (2006: 44–54); Rothwell (2007).

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imitation of animals, or because they are pretending to ride them, or because they are on stilts, or men imitating women, or upside­down and walking on their hands. The costumes are certainly engaging and the movements entertaining enough to seize your attention as they walk by, but probably not for much longer: the paintings suggest no further elaboration and no narrative. The komos vases come to an end ca. 480 BC, around the time that the Suda and calculations based on the Fasti and Victor Lists indicate that a contest for comedy was added to the Dionysia.85 Figure 4 comes from close to the end of the series.86 It shows a line of four ostrich riders who stand for a doubtless much larger chorus. They approach a piper. Uniquely for this series, however, there is a much shorter man wearing a mask, probably of a satyr or pan (he looks horned but may not be).87 He may be a dwarf: dwarfs were used as entertainers, especially Dionysian entertainers in antiquity, and can be found elsewhere in the iconography of sixth­century Dionysian processions.88 He has been described as a ‘proto­actor’, or simply ‘an actor’, or more ambiva-

Fig. 4: Attic bf cup, Boston MFA 20.18, 490–480 BC. Photograph © 2015 Museum of Fine Arts, Boston

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Suda s. v. Χιονίδης (χ 381), but note that the connection with the origin of the contests depends on a not very secure emendation of the text. For the Fasti calculations, see Millis / Olson (2012: 156–157). Attic bf cup, Boston MFA 20.18, 490–480 BC. Sifakis (1971: 91). The Return of Hephaistos scene on the Attic bf skyphos (side B), Louvre F 410, illustrated by Walsh (2009: 115). On dwarfs as entertainers, especially ‘phallic’ entertainers: see Shapiro (1984); Dasen (1990); Dasen (1993: 230–233).

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lently (and more misleadingly) as an ‘antagonist’, but he is none of these.89 His pose fits the schema of an exarchos, the indispensible leader of any non­ professional processional chorus, and a figure associated with cultic paeans and dithyrambs (which were processional), as well as with phallic choruses.90 Since Smith (1881) it has been argued that these vases have something to do with comedy. Webster wavered between ‘precomic’, a hesitant affirmation that they are too early to be comic, and a settled equivocation ‘comedy or precomedy’.91 Webster’s successor, Green, however, argues the strongest possible connection: the komos vases are ‘depictions which derive from Old Comedy’ and ‘must certainly be interpreted as comic choruses’.92 The komos vases in fact have only two links with comedy: one is the simple fact that they show ‘funny’ costumes and dancers; the other is the correspondence between the types of choruses depicted and the frequent ‘animal’ or ‘beast­ rider’ choruses preserved in or inferable from preserved titles of fifth and fourth­century comedies.93 Neither link is compelling, especially given the differences between these and comic costume and the freedom with which Old Comedy models its choruses upon those of other genres, especially sister Dionysian genres.94 Evident thematic connections with other genres, like dithyramb, have led several scholars more recently to adopt the view that the komos vases belong to a Dionysian processional chorus.95 We need to ask ourselves two questions. Was there in fact anything that Athenians would have called ‘komoidia’ in the sixth century BC and, even if there was, was it ‘comedy’ as we know it? Let us reserve our second question for a later section, and say a few words about the nature of the textual evidence for Attic comedy in the sixth century. Our ‘knowledge’ of Attic comedy in the sixth century depends heavily upon an entry in the Parian Marble96: 89 90 91 92

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‘Antagonist’: Sifakis (1971: 92–93). Csapo (2006/7). Trendall / Webster (1971: 20–24); Webster (1970a: 35); Webster (1970b: 93) Green (1994: 28); Green (2010: 71). But more cautiously and, in my view, correctly characterised in Green (2012: 290) ‘these vases seem to have recorded a critical step in the evolution of theatrical performance’. See the list in Sifakis (1971: 76–77). In Csapo (2013) I argue that the synchronic influence of choruses from the Pompe is more important than any supposed diachronic influence from historical origins. Csapo (2003); Rusten (2006); Rothwell (2007); Steinhart (2007); Kowalzig (2013); Hedreen (2013). IG XII 5, 444 l. 39. My reading of the Parian Marble, lines 54–55 has one significant departure from the standard IG text: with considerable hesitation I read, with Bentley (1699), καὶ οἴνου [ἀμφ]ο̣ρ[ε]ύ̣ς in place of οἴνου με[τ]ρητής. Twentieth­ century editors, taking confidence from one another, gradually shed the under-

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ἀφ’ οὗ ἐν Ἀθ̣[ήν]αις κωμω[ιδῶν χο]ρ[ὸς ἐτ]έθη [στη]σάντ̣[ων πρώ]των Ἰκαριέων εὑρόντος Σουσαρίωνος καὶ ἆθλον ἐτέθη πρῶτον ἰσχάδω[ν] ἄρσιχο[ς] καὶ οἴνου [ἀμφ]ο̣ρ[ε]ύ̣ς [ἔτη ΗΗ –   –  ἄρχοντος Ἀθήνησιν] From the time when in Ath[en]s [a cho]r[os] of comi[c choreuts was inst]itut[ed], the people of Ikarion having been the [fir]st to [per]for[m] (a comic chorus) when Susarion invented it, and a prize of a baske(t) of dried fig[s] and an [amph]o[r]a of wine was first instituted [three (or two) hundred (and so many) years... when X was the archon at Athens] This would seem to give evidence of a competition for ‘comedy’ sometime between 582 and 561 BC (established dates in the Parian Marble’s chronology on either side of this entry). In fact, however, the text is very uncertain.97 Because of the severe deterioration of the stone, only the seventeenth­ and early eighteenth­century readings are of much use and they vary considerably. Bentley, for example, felt confident in reading ἐν ἀπήναις (on wagons) rather than ἐν Ἀθήναις, and in more than one way this makes better sense, since the entry goes on to speak not of an Athenian competition for comedy but a competition in the Attic deme of Ikarion.98 The reference to Ikarion, wine and fig prizes, if not the reference to performances ‘on wagons’ alerts us to a link in myth­history of the Attic origins of both tragedy and comedy out of an original Urform, sometimes called ‘trygedy’, by Ikarios, and then separated into comedy and tragedy by his compatriot, Ikarian, itinerant, wagon­riding successors, Susarion and Thespis. There is no space here to bring forward all the evidence for this fourth­century theory of the origins of drama,99 but the evidence points at an Atthidographer and most probably Phanodemos, a man whom Jacoby described as Lycurgus’ ‘minister of public worship and education’ and who might in fact better be described as Lycurgus’ minister of culture and propaganda.100 His myth­history of the Attic and

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dots and square brackets that might have warned that Munro (1901: 356) only thought he saw ME and that all the other letters are pure conjecture. Bentley’s text is at least slightly more in harmony with the traces read by the earliest editors who saw the stone in a much better state. One might add that a metretes is a pure measure, but prizes, even liquid prizes, usually take a specific form, and in the case of foodstuffs come in portable containers of recognisable shape, such as a Panathenaic amphora of oil, or, for that matter, an arrhichos of figs. See above all the comments by Connor (1989: 26–32). Bentley (1699: 207). This will be thoroughly explored in Csapo / Wilson (forthcoming). Jacoby (1954: 172); for the activity of Phanodemos, see esp. Humphreys (2004: index s. v. ‘Phanodemos’).

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village (deme) origins of drama was intended to assert Athenian primacy in drama against Dorian claims at a time when Athenian primacy was in fact seriously disputed and threatened.101 We find traces of this debate adhering to all our information about Susarion. The Anonymous On Comedy 1–7, for example, shows that Susarion is intimately connected with attempts to derive ‘komoidia’ from ‘komai’ (‘villages’) as well as from ‘komoi’. The sixth century history of comedy (and also tragedy) was invented in the fourth century BC and later embellished: it throws interesting light on the fourth century BC, but much darkness on the sixth. The one thing of interest is the 582–561 BC date chosen for the first ‘song of the komos’. Let us here summarise what the evidence shows about the nature of the Dionysia in the sixth century. From 580 and especially after 560 BC vase­ painters suddenly take a strong interest in Dionysos and in Dionysian processions. Our evidence from this date for phallic choruses, satyr choruses, and various sorts of processional komoi is very strong. The synchronism of the emergence of these subjects might incline one to suppose them all inspired by a common and novel source. This has very plausibly been connected with the creation (or remodelling) of the Athenian Dionysia. Most scholars accept a Peisistratid date for the creation of the Athenian Dionysia.102 One of the main reason for this is the belief that the Parian Marble claims that Thespis performed at the City Dionysia for a prize. In fact the Parian Marble says nothing about the Dionysia.103 ἀφ’ οὗ Θέσπις ὁ ποιητὴς [ὑπεκρίνα]το πρῶτος, ὃς ἐδίδαξε ν̣ α̣ λ̣ ̣ ̣ σ̣ τ̣ ι̣ ν̣ ̣ [καὶ ἆθλον ἐ]τέθη ὁ [τ]ράγος, ἔτη ΗΗ̣[ΔΔ. ], ἄρχοντος Ἀθ[ήνησι.... ] ναιου τοῦ προτέρου From the time that Thespis first [act]ed, who directed ... and a [g]oat was [es]tablished [as prize] 270(?) years in the time that the first [....]naios was archon in Ath[ens] This passage has been unhappily wedded to the history of the Athenian Dionysia since Boeckh, in editing IG XII, without consulting the stone arbitrarily emended the traces to ὃς ἐδίδαξε [δρ]ᾶ[μα ἐν ἄ]στ[ει ‘who first established drama in the city’ (a contradiction of the Parian Marble’s earlier notice on Susarion, if either text could be trusted). My text above is based on the traces 101

See Csapo / Wilson (2014: 421, 424). Connor (1989) and Anderson (2003: 178–84) are exceptional in believing that the City Dionysia was created only around 506 BC. Parian Marble 58–9, IG XII 5, 444 l. 43; FGrH 239, 43–9. For the difficulties in reading this inscription, cf., above, nn. 96–97.     

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read in the seventeenth century, when the letters were last visible.104 Boeckh’s emendation is followed by almost everyone, but not only is his emendation arbitrary and in total disregard of the traces on the stone, it is contrary to what we know of the Hellenistic tradition on Thespis. Other sources connect Thespis with the rural Dionysia and particularly with Ikarion, of which Thespis is said to have been a native105: Dioskorides locates Thespis’ invention of tragedy in rural Attica (κωμήταις, ‘villagers’) and elsewhere refers to the ‘games and revels in the rural woodlands’ that Thespis invented and Aeschylus later enobled106; Virgil and Tibullus firmly place the goat prize in a rural landscape107; Horace locates Thespis’ performance on the ‘wagons’, which, as the Pseudo­Acronian scholion notes, implies a wandering about the villages (ante enim chori in plaustris constituti circa vicos tragoediae dicebant).108 This story is of a piece with the myth­history of comedy, and particularly with the elaboration that connects the etymology of ‘komoidia’ from ‘komai’ (‘villages’: see above). Diomedes is most explicit that the comedians made the rounds of the villages long before a dramatic competition was instituted in Athens.109 This is part of the mythic fabric invented in the fourth century to establish the primacy of Athenian theatre, by making Attica the place of origin for its two major genres. If anything, the resort to such myth­histories suggests that there was little real history around to be of use. We are therefore utterly reliant on the iconographic evidence. It indicates that something took place between about 570 to 560 BC that inspired vasepainters both to represent mythic themes that permitted the inclusion of motifs drawn from a Dionysian procession and to draw upon their impression of such a Dionysian procession to represent the ritual choruses directly. The imagery evokes choruses, costumes, drunkenness, ribaldry and phalloi: all 104 105 106 107

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See Connor (1989: 26–32). Suda s. v. Θέσπις (θ 282). AP 7.410, 411. Verg. G. 2.380–384 where Virgil’s language is deliberately suggestive: ‘pagus’ is the word normally used for an Attic deme (e. g. Pliny NH 4.24.9, 36.17.8), ‘vetus’ suggests ‘vetus comoedia’ the proper term for ‘Old Comedy’ (Hor. Ars poet. 281); Tib. 2.1.55–58. Hor. Ars poet. 220–224, 275–277. Horace draws heavily in this ode on Hellenistic scholars, particularly Peripatetics. Thespis is said to have invented both tragedy and satyrplay for the prize of a goat, but without theatres he wanders about the countryside on wagons. Diomedes, De arte grammatica 3 Keil, Grammatici Latini 1.487–488, drawing upon Varro who was steeped in Hellenistic literary and musical history. The fourth­century theories of tragic origins will also be treated fully in Csapo / Wilson (forthcoming).

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features connected to the Dionysian Pompe in later times. This urges the conclusion that the Dionysia was created (or at least existed) by about 570– 560 BC and is therefore somewhat earlier than Peisistratos. The date also coincides with that of the creation (or reorganisation) of the Panathenaia, which has also long been attributed to Peisistratos, but which the textual and epigraphic evidence for the reform of the Panathenaia, and in particular IG I3 508, now seems to indicate was also somewhat earlier than Peisistratos: Robert Parker, for example, writes that ‘the Panathenaea was certainly transformed into an athletic festival of Panhellenic appeal in or near the 560s’ and Julia Shear dates the reorganisation of the Panathenaia and the creation of the Great Panathenaia more firmly to 566/5 BC.110 The Peisistratids did seem to welcome and foster a number of cultic transformations that were ‘probably already underway’ by the Peisistratid period and whose hallmarks were ‘a stress on the city, on spectacle, on entertainment provided, so to speak, professionally’.111 This included the Dionysian Pompe; but we have no cause to believe that before ca. 508 BC it included competitions for men’s or boys’ choruses, or that before ca. 500 BC, it included any competition for drama. 3. Evidence for Contents and Route of the Pompe Let us try to capture a glimpse of the size and movement of the Pompe in the fifth and fourth centuries, the time for which we have our best evidence. The Pompe in the historical period was a sacrificial procession and, like most sacrificial processions, it led sacrifices to the god’s sanctuary where, normally, the god was conceived as present and ready to receive the honours. The evidence shows that Dionysos waited in the theatre attached to the sanctuary.112 Peter Wilson has given closely argued estimates for the victims included in a Pompe of the late fifth century BC. This would have included 200 cattle paid for by Athens, to which we might add any number of private sacrifices by Athenian citizens,113 but also, at the height of the empire, another 200 cattle 110 111 112

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Parker (1996: 75–76): Shear (2001: 507–515). Parker (1996: 78). See the decrees honouring the ephebes and their kosmetai, cited above, p. 71: the kosmetes joins the ephebes in ‘introducing’ Dionysos to the theatre. The presence of the icon of Dionysos in the theatre in the fifth century is indicated by Ar. Eq. 526–536 and a first century AD source, probably Musonius Rufus, drawn upon by D.Chr. Or. 31.21 and Philostr. VA 4.22. Cole (1993: 31) argues for the presence of (the icon of) Dionysos in the Delian theatre. Wilson (2008: 98); the possibility of private sacrifices is suggested by the Euboean decree IG X11 9, 189 which provides for several ranks of victims ‘the choice vic-

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from colonies and allied states.114 The number of choruses is similarly large. Even if Athens sponsored only one phallos with a chorus, the colonies and some, possibly all, allied states were to send a phallos, as well as a cow, to the Dionysia, and this of course included a requirement to send a chorus to lead it in the procession.115 This is over 3,000 choreuts on my calculations. One can add to these two hundred or so choruses of phallophoroi: the ithyphalloi, obeliaphoroi, komoi, satyrs, and choruses on wagons that are well attested by literary and iconographic sources.116 One has to conclude that this was no small and perfunctory procession. Was it a large procession in the Archaic period, with which we are mainly concerned here? We have certainly to subtract the imperial inflation. But our sixth century iconography still suggests a healthy multiplicity of choruses and choral types participating in the Pompe. The one solid bit of information we have about the movement of the Pompe comes from Xenophon’s Hipparchikos 3.2 (written 388–355 BC). Describing a way for cavalry ‘to enhance the appeal of processions during festivals’, Xenophon says: τὰς μὲν οὖν πομπὰς οἴομαι ἂν καὶ τοῖς θεοῖς κεχαρισμενωτάτας καὶ τοῖς θεαταῖς εἶναι εἰ, ὅσων ἱερὰ καὶ ἀγάλματα ἐν τῇ ἀγορᾷ ἐστι, ταῦτα ἀρξάμενοι ἀπὸ τῶν Ἑρμῶν κύκλῳ [περὶ τὴν ἀγορὰν καὶ τὰ ἱερὰ] περιελαύνοιεν τιμῶντες τοὺς θεούς. καὶ ἐν τοῖς Διονυσίοις δὲ οἱ χοροὶ προσεπιχαρίζονται ἄλλοις τε θεοῖς καὶ τοῖς δώδεκα χορεύοντες. ἐπειδὰν δὲ πάλιν πρὸς τοῖς Ἑρμαῖς γένωνται περιεληλακότες, ἐντεῦθεν καλόν μοι δοκεῖ εἶναι κατὰ φυλὰς εἰς τάχος ἀνιέναι τοὺς ἵππους μέχρι τοῦ Ἐλευσινίου. I think the processions would be most gratifying to the gods and the spectators if, starting from the (Stoa of the) Herms, they rode around in a circle [around the Agora and the shrines] honouring the gods at every one of the shrines and statues of the Agora. In point of fact, at the Dionysia the choruses pay additional honours by dancing for other gods and the twelve gods in particular. Whenever they (i.e. the cavalry) have finished

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tim, the select victims, then private sacrifices’. Wilson (2008: 98). The evidence will be thoroughly discussed in Csapo / Wilson forthcoming. The primary evidence is IG I3 46 and Rhodes / Osborne (2003: no. 29). For the choruses required to process the phalloi, cf. IG I3 71, ll. 57–58. Some argue that the evidence shows colonists but not allies sending the phallos, but even this risks ending up in or very near the same spot, as Athenian propaganda claimed that Athens was the mother­city of all the Ionians: cf. Thuc. 1.12.4; Isoc. Panath. 43. For the Ithyphalloi and obeliaphoroi, see Csapo (2013); for the ‘wagons’ as part of the Dionysian Pompe, see Csapo (2012).

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their circuit and return to the Herms, it seems a good idea to me to gallop up in tribal formation from there to the Eleusinion. Xenophon describes various stations in the Agora where the Dionysian Pompe interrupted its processional movement to worship at altars along the processional route. ‘Stations’ along a processional route are well attested for some ancient processions, especially the procession of the Molpoi from Mi-

Fig. 5: Athens Agora c. 400 BC: 1. Dromos 2. Panathenaic Way 3. Street of the Tripods 4. Stoa Poikile 5. Stoa of the Herms (if different from 4) 6. Altar of Aphrodite 7. Leokoreion 8. Altar of the Twelve Gods 9. Eschara 10. Orchestra 11. Stoa of Zeus Eleutherios 12. Hephaisteion 13. stone seating 14. Metroon 15. shrine to unknown deity 16. Heliaia or Aiakeion 17. South Stoa 18. ikria near crossroads

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letos to Didyma and the Iakkhos Procession from Athens to Eleusis.117 The relevant inscriptions mention paeans as well as sacrifices and libations performed at various locations along their respective routes.118 Though the Panathenaic Procession may have had stations in the Agora, Xenophon takes the Dionysian Pompe as his model, probably because, with its multiplicity of choruses, the Dionysia was the most conspicuous example. Xenophon imagines his cavalry squadron (and the Dionysian Pompe) entering in formation into the northwest corner of the Agora from the ‘Dromos’, the main road leading from the Dipylon Gate, and ready to proceed at a gallop once they have come into general view (Figure 5.1). The Stoa of the Herms (fig. 5.5) is usually thought to be on the Panathenaic Way just before the road enters the Agora, though some think it identical with the Stoa Poikile (fig. 5.4).119 Sourvinou­Inwood argued, largely for symbolic reasons, that the Pompe began at the Eschara in the Agora.120 Xenophon seems to assume that the cavalry will start their circuit from outside the Agora. There is a practical reason why even a cavalry squadron, let alone a large procession (with hundreds of beasts and thousands of participants), would not begin in the Agora. One does not muster a large group in the same space in which they are to perform. This is why already in the time of the Peisistratids, the area outside (what would later be the area of) the Dipylon gate was used as a mustering station for the Panathenaia. This is explicit in Thukydides’ account of the murder of Hipparchos: ‘Hippias, outside in the area called the Kerameikos, with his bodyguards, was arranging how each part of the procession was to go forth’ but when Harmodios and Aristogeiton saw one of their co­conspirators talking with him they panicked and rushed ‘inside the gate’ to find and kill Hipparchos at the Leokoreion (fig. 5.7), where he was evidently organising the timing of the entry of the various components of the procession into the Agora.121 It is partly because of its importance as a mustering area that the Dipylon Gate, the largest of all the gates of the post­Persian War rebuilding of Athens’ walls, had so large a courtyard (22 x 41 m.) and that the Dromos that led from it to the Agora was the widest street in Athens. Because of the Gate’s 117

118 119

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SIG3 57; LSAM 50; Herda (2006: 10–14); IG II2 1078, ll. 29–30; Plu. Alc. 34.4; Rutherford (2004: 72). Herda (2006: 279–332). Wycherley (1957: 102–108); Harrison (1965: 108–110); Camp (1986: 74–77); Camp (2007: 649–651). Sourvinou­Inwood (2003: 107–109). See pp.71–72 above. Thuc. 1.20; cf. Arist. AthPol 18.

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importance as a mustering station the Pompeion was built between ca. 402– 392 BC just inside the Dipylon Gate.122 As the name implies, the Pompeion was a building designed to aid with processions, and contained magazines to store processional equipment, ramps large enough to move large wagons and floats onto the streets, and cooking and dining facilities to lodge foreign participants in the parades.123 Pausanias tells us the Pompeion was used for processions generally, not just the Panathenaia, and its connection with Dionysos is suggested by the adjacent sanctuary of Dionysos Melpomenos (whose priests were ‘those from the clan of the Euneidai who are involved in processions’), possibly already in the fifth century BC, and the location sometime later in this immediate vicinity of the Council House of the Artist of Dionysos (who were the organisors of processions in Hellenistic times).124 Xenophon is at least a clear witness that the choruses of the Pompe did the circuit of the altars and shrines in the Agora. Of these there is a high density. Immediately to the north of the entrance of the Dromos into the Agora stood an altar of Heavenly Aphrodite (fig. 5.6) and immediately to the south an enclosed shrine dedicated to an unidentifiable deity, possibly the Leoko­ reion (fig. 5.7).125 A little further to the southeast is the Altar of the Twelve Gods (fig. 5.8), at which Xenophon attests a special performance. South of this is the enclosure that the American excavators call the ‘Eschara’ (fig. 5.9). There also existed, in Xenophon’s day, on the west side of the Agora, a temple of Hephaistos (fig. 5.12), a temple of Rhea (Metroon, fig. 5.14), and, in the southwest a triangular shrine dedicated to an unknown deity (fig. 5.15).126 The Stoa of Zeus (fig. 5.11) stood to the west of the Altar of the Twelve Gods, where a pre­Persian War shrine to Zeus had stood, and in front of it stood a large altar suggesting that it remained an important cult site.127 Just to the south, the Temple of Apollo Patroos was not built until the mid­fourth century BC, but it incorporated an altar that had been in use until ca. 400 BC.128 122 123 124

125 126 127 128

Hoepfner (1976: 112). Schmitt Pantel (1992: 308–309, 332–333). Paus. 1.2.4; Pollux 8.103. Milchhoefer (1893) first suggested that the sanctuary of the Artists was connected with the sanctuary of Dionysus Melpomenos which can now be located 150 m. south of the Dipylon Gate (IG II2 4298 with Despinis [1995: 321–338]). Wycherley (1957: 21), Le Guen (2001: 2.75) and Humphreys (2004: 248) tentatively follow Milchhoefer in attaching the various installations of the Artists to this sanctuary. There are other bits of evidence that point in this direction: these will be treated in Csapo / Wilson (forthcoming). Thompson / Wycherley (1972: 123); Wycherley (1978: 63–64, 98); Camp (1986: 79). Camp (1986: 78). Goette (2001: 79). Goette (2001: 79).

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There were also hero shrines: the enclosure of the tribal heroes and, south of that, possibly the Aiakeion (fig. 5.16). In the Agora alone, there were several locations at which the many choruses in the Pompe could in turn make a stop and perform a short dance and song for the gods (and Xenophon’s language implies a stop at all of them). It is probably on the analogy of such processional ‘stations’ [staseis] that the term ‘stasimon’, ‘song performed at a station’, came to enter the vocabulary of drama.129 That the choruses did in fact perform hymns and dances at (at least some of) these shrines is confirmed by the fact that the central space of the Agora within the arc formed by these shrines was known in the fifth and fourth century as the Orchestra (‘Dancing Ground’; fig. 5.10),130 a name much more likely to have emerged in relation to the Dionysia than the Panathenaia (for which choral music was relatively unimportant, and possibly performed elsewhere).131 That the Agora was a major stage of the procession is also clear from the evidence of seating that surrounded it on, it seems, all sides. To the west of the Dancing Ground rises the Agora Hill (Kolonos Agoraios) which would have afforded a natural viewing place for many spectators. In Xenophon’s day a large section of ground below the hill that looks onto the Dancing Ground was left clear of buildings probably for this very purpose. Timaios glosses ‘orchestra’ as ‘a widely visible spot for festivities where stood the statues of Harmodios and Aristogeiton’ (i.e. in the Agora, at the spot, in fact where they assassinated Hipparchos as he was marshalling the entry of the Panathenaic procession into the Agora).132 At the bottom of the hill in this location four rows of seats (fig. 5.13) were constructed in limestone during the fifth century and remained in use ‘at least until the late 4th century’: these rows of seats, 25 m. in width, ‘could easily have seated well over 200 people’.133 This seating area doubtless had various functions, but its location suggests that the accommodation of audiences for the Dionysian and Panathenaic processions was primary among them. The hillside above, leading up to the steps of the Temple of Hephaistos, could have accommodated another two or three 129 130

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Kavoulaki (1999: 295). Ar. fr. 968 (Phot. Lex. p. 351, 16–19 Porson); Pl. Apol. 26d­e; Tim. Lex. s. v. ὀρχήστρα. There were for the Panathenaia competitions in pyrrhiche and some lyric choruses, though we do not know where they performed: Wilson (2000: 36–40); Shear (2001: 350–376). Fearn argues that Bacchylides 15 was performed for the Panathenaia in the Agora (2007: 294–296). Tim. Lex. s. v. ὀρχήστρα. Camp (1986: 100).

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thousand. In addition, we have from the fourth to the second century BC extensive evidence for terrassing around the Agora and for a long stretch along the Panathenaic Way beyond the Agora. This was evidently designed to provide seating or tiered standing room for spectators. We find it: in front of the Stoa of Attalos, facing the Panathenaic Way and the ‘Dancing Ground’ from the east; in the South Stoa (fig. 5.17), and on the north side of the Middle Stoa facing the ‘Dancing Ground’ from the south; on the north and west side of the Eleusinion, facing the Panathenaic Way from the East ; in front of the ‘East Building’, facing the Panathenaic Way from the west.134 Because there was no natural slope on the east side, we have evidence that the Athenians erected temporary stands of seating (ikria) in the Agora for spectators of the major processions. We have both archaeological and literary evidence. The American excavations have uncovered postholes for the erection of ikria at several spots lining the Panathenaic Way and Pollux (7.125) writes of ikria being placed ‘around the Agora’. Most scholars connect these with the athletic contests held in the Agora during the Panathenaia and particularly with what was once thought to be evidence of a racetrack in the Agora.135 Just north of the supposed ‘starting gates’ of this racetrack excavations uncovered dozens of postholes dating back to the fifth century (fig. 5.18).136 Recent excavations (2011), however, have shown that this is not a racetrack but an enclosure, like that around the Tribal Eponymous Heroes.137 The location and orientation of the abovementioned ikria are in fact ideally situated for acquiring a long view of the procession coming along the Dromos from the Dipylon and south through the Agora along the Panathenaic Way. This is also probably true of the ikrion erected beside the Stoa of the Herms by Demetrios of Phaleron, grandson of the more famous Demetrios of Phaleron, for the courtesan Aristagora for a Panathenaia some time between 256/5 and 240 BC (thus long after the Panathenaic stadium had been built, and the athletic contests had been removed from the Agora).138 There is other evidence to show that even at the Panathenaia of an earlier date the ikria were not there exclusively or even primarily for athletic events. Similar postholes for ikria have been found as far away as the area of the Pompeion139 134

135 136 137 138

139

Kotsidu (1991: 132); Thompson / Wycherley (1972: 67, 104); Thompson (1960: 336); Thompson (1968: 37, pl. 16). E. g. Kotsidu (1991: 131); Neils / Tracy (2003: 7–11). Shear (1975: 362–365); Camp (1986: 44–45, fig. 28); Camp (1996: 233 and pl. 65). See Shear (2012: 41 n. 68 and fig. 2). Hegesander FHG 4, fr. 8, 14–7. The hipparchy is referred to in IG II2 2971. For the date, see Tracy (1994); Oetjen (2000). Hoepfner (1976: 16–22, figs. 13, 16, 17, 21, pl. 15); Shear (2001: 795).

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and stretching along the Panathenaic Way as far south as the Eleusinion, well out of view of the Agora (see fig. 5).140 The earliest of the postholes date to the fifth century BC (those by the Pompeion as early as 420 BC). It is also very unlikely that these ikria were used exclusively for the Panathenaia. Those at the ‘starting gate’ are in fact just north of the Altar of the Twelve Gods, a primary station for the Dionysian Pompe, as we have seen. We do in fact have testimonia that connect ikria in the Agora with the Dionysia (although the testimony is problematic for other reasons).141 The heroine of Plautus’ Curculio (643–651) was lost as a girl at the Dionysia when the ‘spectacla’ (= ikria) collapsed: it is clear that this does not refer to the theatre or dramatic competitions, for it relates to either Athens or Epidaurus (town or sanctuary) which both had stone theatres by the time the Greek original of the play was written, and so must refer to wooden stands erected to view the Pompe (otherwise attested as a conventional place to meet respectable maidens in New Comedy).142 It is this use of ikria for the Pompe of the Dionysia that generated the notion that there was a theatre in the Agora before the Theatre of Dionysos was built: there was indeed what might have been called a ‘theatron’ in the Greek sense, but not a ‘theatre’ in ours.143 140

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Thompson (1953: 40); Thompson (1960: 332); Thompson (1968: 41); Blackman (2002: 6). Photios, Lex. ι 106 Theodoridis. The entry is also copied by Eustathios ad Od. 3.350 (a quotation from Pausanias follows but is unrelated): see Scullion (1994: 58) contra Wilamowitz­Moellendorff (1886: 598–599. n. 2). Photios draws on much earlier lexica. The information is partly corrupted by a misinterpretation of information ultimately derived from Eratosthenes (ca. 284–194 BC). See below n. 143. Cf. Pl. Cist. 90 = Men. Synaristosai fr. 1, Arnott. The belief that the collapse of a ‘theatre’ in the Agora led to the building of the Theatre of Dionysos is based on a misreading of the ancient testimonia. Ancient scholarship tells us that there were (in the theatre of Dionysos) ikria before the theatron (i. e. Lycurgan theatron) was built. The tradition of ancient scholarship is demonstrably based on the mention of ikria in a fragment of Kratinos (fr. 360), quoted in a discussion of seating in Eratosthenes’ twelve­volume work On Old Comedy. That the tradition refers to a theatre in the Agora is certainly wrong, but widely accepted: Pickard­Cambridge (1946: 12); Wycherley (1957: 221); Bieber (1961: 54); Hammond (1972: 390–394); Dinsmoor (1973: 119–120); Kolb (1981: 26– 27); Miller (1995: 218­ 219); and Beacham (2007: 205). Part of the problem is that both the Agora and the Theatre did have ikria, and both had at some time poplars (but very different ikria and very different poplars). Eratosthenes quotes the fragment of Kratinos (fr. 372) that generated the lexicographical tradition that is cited by scholars, like those mentioned, in order to prove that the theatron was in the Agora (but Kratinos was very clearly referring to the Theatre of Dionysos, not the Agora). The confusion of the two ikria only occurs in Byzantine times (Photios

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There is no ‘theatre’ in our sense as there is no fixed audience. The audience lines the processional route, a distance of roughly 2.5 km (including a circuit in the Agora) and incorporating a multiplicity of choruses (in the Classical period, hundreds). Not only is there no fixed audience, but there is no fixed angle of gaze and no single fixed object for their attention. People watching any particular chorus will see it from all sides, but could be distracted by other choruses performing elsewhere and simultaneously. Things may have been a little different at different stations along the processional route – there were probably other stations as the Pompe wended its way beyond the Agora, turning at the Eleusinion onto the street of the Tripods (fig. 5.3) and around the north and east side of the Acropolis. There was certainly a major station, possibly the major station at its endpoint, when the procession arrived in the Sanctuary of Dionysos and, after ca. 508 BC, in the Theatre, where Dionysos sat waiting. Semos of Delos certainly attests a special performance of the Ithyphalloi there, saying ‘they entered the main portal of the theatre [n.b. with the procession] and when they were in the middle of the orchestra, they turned to the audience, and said ...’. But even the utterance that they make is short, to the point, and utterly processional: ‘Make way, give the god a wide berth, for he wants to march through your midst, upright and bursting!’144 Not all the ‘stationary songs’ were this short. We are very fortunate to have the remains of what was probably a choral performance at the Altar of

144

and Eustathios: see, above, n. 141). The poplar of the theatre was confused with the ‘poplars’ (plural) in the Agora (with a very different function) first in Hesychios (α 5716 Latte), but only because of a textual corruption (possibly original with him) that has run together two different sentences (and thus two very different comments on poplars). This has had the unfortunate effect of generating what seemed like independent ‘evidence’ not only for full­scale wooden theatres in the Agora but even for a Lenaian theatre: Pickard­Cambridge (1968: 37–38); Travlos (1971: 566); Newiger (1976: 84–86); Blume (1978: 26); Kolb (1981: 26–57); Kotsidu’s cautious scepticism is exemplary (1991: 133–134). For any who like to build their theatres on solider foundations, the links between the poplar and the Agora and Lenaian Sanctuary were very decisively unravelled already by Wilamowitz­Moellendorff (1886) and more recently and thoroughly by Scullion (1994: 52–65) and Roselli (2011: 72–75) and will be taken up again in Csapo / Wilson (forthcoming). Semos FGrH 396 F 24 (Athen. 622a): ἀνάγετ’, εὐρυχωρίαν | τῷ θεῷ ποιεῖτε. | ἐθέλει γὰρ ὁ θεὸς ὀρθὸς ἐσφυρωμένος | διὰ μέσου βαδίζειν. The passage comes from a work ‘On Paians’ and presumably contextualises the paian with a discussion of other processional choruses: he is likely to be referring to the Dionysian Pompe of Athens or his native Delos.

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the Twelve Gods from an Athenian Dionysia, Pindar’s ‘Athenian Dithyramb’ (fr. 75), probably of the 490s BC.145 Δεῦτ’ ἐν χορόν, Ὀλύμπιοι, ἐπί τε κλυτὰν πέμπετε χάριν, θεοί, πολύβατον οἵ τ’ ἄστεος ὀμφαλὸν θυόεντ’ ἐν ταῖς ἱεραῖς Ἀθάναις οἰχνεῖτε πανδαίδαλόν τ’ εὐκλέ’ ἀγοράν· ἰοδέτων λάχετε στεφάνων τᾶν τ’ ἐαριδρόπων ἀοιδᾶν, Διόθεν τέ με σὺν ἀγλαΐᾳ ἴδετε πορευθέντ’ ἀοιδᾶν δεύτερον ἐπὶ τὸν κισσοδέταν θεόν, τὸν Βρόμιον, τὸν Ἐριβόαν τε βροτοὶ καλέομεν. γόνον ὑπάτων μὲν πατέρων μελπέμεν γυναικῶν τε Καδμεϊᾶν ἔμολον. ἐναργέα τ’ ἔμ’ ὥτε μάντιν οὐ λανθάνει. φοινικοεάνων ὁπότ’ οἰχθέντος Ὡρᾶν θαλάμου εὔοδμον ἐπάγοισιν ἔαρ φυτὰ νεκτάρεα. τότε βάλλεται, τότ’ ἐπ’ ἀμβρόταν χθόν’ ἐραταί ἴων φόβαι, ῥόδα τε κόμαισι μείγνυται, ἀχεῖ τ’ ὀμφαὶ μελέων σὺν αὐλοῖς, οἰχνεῖ τε Σεμέλαν ἑλικάμπυκα χοροί.

5

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Hither to the dance, and send it glorious grace, Olympian gods, who approach the much­trod navel of the city, filled with the smoke of sacrifice, and the much­adorned, famous Agora in holy Athens. Receive garlands tied with violets and songs plucked in spring and look upon me as I move with the brilliance of my songs from Zeus secondly to Bromios, the god who causes men to bind themselves with ivy, whom we mortals also call Loud­Roarer (Eriboas). I came to sing the scion of the highest of fathers and of Cadmean women. I, like a seer, do not fail to notice the clear signs, when the chamber of the purple­robed Seasons is opened and nectar­ 145

The text is mainly that of Lavecchia (2000: 61–64). The dating criteria are complex, but unimportant to this argument, and cannot be discussed here: see Lavecchia (2000: 255), but note that Gadbery (1992: esp. 471) demonstrates the improbability of the earlier belief that the altar was destroyed by the Persians in 480/79 and not restored until the third quarter of the fifth century. The presence of the word ‘secondly’ has been taken to imply that this was Pindar’s second performance in Athens, but this interpretation is probably wrong. Nothing excludes the possibility that the text records the lyrics of Pindar’s earliest attested dithyrambic performance in Athens in 497/6.

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laden growth leads in fragrant spring. Then, then are cast upon the immortal earth the lovely sprigs of violets, and roses are twined in one’s hair and voices of song echo to the sound of the pipes, and choruses come to Semele of the circular headband. The song is replete with references to the occasion and place of the festival performance. It is the beginning of spring (6, 14–17). The Dionysia is the festival stereotypically associated with the beginning of spring. The song is identified by Dionysios of Halikarnassos as a ‘dithyramb’ (and indeed that much is suggested by prominence of Dionysos and Semele in the song’s invocation). Dithyrambs are primarily connected with the Dionysia (and are connected with no other festival of Dionysos at Athens).146 It follows that the song was written for performance at the Athenian Dionysia. The song explicitly locates the performance in the Athenian Agora.147 But which Agora? The location of the market and civic centre of Athens shifted from the northeast to the northwest of the Acropolis during Pindar’s lifetime. Many would locate Pindar’s performance in the Old ‘Archaic’ Agora.148 If the reference is to the Archaic Agora, it could indicate that this is a very early composition. The usual chronology of the transfer of the market to its ‘Classical’ location is ca. 500 BC,149 though some would date the relocation as late as 480 BC.150 The details of the song do, however, favour the Classical Agora. Since Wilamowitz, performance at the Altar of the Twelve Gods has been received as the most suited venue for the invocation to the ‘Olympian gods’ and Zeus at their head.151 Either location would make the point at issue here: the performance is not in the theatre, though the theatre was almost certainly built by any likely date we can give the composition. But we might note, in favour of the Classical Agora, that the Athenians rewarded Pindar for the performance of probably another dithyramb with a bronze statue which they placed in front of the Royal Stoa, immediately to the west of the Altar of the Twelve Gods. The easiest explanation for the choice of location is that it bordered the site of the dithyramb’s original performance.152 Pindar’s statue 146

147 148 149 150 151 152

No direct threads are found in the imaginative tangles of evidence by which Friis Johansen (1959) and Bravo (1997) attempt to locate dithyramb at the Anthesteria. l. 5; but see Hamilton (1990: 221); Van der Weiden (1991: 193). Schnurr (1995: 141–142); Schmaltz (2006: 35). See n. 167. Shear (1994); Miller (1995). Papadopoulos / Schilling (2003). Wilamowitz­Moellendorff (1922: 274). [Aeschin.] Epist. 4.3; Paus. 1.8.4; Wycherley (1957: 216); Kolb (1981: 40–41); Kotsidu (1991: 169).

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was close to the statue of another lyric poet, Kalades, of unkown date, and the significantly located statues of Harmodios and Aristogeiton (placed at the location of their attack on Hipparchos as he marshalled the Panathenaic procession into the Agora). Unlike later compositions that were in antiquity classified as ‘dithyrambs’, the language of Pindar’s songs evokes the religious and cultic circumstances of their performance as if he understood that the proper task of his commission was to instill in his listeners a mood and mode of consciousness deemed appropriate to the festival.153 Here we have an invocation of the gods but no narrative. Dionysios of Halikarnassos tells us that the preserved fragment is just the beginning of Pindar’s song. Other Pindaric ‘dithyrambs’ contained narratives and a mythic narrative seems to have been characteristic of dithyramb,154 but (unlike Bacchylides) Pindar’s narrative may not be much more ‘free­standing’ than one expects to find in a hymn.155 We might note that the language of this fragment is suggestive of a procession (see the verbs of motion: Διόθεν τέ με ... ἴδετε πορευθέντ’ ... μελπέμεν ... ἔμολον) that has stopped and altered its movement, and, if we are to guess from the conventional verbal symbols of round dance in ἑλικάμπυκα, also dances around the altar.156 These were not, however, ‘circular’ but essentially processional choruses. Pindar’s chorus was not necessarily different from the fantastically costumed choruses that are represented on our vase-paintings. Some of the costumes on our komos vases are integrally linked with dithyrambic imagery: one third of them, for example, are dolphin­riders, evoking a symbolism that is elaborated not only in the myth of Arion, the mythic inventor of the dithyramb, but the archetypal expression of the transformative power of Dionysian dance, in the myth of Dionysos and the pirates: it is in Pindar’s second dithyramb that Dionysos is said to be ‘charmed even by the dancing herds of beasts’ (l. 22).157 Armand D’Angour has elicited from the fragments of Pindar’s second dithyramb (fr. 70b) an important testimony to the history of the genre.158 On D’Angour’s interpretation, which I find convincing, Pindar credits Lasos of Hermione with an innovation that led from dithyrambic choruses being lin153

154

155 156 157 158

For the cultic character of Pindar’s dithyrambs, see Zimmermann (1992: esp. 62– 63, 65 115–116); Kowalzig (2007: 226–232). Though also a criterion for the Hellenistic scholars who classified the material, so there is risk of circularity: Carey (2010: 29–30). We do not know how the ‘Descent of Herakles’ was treated in Pi. fr. 70b. Csapo (1999–2000: 419–422); Csapo (2003: 77–78, 93–94). This dithyrambic imagery is thoroughly studied in Csapo (2003). D’Angour (1997); D’Angour (2014) 203–206.

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ear to circular. Because they were always a bit of both, it would be safer perhaps to say that the innovation led from choruses being predominantly linear to predominantly circular. Lasos is in fact said by one source to have been ‘the first to produce a dithyramb in competition’, and by others to have ‘first produced a circular chorus’, probably in Athens in the late sixth century BC.159 The innovation is at least consistent with a date near the end of the sixth century BC, the time of our first record of a competition for a mens’ chorus in Athens. D’Angour suggests that the change in the shape of the dithyramb implied a change in the performance conditions, namely ‘that the audience for competitive dithyrambs was by this period raised above the performers, i. e. on the slopes of a hillside or in a theatre’.160 It is, as D’Angour also notes, at this time that the Theatre is built at Athens. It was the possibility of prolonged contact with a single audience in the context of the Theatre that permitted the circular chorus to be abstracted from the processional form and cultic function of the dithyramb. Although processional dithyrambs evidently continued to be performed by the choruses at places like the Altar of the Twelve Gods, there arose an opportunity to hold, independently of the procession, theatrical contests for ‘dithyramb’. It did not take long, however, before official terminology differentiated clearly between ‘men’s’ and ‘boys’’ choruses, or ‘circular choruses’ on the one hand, and ‘dithyramb’ on the other, the former being a theatrical genre, while ‘dithyramb’ was in official discourse more properly confined to the cultic performances of a processional chorus. The word ‘dithyramb’ is virtually never used in Attic inscriptions or official speech to describe the lyric choruses that competed at the Dionysia.161

159

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Suda s. v. ‘Λάσος’ (λ 139); Σ Ar. Av. 1403; Suda s. v. ‘κυκλιοδιδάσκαλος’ (κ 2646); He was in Athens at the time of Hipparchos (Hdt. 7.6) and Aristophanes (V. 1410) has him compete with Simonides. Cf. Kowalzig / Wilson (2014) 15. D’Angour (1997: 342). It is not necessarily an obstacle to this interpretation that Lasos’ innovation relates to Athenian history but that the papyrus that preserves Pindar’s second dithyramb has, as a subtitle, ‘for the Thebans’: see e. g. Wilson (2002). The reference to Lasos involves international poetological discourse no matter what interpretation one puts on it: the narrating voice in fact says that ‘the Muse has made me the herald of wise words for Greece’ (ll. 22–25). The Theban connection may in fact be nothing more than an erroneous inference from the following text where the speaker is said to be ‘boasting for Thebes’ (l. 26). Csapo / Miller (2007: 8, 33 n. 34). Indeed the only Classical inscription to mention a ‘dithyramb’, a late Classical inscription from Cyrene, suggests a processional cultic song in the presence of bull sacrifice and ‘exarchoi’: on the inscription see Ceccarelli / Milanezi (2007), though their interpretation is different.

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4. Conclusion: Comedy 'as we know it’ The building of the Theatre of Dionysos first created the conditions that made possible the transformation of the processional choruses of the Pompe into something new. Before this building, we have evidence only for processional choruses at the Dionysia. There is reason to think that the various types of choruses might be functionally distinguished as ‘phallophoroi’, ‘ithyphalloi’, or simply ‘komoi’, and that they might at times perform short hymns or more specifically dithyrambs. But these hymns were necessarily short because the procession was long, full of performing choruses, and the audiences were scattered. It was the theatre that first directed the common gaze upon a single performing chorus and created the conditions for a longer, more complex, performance. Our vase­paintings offer us indications that the processional chorus, its costume, and its song were designed to captivate the attention, but not expected to hold it long. They show choruses with plenty of character, but they do not tell a story. Their costumes are arresting, their manner of movement is interesting, their song doubtless provided passing amusement, especially when enhanced by the exarchoi: they could provide short practiced songs, interspersed with a few well­placed quips, but circumstances permitted no sustained narrative. The one komos vase that gives us the words of the chorus indicates that the costume and the mimetic movement pretty well say it all: the chorus of men riding dolphins on the red­figured psykter by Oltos has inscriptions showing that they all simultaneously sing ‘on a dolphin’.162 Even the phalloi are inventive and interesting, ridden like horses, or manned like ships: but offer nothing that cannot be fully appreciated in the moment of passing. In the Hellenistic period we hear of fascinating mechanical floats use in the Pompe, like the giant mechanical snail commissioned by Demetrius of Phaleron for the Dionysia of 307 BC, which was self­propelling, and left a trail of slime behind it: it told no tales, but was sensational precisely in its coming and going.163 This was indeed, in a sense ‘comic’, and entertaining, but to return to the question asked much earlier in this paper, it is not ‘comedy’ as we know it. There is no mere coincidence in the synchrony of the building of the Theatre of Dionysos and the creation of competitions in men’s choruses, accompanied or soon followed by tragedy, boys’ choruses and after a decade 162

163

Attic rf psykter by Oltos, ca. 510 BC, NY MMA L. 1979.17.1, ARV2 1622, 7 bis, Paralipomena 259, 326, Green (1985: 101, no. 6). Democh. fr. 2 (FHG 2, fr. 2; FGrH 75 F 4; Fortenbaugh / Schütrumpf 2000: no. 89; cited by Polybius 12.13.8.9–11).

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or so by comedy. The Theatre allowed for the first time the kind of fixed performance space and fixed audience that made possible the transformation of previously processional choral entertainments into entertainments with a sustained interaction between characters and a level of narrative development that we might comfortably describe as a plot. We have no evidence for competitive dithyrambs before the Theatre. Lasos is said to have created the first. But the transformative effect of the Theatre is evident in the change of name: the theatrical choruses were surely modelled on the ‘stasima’ sung by komoi in the Pompe, but they soon became distinct enough that they were called ‘circular choruses’ or simply ‘men’s’ and ‘boys’’ choruses, to distinguish them from cultic dithyrambs. The ‘circular chorus’ soon became the theatrical ‘free­standing’ narrative lyric genre we find in Bacchylides.164 The most striking result of the building of the Theatre was the sudden creation of tragedy. Except in some of its choral elements, tragedy bears little resemblance to anything that we know existed previously, and yet the archival and iconographic records show that the first known performances must have occurred within only a few years of the building of the Theatre. That it grew out of a choral form with the gradual accretion of actors, and with them, a sustained narrative is well attested and partly verifiable through our extant remains, but the speed of its transformation into the narrative genre that we find in the earliest plays of Aeschylus is a startling burst of creativity and hardly characterisable as an evolution ‘little by little’ from a dithyrambic form as Aristotle would have it.165 Compared to tragedy the transformation of the ‘komos’ into the ‘song of the komos’ (komoidia) is far less of a mystery. It was also not really ‘little by little’, nor is it likely ‘comedy’ emerged in any clear way from the leader of the phallic chorus any more than tragedy emerged in any particularly meaningful way from dithyramb. Both emerged as something new to Athens as a theatre entertainment once the Theatre existed, but both were doubtless inspired by foreign ideas as much as by the tradition of Dionysian choruses. Aristotle pinpoints dithyramb and phallic choruses because they both had exarchoi and he wished to see the germ of an actor / chorus interaction in the exarchos / chorus interaction. It is a well­informed, highly intuitive, but also a highly schematic claim. If it is true that comic competitions were first introduced to the Dionysia around 486 BC, then it is more consistent with the evidence to suppose that comedy arose from a combination of ideas de164 165

Zimmermann (1992: 64–116); Fearn (2007: 165–225). Ar. Po. 1449a 13.

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rived from a variety of Dionysian choral types through the addition of plots, ‘mythoi’. The mythoi could be added because there was now a theatre and a prolonged contact with a single audience. Comedy did not need to develop in any organic step­by­step way, because the steps had already been taken. Tragedy had already developed plots. So had Sicilian and possibly other forms of comedy (and indeed Aristotle does tell us that ‘composing story plots ... came from Sicily originally’166). The Dionysian chorus, which had a long native tradition in Attica, had only to be connected with actors in the Theatre for comedy ‘as we know it’ to have been created at virtually a single stroke.167

166 167

Ar. Po. 1449b 5–9. The present chapter could not take into account Kurke / Neer (2014) which the authors kindly sent to me while in draft but only long after the present chapter was in press. I am pleased to see that we are in agreement on most issues relating to the question of the performance of Pindar’s Athenian dithyramb, though they locate it in the Old Agora.

Epicharmus, the Pseudepicharmeia, and the Origins of Attic Drama Andreas Willi

1. Introduction In Epicharmus fr. 32.9–12, from Hope or Wealth (Ἐλπὶς Πλοῦτος), a parasite describes his return from a party late at night: ἕρπω δ᾿ ὀλισθράζων τε καὶ κατὰ σκότος ἐρῆμος: αἴ κα δ᾿ ἐντύχω τοῖς περιπόλοις, τοῦθ᾿ οἷον ἀγαθὸν ἐπιλέγω τοῖς θεοῖς, ὅτι οὐ λῶντι πλεῖον ἀλλὰ μαστιγῶντί με. ‘I walk along, slipping out in the dark, all on my own; and when I run into a patrol, I just thank the gods that all they want is to give me a whipping.’ The plight of the Epicharmian scholar is similar: he sets out after feasting on the rich remains of Attic comedy, but suddenly finds himself tapping in the dark, on slippery ground, every now and then running into other scholars who ask for hard evidence, instead of fancy guesswork. And yet, Epicharmian comedy must have its place at the table when the δειπνοσοφισταί are considering the periodisation and dramatic form of Greek comedy; for the question may be an old one, but it remains worth asking: What is the role of the Sicilian Epicharmus in the history of Greek comedy – a history which otherwise is so much an Athenian one? We would not ask this today, if Plato and Aristotle had not opened the can of worms already in antiquity. In the Theaetetus (152e = Epich. test. 3) Plato refers to Epicharmus as the ‘doyen of comedy’ (ἄκρος κωμωιδίας), and in the Poetics (1448a33–34) Aristotle famously – though questionably1—comments 1

According to Sud. χ 318 (= Chionides test. 1), Chionides was already staging comedies eight years before (the end of) the Persian Wars, whereas Sud. ε 2766 (= Epich. test. 1) dates Epicharmus’ activity in Syracuse two years later. No matter how exact these dates are, and whether or not Epicharmus already had a lengthy career before he was active in Syracuse (as is plausible: cf. §8), they hardly justify Aristotle’s statement that Epicharmus was πολλῶι πρότερος Χιωνίδου. According to Sud. μ 20 (= Magnes test. 1), even Magnes overlapped in time with Epicharmus (ἐπιβάλλει Ἐπιχάρμωι νέος πρεσβύτηι).

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on the ‘substantial’ chronological priority of Epicharmus in comparison with the early Athenian comedians Chionides and Magnes. Apparently this priority was used by some unnamed Sicilian author(s)2 as an argument in support of the claim that comedy was truly Sicilian in origin. This sweeping adrogation is subsequently modified by Aristotle himself (Poet. 1449b1–9, including Epich. test. 5). According to him, (Athenian) comedy grew out of volunteer choruses, and this initially choral genre then gradually evolved through the introduction of character roles, the addition of prologues, and the increase in the number of actors: τὸ δὲ μύθους ποιεῖν τὸ μὲν ἐξ ἀρχῆς ἐκ Σικελίας λθε, τῶν δὲ Ἀθήνησιν Κράτης πρῶτος ρξεν ἀφέμενος τῆς ἰαμβικῆς ἰδέας καθόλου ποιεῖν λόγους καὶ μύθους ‘The construction of plots, however, originally came from Sicily, and in Athens Crates was the first to abandon the iambic mode and create, with a general scope, λόγοι and μῦθοι.’ As we shall see, this seemingly innocuous statement contains something of a literary bombshell, hidden perhaps, but ready to detonate. By contrast, the Theaetetus passage is harmless, for all its emphatic wording. Strictly speaking, in fact, Plato’s term ἄκρος κωμωιδίας need not even imply that Epicharmus was really a comedian in the modern sense: after all, the same sentence also calls Homer the ἄκρος τραγωιδίας. Even so, Plato’s cursory remark has impacted on modern Epicharmian scholarship as much as Aristotle’s more balanced views. In context, the Platonic Socrates refers to the authority of ‘all the philosophers, except Parmenides’ – viz. Protagoras, Heraclitus, and Empedocles – as well as the ἄκροι of both tragedy and comedy, Homer and Epicharmus, to bolster the claim that ‘nothing ever is, but everything is always becoming’ (ἔστι μὲν γὰρ οὐδέποτ᾿ οὐδέν, ἀεὶ δὲ γίγνεται). We are not told the exact Epicharmian reference point, but given the quality of the Homeric one, we might not be very impressed. If the Homeric verse Ὠκεανόν τε θεῶν γένεσιν καὶ μητέρα Τηθύν (Il. 14.201, 14.302) is taken to mean that ‘everything is born out of flow and movement’ (πάντα [...] ἔκγονα ῥοῆς τε καὶ κινήσεως), this depends so much on a forced allegorical reading of the Iliad that one wonders how plain the Epicharmian ‘evidence’ could have 2

One likely candidate is the Sicilian historian Alcimus: not only was Alcimus interested in Epicharmus, and tried to highlight his role in Greek cultural history (cf. §2.2 on the Pseudepicharmeia), he also controversially claimed for Sicily the invention of another light (perhaps lascivious?) literary genre, the so­called Παίγνια (Alcimus fr. 560F1 Jacoby, referring to ‘Botrys of Messene’).

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been. It is true, an ancient commentary on the Theaetetus, together with a more elusive reference in Plutarch, suggest that Epicharmus once wrote a play, or scene, in which the – ultimately Heraclitean, though arguably more immediately Pythagorean3—idea of constant change was comically exploited, as two people litigated about a loan and its repayment (Epich. fr. 136, from Anon. in Pl. Theaet. col. 71.12–40, ed. Bastianini / Sedley, CPF III 458–460, and Plut. Mor. 559a­b: cf. §3); and one of a number of conceivably unauthentic4 Epicharmian fragments quoted by the fourth­century historian Alcimus even has one speaker say, ὧδε νῦν ὅρη καὶ τὸς ἀνθρώπους· ὁ μὲν γὰρ αὔξεθ᾿, ὁ δέ γα μὰν φθίνει, ἐν μεταλλαγᾶι δὲ πάντες ἐντὶ πάντα τὸν χρόνον. ([Epich.] fr. 276.6–8) ‘So, now look also at mankind: one person grows, the other withers away, and all are subject to change all the time.’ But even if Plato had something like this in mind, the Theaetetus shows no interest in Epicharmus or Epicharmian comedy per se. Given Plato’s negative attitude towards comedy in general (cf. esp. Pl. Leg. 7.816e), this is hardly surprising. And yet, this fleeting mention of Epicharmus has made some modern scholars – headed by Zieliński (1885: 243) and more recently François (1978) – maintain that it was Plato, of all people, who brought Epicharmian comedy to Athens, and whose journey to Sicily should therefore be regarded as a terminus post quem for an Athenian audience’s familiarity with Epicharmus’ work. Obviously, this paradoxical hypothesis further entails that we must disregard (or distort5) Aristotle’s information about the Attic take­over of Sicilian plot comedy in the days of Crates; but if we are prepared to do that, we might as well disbelieve anything else Aristotle has to say about the history of comedy (or tragedy, for that matter). Still, the extreme position of Zieliński and François could never have been defended, were it not true that Aristotle’s doctrine, though perfectly plausible in itself, proves difficult to substantiate with further detail. A number of 3

4 5

Cf. Willi (2008: 172–174) and (2012a: 60–62), after Rostagni (1924: esp. 7–68) who concentrates on the Alcimus fragment cited below. Iambl. VP 266 (= Epich. test. 12) may have this (and / or similar passages) in mind when he turns Epicharmus into a crypto­Pythagorean (μετὰ παιδιᾶς κρύφα ἐκφέροντα τὰ Πυθαγόρου δόγ­ ματα: μετὰ παιδιᾶς indicates that Iamblichus is not thinking of e. g. the spurious Πολιτεία, on which see §2). On these fragments ex Alcimo and their possible origin cf. §2.2 below. Cf. Cassio (1985: 40–41), against François (1978: 67–68).

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scholars on the opposite side – most notably von Salis (1905), followed by Körte (1921: 1224–1225) – tried hard to detect various kinds of Epicharmian influence on Attic comedy, beyond the general point highlighted by Aristotle; but if one chooses to adopt a critical stance, little stands up to closer scrutiny, as Wüst (1950) and Kerkhof (2001) have demonstrated. Given the availability of these two treatments, the present contribution will not rehearse again all the arguments and counterarguments, but only offer the briefest of summaries, adding some methodological remarks (§7). Its main focus, however, will be different. An attempt will be made to vindicate Aristotle’s views by going well beyond, and forgetting about, the minutiae that have dominated (and obscured) the discussion so far. In order to do this successfully, we must first acquaint ourselves with the Epicharmian oeuvre itself. 2. Problems of pseudepigraphy As soon as we zoom in on the Epicharmian corpus, we encounter a major obstacle: pseudepigraphy. Diogenes Laertius notes that under Epicharmus’ name circulated ‘scientific, gnomic, and medical treatises’ (Diog. Laert. 8.78 = Epich. test. 9, ὑπομνήματα ἐν οἷς φυσιολογεῖ, γνωμολογεῖ, ἰατρολογεῖ). These included, at least,6 a collection of Γνῶμαι, a Κανών of unclear content,7 6

7

I.e. leaving aside the even more shadowy λόγος πρὸς Ἀντήνορα, which is mentioned by Plut. Num. 8.9 (= [Epich.] fr. 296) and apparently turned Pythagoras into a Roman citizen; according to Cassio (1985: 45–50), such a work could have been inspired by an interpretatio Pythagorica of Epicharmus and / or some Pseudepicharmeia due to Aristoxenus of Tarentum. Since the treatise περὶ μαντικῆς of Philochorus (fr. 328F79) named Axiopistus as the author of both the Κανών and the Γνῶμαι (cf. §2.1), and since Tertull. De an. 46.10 (= [Epich.] fr. 274) cites ‘Epicharmus’ as an oneirocritical authority, Kaibel (1899: 134) hypothesised “ex Canone sumptam esse quam de somniorum divinatione Epicharmi opinionem rettulit Tertullianus”. At the same time, it would be attractive to find in the Κανών the reference point for Diogenes’ φυσιολογεῖ, and one might therefore suspect, with Pascal (1919: 65–73) or Kerkhof (2001: 106–108), the Κανών behind the Epicharmus of Ennius which, embedded into a dream vision ([Epich.] fr. 281), dealt with the four elements water, earth, air, and fire ([Epich.] frr. 282–286; cf. Epich. fr. 199?). The detail of Kerkhof’s theory is problematic, however, as he also wants to connect the Κανών with [Epich.] fr. 278 ex Alcimo and [Epich.] fr. 280, because of a thematic similarity between [Epich.] fr. 278.3–5 with Enn. ann. 8–10 Sk. The fact that Ennius’ Epicharmus was written in trochaic tetrameters, the favourite metre of Epicharmus and the Pseudepicharmeia (cf. §5), suggests that Ennius followed his ‘source’ here, whether or not that source was the Κανών; but [Epich.] fr. 278 is written in iambic trimeters, and for this very

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a Pythagoreanising8 Πολιτεία, and a Χείρων apparently containing medical recipes and therefore thematically reminiscent of, though hardly identical with,9 a gastronomical Ὀψοποιΐα. The question arises why anyone would want to ascribe such non­comic writings to a comic author. Even in the case of the equally varied collection of pseudepigrapha ascribed to Hesiod, which generated similar authenticity debates already in antiquity, one can regularly see a stricter generic tertium comparationis – didactic and mythological narrative – with Hesiod’s genuine works. So, despite the partial parallelism with the Pseudohesiodeia, the Epicharmian situation remains unique; and it is one of the tasks of Epicharmian philology not only to separate the genuine from the spurious (as is generally done, or at least attempted), but also to account for the existence of the spurious. As long as our focus is on Epicharmus’ drama, i. e. the ‘real’ Epicharmus, this second task might perhaps seem irrelevant at first, but it is not. As with Hesiod, the genuine works must have contained some trigger for the proliferation of pseudepigrapha. Hence, the Pseudepicharmeia, or at least some of them, may indirectly still tell us something about the character of Epicharmian comedy.

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reason hardly to be attributed to the same work as [Epich.] fr. 280. In terms of content, [Epich.] fr. 280 rather resembles [Epich.] fr. 244, apparently the beginning of the Γνῶμαι (cf. Crönert 1912: 408, Olivieri 1946: 108, Pickard­Cambridge 1962: 245), although the prologue / epilogue of a carmen physicum (= the Κανών?) cannot be ruled out either (cf. Lorenz 1864: 100, Kaibel 1899: 138, Kerkhof 2001: 97). Νote the emphasis in [Epich.] fr. 240 on ἀριθμός and λογισμός, and on a θεῖος λόγος in human life; cf. Schmid (1929: 650 n. 1) and Cassio (1985: 49) (though for the latter the Πολιτεία was merely ‘Pythagorisable’, not truly Pythagorean). Also worth mentioning in this context is [Epich.] fr. 243 (from Antiatt. p. 112.16 Bekker; cf. Cassio 2012) with παράκαιρος· ἀντὶ τοῦ ἄκαιρος: on the importance of the καιρός in Pythagorean thought see e. g. Arist. Met. 985b23–32; Willi (2008: 174) and (2012a: 61–62). The case for identity (Susemihl 1894: 564–565; cf. Kaibel 1899: 144, Pascal 1919: 64–65, and Olivieri 1946: 135, who regard the Ὀψοποιΐα as one part of the Χείρων) is weak, as it rests on the ascription of the word μίνα ‘half­pint’ to the Χείρων in Athen. 14.648d and to the Ὀψοποιΐα in Antiatt. p. 99.1 Bekker. Apart from the fact that the occurrence of an everyday word like μίνα is unremarkable in any text dealing with quantities of this size, Athenaeus’ wording itself makes it clear that the lexeme was found in more than one Pseudepicharmeion (τὴν μὲν μίναν οἱ τὰ εἰς Ἐπίχαρμον ἀναφερόμενα ποιήματα πεποιηκότες οἴδασι).

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2.1. The Γνῶμαι Τhis is most obviously true for the Γνῶμαι, the composition of which was ascribed to a certain ‘Axiopistus’ of Lokroi or Sikyon by the early Hellenistic scholar Philochorus, and subsequently also by Apollodorus of Athens who put together a ten­volume edition of Epicharmus (Athen. 14.648d = Pseudepicharmeia test. i K.­A., with Philochorus FGrH 328F79 and Apollodorus FGrH  244F226). It is likely that Axiopistus’ gnomic collection contained a core of genuine material from Epicharmus’ plays. According to the anonymous treatise On Comedy (Proleg. de com. III, 16, p. 8 Koster = Epich. test. 6), Epicharmus was in fact γνωμικὸς καὶ εὑρετικὸς καὶ φιλότεχνος, and gnomic sayings are occasionally ascribed to specific plays by our sources.10 In the Τρῶες, for example, someone remarked (Epich. fr. 129), ἐκ παντὸς ξύλου κλοιὸς γένοιτο κ’ θεός (vel sim. ˉ  ˘ ‘any piece of wood may turn into the stocks or a god’,

)

11

and in the

ρακλῆς ὁ πὰρ Φόλωι a character observed (Epich. fr. 66.2),

οἴομαι δ’ οὐδεὶς ἑκὼν πονηρὸς οὐδ’ ἄταν ἔχων ‘no­one, I think, is willingly bad or struck by delusion’. Given such material in Epicharmus’ comedies, it is often impossible to decide whether a gnomic line attributed simply to ‘Epicharmus’ is genuine or not  –  and if it is (or may be), whether it is cited directly from a play or merely from a gnomic collection. A case in point comes from Xenophon’s Memorabilia (2.1.20), where Socrates quotes, first, a passage from Hesiod’s Works and Days (287–292) and, second, two Epicharmian lines (Epich. frr. 271 and 236), in support of his view that αἱ διὰ καρτερίας ἐπιμέλειαι τῶν καλῶν τε κἀγαθῶν ἔργων ἐξικνεῖσθαι ποιοῦσιν ‘effort and endurance let one reach noble and good results’: 10

11

See further Willi (2008: 154–156), where this feature of Epicharmus’ style is related to the conversational idiom depicted in the comedies: Sophron, too, was known for it ([Demetr.] Eloc. 156 = Sophron test. 14). The proverb is given in Prov. Coisl. 168 as ἐκ παντὸς ξύλου κλῶιος γένοιτ᾿ ἂν καὶ θεός (with the explanation that κλῶιος is ‘Doric’ for κύφων) and in Zenob. vulg. 4.7 (with the ascription to Epicharmus) as ἐκ παντὸς ξύλου κύφων γένοιτ᾿ ἄν. Kaibel (1899: 115) notes that “poterat poeta talia scribere ἐκ παντὸς ξύλου | κλοιός τε κα γένοιτο κ κ τωὐτοῦ θεός”, but not only does this depart more substantially from the above restitution, it also neglects the fact that Epich. fr. 128 points to trochaic tetrameters for the Τρῶες.

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τῶν πόνων πωλοῦσιν μῖν πάντα τἀγάθ᾿ οἱ θεοί ‘For hard work the gods sell us all the good things’ ὦ πονηρέ, μὴ τὰ μαλακὰ μῶσο, μὴ τὰ σκλήρ᾿ ἔχηις ‘Wretch, don’t look for soft comfort, lest you get hard discomfort’. Of these two lines, the second stands a slightly better chance of being genuine, both because it is dialectally sounder (whereas in the first a substantial intervention is needed to produce acceptable Syracusan Doric12) and because the initial vocative makes it less self­containedly gnomic. However, it is also possible that both are genuine, even if the first was dialectally adjusted. Such adjustment should only be expected if the saying had become common currency in Athens. To give a more extreme modern analogue, a German speaker who says Sein oder Nichtsein, das ist hier die Frage can still honestly claim to be quoting Shakespeare – although in truth (s)he is merely quoting A. W. von Schlegel’s translation of To be or not to be, that is the question. But the Shakespeare parallel goes even further. Stout anti­Zielińskians, including Cassio (1985: 39–40), have used Xenophon’s quotations from Epicharmus as an argument to prove that Epicharmus’ work must have been known in Athens already by the time of Socrates, i. e. well before Plato’s journey to Sicily. Xenophon, they maintain, would not have put an anachronistic statement into the mouth of his Socrates (nor would Plato, as in Pl. Gorg. 505e, with Epich. fr. 161). To this, the pro­Zielińskians might reply:13 perhaps only a collection of Epicharmian γνῶμαι was circulating in Athens, before Plato imported the plays themselves. In reality, though, one would not even have to assume that. When I quote To be or not to be and name Shakespeare as the author of the quote,14 this does not necessarily mean that I and / or my 12

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Kassel / Austin (2001: 155) print ἁμὶν instead of μῖν on the basis of the transmission in Stobaeus (who is no doubt following Xenophon), but only something along the lines of Ahrens’s (1843: 457) τῶν πόνων πωλοῦντι (or πωλεῦντι?, cf. Thumb / Kieckers 1932: 215, Willi 2008: 128 and 138 on ἐμεῦς) πάντα τἀγάθ᾿ ἁμὶν τοὶ θεοί really heals the dialect. Cf. François (1978: 54); accordingly, Epich. fr. 161 is classified as spurious or doubtful by Kaibel (1899: 138), Olivieri (1946: 128), and Diels / Kranz (1951: 201). The second condition is essential: not everyone who says Trust is good, control is better does so with the intention of quoting Lenin (and of those who do, only some will also know that Lenin never actually said / wrote precisely that, or its equivalent in Russian). Thus, if  Eur. Hel. 122 αὐτὸς γὰρ ὄσσοις εἰδόμην, καὶ νοῦς ὁρᾶι ‘I’ve seen it with my own eyes, and my mind sees it too’ really responds to Epich. fr. 214 νοῦς ὁρῆι καὶ νοῦς ἀκούει· τἆλλα κωφὰ καὶ τυφλά ‘the mind sees and the mind hears: all the rest is deaf and blind’ (cf. Wilamowitz­Moellendorff

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addressee(s) have read Hamlet, nor that I have a collection of Shakespeare quotations on my shelf. It simply means that I happen to know this one phrase, and regard Shakespeare as a quotable authority. This last point, however, is crucial. For Socrates to cite Epicharmus alongside Hesiod or Homer makes sense only if his Athenian addressees too regard Epicharmus as a quotable authority. So those who invoke an Epicharmian collection of γνῶμαι in order to ‘excuse’ Xenophon make the tail wag the dog. To repeat someone’s memorable sayings presupposes that person’s authority, it does not trigger it. Even if Axiopistus had already edited (a first version of) the Γνῶμαι by the end of the fifth century, there would have been no demand for such a work in Athens – unless Epicharmus already had an independent claim to fame there. And for that, the non­comic pseudepigrapha cannot be responsible, both because Plato’s term ἄκρος κωμωιδίας would then be odd and because the one other Pseudepicharmeion whose topic might have been sufficiently weighty to establish its alleged author’s moral authoritativeness, the Πολιτεία, was apparently written – without any serious pretence at linguistic authenticity15—by the aulete Chrysogonus only some fifty years after Socrates’ death (cf. Aristoxenus fr. 45 Wehrli).16

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1910: 29–30 n. 54), this does not tell us anything about Euripides’ knowledge of Epicharmus’ plays (or a hypothetical gnomologium: cf. Kannicht 1969: 50, Olson 2007: 60). Nor, incidentally, will Lenin have known Epich. fr. 218 νᾶφε καὶ μέμνασ᾿ ἀπιστεῖν· ἄρθρα ταῦτα τᾶν φρενῶν ‘Be sober and remember to disbelieve: that’s what holds intelligence together’ or [Epich.] fr. 253 πόλλ᾿ ἀπιστία δέδρακεν ἀγαθὰ ⟨καὶ⟩ πίστις κακά ‘Distrust has done much good and trust bad’. Contrast, for example, the dialectally plausible [Epich.] fr. 244, presumably from the Γνῶμαι (cf. fn. 7; Solmsen 1907: 320). That Chrysogonus was active in the 350s results from Marsyas fr. 135/136F17 (= Didym. in Dem. col. XII 55–62), but the matter is complicated by the mention, in Duris fr. 76F70 (disputed by Plut. Alcib. 32), of another (earlier) flute­player Chrysogonus, who is said to have accompanied Alcibiades on his return from exile in 407 B. C. Most scholars have regarded this ‘first Chrysogonus’ as the author of the Πολιτεία (Wilamowitz­Moellendorff 1910: 30 n. 54, Kirchner 1899: 2512, Kaibel 1899: 133 and 1907: 40, Cassio 1985: 48), but Kerkhof (2001: 112–114) rightly objects that “[w]enn der ältere Flötenspieler der Verfasser wäre, so wären [...] die dürftigen Verse des Chrysogonos nicht nur die älteste pseudepicharmeische Dichtung, die sich sicher nachweisen lässt, sondern seine Politeia wäre überhaupt die älteste bekannte Schrift dieses Titels”. Moreover, when one famous aulete Chrysogonus existed in the middle of the fourth century, Aristoxenus could hardly refer in the second half of that century simply to Χρυσόγονος ὁ αὐλητής if he meant another person of that name and profession. In this context, note too Callisthenes fr. 124F5.1 (from Athen. 8.350d–e): the notoriously witty cithara­player Stratonicus of Athens made a joke πρὸς τὸν Χρυσογόνου πατέρα after the latter had

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2.2. Fragmenta incerta and fragmenta ex Alcimo Once we accept that it was really the genuine work of Epicharmus that was highly regarded not only in fifth­century Sicily, but also in Athens, our need to understand its dramatic nature becomes even more pressing. Unfortunately, this is no easy task. In Poetae Comici Graeci I, a mere 134 fragments are assigned to a named play, and many of these consist only of a single word or line. They are followed by 105 incertarum fabularum fragmenta, not all of which necessarily belong here rather than among the Pseudepicharmeia. The uncertainty can be exemplified by the very first of them, which – together with Epich. fr. 158 – is also one of the two longest (Epich. fr. 135, cited in P. Colon. 126, possibly from Apollodorus’ Περὶ θεῶν). Although Kassel and Austin signal no misgivings about its ascription, it contains a number of linguistic features which raise suspicions, however plausibly Epicharmian the text may otherwise look: ἐκ τᾶς τῶ Διός φαντι κεφαλᾶς ἀπολέσαι πράτιστα πάντων ἐν μάχαι τᾶι γενομέναι κατὰ Κρόνον Πάλλαντα, τὸ δὲ τούτω δέρος πὸτ τὸ φοβερὰν εὐθὺς εἶμεν περιβαλεῖν αὑτᾶι κύκλωι· διόπερ αὐτὰν Παλλάδ᾿ ὀνομασθῆμεν ὑπὸ πάντων τόκα ‘They say that [Athena], right out of the head of Zeus, had destroyed Pallas as the very thirst thing in the fight under Kronos, and that she had thrown his skin around herself in order to be immediately frightful: that’s why she was allegedly called Pallas by everyone then.’ Phonologically, it is surprising that the papyrus presents τῶ (corrected into τοῦ) and τούτω, not τοῦ and τούτου, as elsewhere in Epicharmus.17 Morphologically, the infinitive εἶμεν (though not metrically guaranteed) contrasts

17

shown pride in his son being an aulete; other conversations of Stratonicus point to the period of c. 370–360 (cf. Maas 1931: 326–327), which fits in with Chrysogonus II, not Chrysogonus I (whether or not the latter is a historical figure at all). Kassel / Austin (2001: 101), after Bühler apud Koenen / Merkelbach (1976: 21), compare Anon. Dor. 20 ( ρακλείτω ⟨τῶ⟩ Τεριναίω), and one may also refer to Sophron frr. 56 (τῶ χρόνω) and 86 (τῶ). In Willi (2008: 127 n. 29) I considered the possibility of ‘Strong Doric’ local redactions of these texts, but in the light of (e. g.) εἶμεν in Epich. fr. 135 above (not: μεν), this is no truly satisfactory explanation. A different approach is now suggested (for Theocritus, but with potential validity here as well) in Willi (2012b): such apparently ‘Strong Doric’ forms may have been written in Hellenistic manuscripts in order to highlight the open pronunciation of the (especially back) mid­vowels vowels in (all) Doric dialects, as opposed to

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with usual εἴμειν;18 and, more crucially, unemphatic αὐτάν is awkward because we should expect νιν.19 Lexically, the use of διόπερ (or δι᾽ ὅπερ) is not only absent from the rest of Epicharmus (which would not in itself be worrying), but the conjunction is also not attested in any Greek text before the time of Thucydides, Andocides, and Lysias. And syntactically, Kassel’s sensible conjecture of reflexive αὑτᾶι for the papyrus’s αυτας diverges from the regular reflexive construction, which would be αὐτὰν αὐτᾶι (οr possibly αὐταυτᾶι) in Epicharmus; and the articular infinitive governed by a preposition (πότ) also looks strangely recent given the extreme rarity of this fairly bookish construction in, say, Epicharmus’ contemporary Aeschylus.20 Admittedly, none of these points is decisive on its own, but their accumulation should give pause to any editor or commentator. However, saying that this is hardly ‘genuine’ Epicharmus need not imply that this is a Pseudepicharmeion of the type discussed before. Instead, Epich. fr. 135 resembles the fragments ex Alcimo ([Epich.] frr. 275–279), a group of fragments cited by Diogenes Laertius (3.9–16) from the fourth­century historian Alcimus. Alcimus’ aim, it seems, was to convict Plato of plagiarism: the gist of his teachings, Alcimus maintained, is already found in Epicharmus. Following Cassio (1985: 45)21 this must be read “against the backdrop of Sicilian political and cultural life after Plato’s second journey to Syracuse, when the split between the ‘parties’ of Dionysius the Younger on one side and Dion and Plato on the other became evident”: “[e]verything falls into place if we

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Koine Greek. Whatever the truth of the matter, within the Epicharmian oeuvre the feature is odd. Cf. Epich. frr. 97.8, 113.244, 113.247, and Willi (2008: 136); the same objection arises to εἶμεν in [Epich.] frr. 276.3, 277.3 and 277.6, 279.4 (all ex Alcimo), whereas [Epich.] fr. 295.19 is undoubtedly spurious anyway (cf. already Handley in Turner / Handley 1976: 57–60). ὀνομασθῆμεν is less problematic given Epich. fr. 40.6 ἐμπαγῆμεν: it is conceivable that ­μεν was retained in the ‘passive’ infinitive in ­(θ)ημεν, but remodelled (after thematic ­ειν) into ­μειν in athematic active infinitives. Cf. Epich. frr. 18.1, 98.131, 113.244, 158.4. Willi (2008: 139) may accept Epich. fr. 113.135 αὐτόν too readily as an equivalent of νιν: it could mean ‘himself’. Cf. Birklein (1888: 10–21), Burguière (1960: 99–126, esp. 118–124), Willi (2003: 149–152). Birklein finds only three articular infinitives with preposition in Aeschylus, once in the Prometheus (Prom. 381), and twice in the Choephoroi (Cho. 415, 957; “jedoch scheint beidemale der Text verdorben”). In Sophocles (Birklein 1888: 21–31), six out of eight examples occur in the very late Philoctetes and Oedipus at Colonus (Phil. 525, OC 115, 495, 795, 1368, 1537; elsewhere: Ai. 554, Ant. 883). Against Schwartz (1894) and Gigante (1953: esp. 166–172), according to whom Alcimus’ aims were not anti-Platonic at all.

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see Alcimus as a pro­Dionysian, possibly a member of that small court of intellectuals that gathered around the tyrant [...] and it is only too fitting that an author of Sikeliká should have availed himself of a local glory, Epicharmus, to make Plato appear in a bad light”. And yet, to dismiss the Alcimus fragments as shameless forgeries would be rash. As Cassio (2002: 57 n. 18), quoting Körte (1911: 231), has also observed, “[n]ot only are they ‘lebhaftester dramatischer Dialog’ in contrast to the spurious (and dull) treatises, but one wonders whether Alcimus could really afford to quote Epicharmean fakes if he wanted to carry his point”. Even supposing – without substantial evidence – that Alcimus wrote for an Athenian audience and that Epicharmus’ work was still unknown in fourth­ century Athens, such a scheme could blow up so easily that any reasonable forger would have had second thoughts. Also, the forgery would be rather poor since the Alcimus fragments do not support Alcimus’ claims all that neatly: their point is not quite the same as Plato’s. [Epich.] frr. 275 and 276, for example, are meant to show the Epicharmian precedent for the Platonic idea that ‘that which never remains in the same state and quantity is perceptible’ (αἰσθητὸν μὲν εἶναι τὸ μηδέποτε ἐν τῶι ποιῶι μηδὲ ποσῶι διαμένον), whereas ‘that from which nothing goes away or to which nothing is added is conceivable with the mind’ (νοητὸν δὲ ἐξ οὗ μηθὲν ἀπογίνεται μηδὲ προσγίγνεται); but in reality neither of the two fragments is at all concerned with a difference between αἰσθητά and νοητά, only with the everlasting nature of the gods (fr. 275) and the ever changing nature of mankind (fr. 276; cf. above). In §1 we have already come across a comic constellation with which the discussion of such ideas could have been compatible, and Epich. fr. 135, in its turn, would equally fit the immediate context of [Epich.] fr. 275 – perhaps as a further objection of speaker B at the end, or as an initial trigger for the exposition of A’s wisdom: ἀλλ’ ἀεί τοι θεοὶ παρῆσαν χὐπέλιπον οὐ πώποκα, τάδε δ’ ἀεὶ πάρεσθ’ ὁμοῖα διά τε τῶν αὐτῶν ἀεί. (B.) ἀλλὰ λέγεται μὰν χάος πρᾶτον γενέσθαι τῶν θεῶν. (A.) πῶς δέ κα; μὴ ἔχον γ’ ἀπὸ τίνος μηδ’ ἐς ὅτι πρᾶτον μόλοι; (Β.) οὐκ ἄρ’ ἔμολεν πρᾶτον οὐδέν; (A.) οὐδὲ μὰ Δία δεύτερον τῶνδέ γ’ ὧν ἁμές νυν ὧδε λέγομες, ἀλλ’ ἀεὶ τάδ’ ς ‘(A.) But gods always existed and never ceased to exist, and the things here are always present and identical and always follow the same principles. – (B.) But it’s said that Chaos came first of the gods! – (A.) And how would that be? if there wasn’t anything from which and into which a first

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thing could go? – (B.) So nothing came first? – (A.) No, nor indeed second, at least of those things we are now talking about: they always existed.’ However that may be, if (at least some of22) the Alcimus fragments, like Epich. fr. 135, are linguistically suspicious, but if at the same time there are reasons to believe that they nevertheless come from an Epicharmian play, there is only one possible, and not even particularly unlikely,23 scenario that does justice to both sides of the argument: namely, that Epicharmus’ plays were initially ‘fluid’, so that post­auctorial additions and revisions, by actors and / or editors, could creep in, perhaps until and beyond the time of Dionysius the Younger whose work περὶ τῶν ποιημάτων Ἐπιχάρμου may have started off Epicharmian philology properly speaking (Sud. δ 1179 = Epich. test. 33).24 If this were correct, Alcimus would cite ‘Epicharmus’ in good faith, and we should expect precisely what we find in these fragments: certain later linguistic features, attributable to the Sicilian Doric koina, in what is otherwise impeccable Syracusan.25 3. Epicharmian heterogeneity and the genesis of the Pseudepicharmeia Obviously, such insertions, extensions, or interpolations could only be successful if they blended naturally into an ‘original’ text. Hence, witnesses like Epich. fr. 135 or the Alcimus fragments should still fit well enough into 22

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For a full discussion see now Kerkhof (2001: 65–78); most, if not all, of the Alcimus fragments are regarded as genuine e. g. by Lorenz (1864: 183–187), Kaibel (1899: 121–124, 135), Olivieri (1946: 81–92), Pickard­Cambridge (1962: 247–254), Berk (1964: 85–101), Falus (1968), Demand (1971), Silvestre Pinto (1977), Carrière (1979: 202–207), Álvarez Salas (2007), and Rodríguez­Noriega Guillén (2012: 88–95), whereas wholesale rejections are fairly rare (Covotti 1931, Kerkhof 2001: 65–78, Kassel / Austin 2001: 157–164, Olson 2007: 9–10). Linguistic weaknesses are arguable even in [Epich.] frr. 275 (παρῆσαν, ὑπέλιπον) and 276 (εἶμεν, τός: cf. fn. 18, Willi 2008: 129 n. 38), whose claim to authenticity is otherwise strongest. Note in this context also the existence of Epicharmus’ Μοῦσαι as a διασκευή (‘revised version’) of the Ἥβας γάμος (cf. below §3); Wilamowitz­Moellendorff (1919: 52 n. 1) observed that the revision need not have been made by Epicharmus himself. Cf. similarly already Diels / Kranz (1951: 193) on [Epich.] fr. 277, followed by Thierfelder (1956: 175) on [Epich.] fr. 280; see also Webster in Pickard­Cambridge (1962: 253). For the Sicilian koina cf. Bartoněk (1973) and Willi (2008: 45–49); to judge by the text of Archimedes, our most important witness, infinitives in ­μεν (not ­μειν: cf. Thumb / Kieckers 1932: 216) or also pronominal αὐτάν for νιν would have been regular here.

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Epicharmian comedy, although they stage almost philosophical discussions and thereby potentially justify the following remark of ‘Pseudo­Epicharmus’ in the (presumed) introduction to the Γνῶμαι ([Epich.] fr. 244.10–11):26 αἰτίαν γὰρ χον ὡς ἄλλως μὲν εἴην [δ]εξιός, μακρολόγος δὲ κοὐ δυναίμαν ἐν β[ρ]αχεῖ γνώμα[ς λέγ]ειν. ‘For I was criticised that I was fairly skilful, but long­winded and incapable of saying briefly what I meant.’ On the other hand, there was certainly much in the genuine Epicharmus that was far from tedious. Horace (epist. 2.1.58 = Epich. test. 21) likens Plautus to Epicharmus by saying [dicitur] Plautus ad exemplar Siculi properare Epicharmi ‘Plautus is said to move quickly following the model of the Sicilian Epicharmus’,27 and a sequence of scenes like those described in Epich. fr. 136 has considerable comic scope, not unlike Aristophanes’ Clouds, while still providing a potential framework for a para­philosophical exchange à la [Epich.] frr. 275 and 276 (cf. §1):28 Ἐπίχαρμος, ὁ[μιλή]σας τοῖς Πυθα[γορείοις,] ἄλλα τ[έ] τι̣να εὖ̣ [ἐδίδασ]κε̣ν δ[ρά]μ̣ατ̣[α, καὶ τὸ περὶ τ]ο̣ῦ α̣ὐ̣ξομ̣[ένου, ὃ] λ̣[όγωι] ἐφοδ[ικῶι καὶ πισ]τ̣[ῶι ἐ]π̣έ̣ρα[ινε. οὐ μὴν] ἀλλ᾽ ὡ̣ς̣ ἄ̣[φοδοι γίνον]ται πρόσο̣[δοί τε ἐναρ]γ̣ές, εἰ οὐχ̣ [ἑστώς τις] γί̣[νε]ται μ̣[είζων ἐ]λ̣[ά]τ̣τ̣ων· ε̣[ἰ δὲ τοῦτο,] οὐσίαι ἄλλ[οτε ἄλλαι] γίνον̣τ̣αι [διὰ τὴν συν]εχῆ ῥύσιν. κ̣α̣[ὶ ἐκ]ω̣μ̣ώιδησεν αὐτὸ ἐπὶ τοῦ ἀπαιτουμ̣ένου συ̣μβο̣λὰς καὶ [ἀ]ρ̣νουμένου το̣ῦ αὐτοῦ εἶναι διὰ τὸ τὰ μὲν προσγεγενῆσθαι, τὰ δὲ ἀπεληλυθέναι, ἐπεὶ δὲ ὁ ἀπαιτῶν ἐτ̣[ύ]π̣τ̣ησεν αὐτὸν καὶ̣ ἐν̣εκαλεῖ̣τ̣ο̣, πάλιν κ[ἀ]κε̣ί̣ν̣ο̣υ̣ [φά] σκοντος̣ [ἄλλ]ο̣ μὲ̣[ν] ε̣[ἶ]ναι τὸν τ̣[ετυ]πτη̣κότα, ἕτερο[ν δὲ] τ̣ὸν̣ ἐγκαλούμ̣[ε]ν̣ον.

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Pace Carrara (2003: 184), the two lines hardly refer to other Pseudepicharmian writings: the point of a comic scene may be ‘summarised’ in a γνώμη, but not the essence of a medical treatise or the like. Kassel / Austin (2001: 13) pertinently compare Ar. Eccl. 581–582 ἀλλ᾿ οὐ μέλλειν ἀλλ᾿ ἅπτεσθαι καὶ δὴ χρῆν ταῖς διανοίαις, | ὡς τὸ ταχύνειν χαρίτων μετέχει πλεῖστον παρὰ τοῖσι θεαταῖς ‘one should not hesitate, but really head for the ideas, because to move quickly goes down best with the audience’; the context in Horace shows that the tertium comparationis is not merely the quick­moving trochaic tetrameter as opposed to the more leisurely iambic trimeter. For a full discussion of the ‘αὐξ(αν)όμενος λόγος’ play involved here, see Willi (2008: 170–175) and (2012a: 58–63), with earlier literature including Bernays (1853) and Kerkhof (2001: 68–70, 171–173).

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‘Epicharmus, who had frequented the Pythagoreans, successfully staged many other plays and also the one about the “Augmenting Discourse” (αὐξόμενος λόγος) which he concluded with a methodical and convincing point. However, it is manifest that there are subtractions and additions if one who stands fast does not become bigger or smaller. But if this is the case, the substances are ever­changing because of the uninterrupted flux. He made a comic scene out of this with someone who claims back a loan and another who says that the money no longer belongs to the same person because something has been added and something else taken away; then, when the creditor has beaten him and has been taken into court because of that, he too replies in such a way and says that the one who has beaten is one thing and the one who has been taken to court another.’ Similarly, the few Epicharmian fragments from named plays29 in which we still recognise a conversation are everything but dull. Epich. fr. 76, from Λόγος καὶ Λογίνα, presents a slapstick misunderstanding in a mythological setting;30 fr. 122, from Σειρῆνες, has one character ‘torment’ another by describing a feast; fr. 97, from the Ὀδυσσεὺς αὐτόμολος, stages a pitifully un­heroic Odysseus who is apparently beaten up after deserting to Troy;31 and fr. 113.4–15, from Πύρρα καὶ Προμαθεύς, introduces a Pyrrha who suspects that Prometheus only advised the building of an ark in order to steal her belongings once she and Deukalion are inside. None of this would be out of place on Aristophanes’ stage, and even the longish parasite’s monologue of fr. 32 need not compare unfavourably with, say, Dikaiopolis’ monologue at the beginning of Acharnians. All we can conclude from these fragments (and from a good number of further play titles such as Ἄμυκος, Βούσιρις, ρακλῆς ὁ ἐπὶ τὸν ζωστῆρα, ρακλῆς ὁ πὰρ Φόλωι, Κύκλωψ, Μήδεια, 29

30

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In addition to these, listed in the following, cf. only Epich. frr. 146 with a ‘rhetorical’ ἐποικοδόμησις and 147 with another punning sequence. Contra Kassel / Austin (2001: 52), the reading of Porson (1812: 102) is preferable to Ahrens’s (1843: 446) ἀλλ᾿ ἔρανόν ⟨γα⟩ in the last line, as the (untranslatable) pun on ἔρανος ‘dinner, banquet’ and γέρανoς ‘crane’ continues: (A.) ὁ Ζεύς μ᾿ ἐκάλεσε, Πέλοπί γ᾿ ἔρανον ἱστιῶν. | (B.) παμπόνηρον ὄψον, ὦ ᾿τᾶν, ὁ γέρανος. | (A.) ἀλλ᾿ οὔτι γέρανον, ἀλλά γ᾿ ἔρανόν τοι λέγω ‘(A.) Zeus invited me to a nice dinner for Pelops. (B.) An ice dinner – that’s disgusting, mate! – (A.) Not an ice dinner, a nice dinner!’ For the reconstruction of the action of this play cf. now Willi (2008: 177–188) and (2012a: 63–71), responding to earlier discussions (including Schmidt 1888: 379– 380, Gomperz 1889, Blass 1889, Stanford 1950, Barigazzi 1955, Lobel 1959: 40–42, Phillips 1959: 58–61, Gentili 1961: 336–337, Webster 1962, Salomone 1981, Kerkhof 2001: 123–128, Cassio 2002: 73–82, Casolari 2003: 47–52, Olson 2007: 47–48).

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Ὀδυσσεὺς ναυαγός, Σφίγξ, Τρῶες, or Φιλοκτήτας) is that Epicharmus combined mythological travesty with an entertaining depiction of everyday­life situations; and if we add not only the parasite figure in Ἐλπὶς Πλοῦτος (cf. §1), but also the titles Ἀγρωστῖνος ‘The rustic’ (for a play featuring a schoolteacher named Κόλαφος ‘Slap’: Epich. fr. 1), Γηραιά ‘The old woman’, and Φιλοκλίνης ‘The lazybones’, we may infer that a careful depiction of character types was also part of Epicharmus’ formula for success.32 It is likely, however, that there was not just a single such formula, and mere titles may be misleading. For example, nothing lends particular support to the idea that Γᾶ καὶ Θάλασσα agonistically opposed Earth and Sea as allegorical figures,33 or that Λόγος καὶ Λογίνα contained an ἀγὼν λόγων similar to the one depicted in Aristophanes’ Clouds.34 Whatever the correct interpretation of the latter title (‘Mr and Mrs Word’?, ‘Mr and Miss Argument’?35), one of the three fragments we have points again to mythological characters (Epich. fr. 76, quoted in fn. 30), while another (fr. 77) evidences a (not entirely isolated36) interest in literary matters. It mentions the iambographer (?)37 Aristoxenus of Selinus and could be read as a self-referential statement if the problematic first line is emended as follows, with two minor changes

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Of course this is not to say that Epicharmus’ comedy ever became a Typenkomödie like the Commedia dell’Arte: cf. Kerkhof (2001: 171) against Dohm’s (1964: 22–30) assumption that Epicharmus had a ‘cook type’. Thus e. g. Kaibel (1899: 94), Sieckmann (1906: 17), Prescott (1917: 414), Körte (1921: 1224), Radermacher (1954: 25), Froleyks (1973: 133–134); but our evidence almost entirely consists of mere lexical references in Athenaeus (Epich. frr. 20, 22–28). Cf. Dieterich (1897: 78), von Salis (1905: 50), Sieckmann (1906: 18), Prescott (1917: 414–415), Körte (1921: 1224), Radermacher (1954: 25), Froleyks (1973: 133), Silvestre Pinto (1977: 248–249). Cf. Hoenigswald (1941), Cassio (2002: 69–70); differently Froleyks (1973: 133) (“sicher ein Streit zwischen Herrn und Frau Vernunft, zwischen männlicher und weiblicher Logik”). Cf. Epich. fr. 51 (with a ‘quotation’ κὰτ τὸν Ἀνάνιον; cf. Rodríguez­Noriega Guillén 2012: 86–87, but Epich. fr. 22 need not quote the same iambographer directly [Ananius fr. 4 West] since the ‘oath’ ναὶ τὰν κράμβαν may have become proverbial: see Eupolis fr. 84); Epich. fr. 92 (on the Spartan ἐνόπλιος νόμος in a mythical context); also Epich. fr. 4 (on Diomos as the ‘inventor’ of bucolic song)? Lennartz (2010: 131–136) rightly points out that the generic classification of Aristoxenus as iambographer largely depends on emending καί into κάτ in Εpich. fr. 77 (cf. fn. 38: next to τρόπον, κατά is certainly natural), but he fails to mount a plausible defence for καί (and the resulting awkward syntax).

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where correction is unavoidable (and where previous proposals have been more intrusive):38 οὐ τοὺς ἰάμβους κὰτ τὸν ἅδιστον τρόπον, ὃν πρᾶτος εἰσαγήσαθ᾿ Ὡριστόξενος ‘not iambic lines of the very sweet type which Aristoxenus was the first to introduce’ We reach somewhat safer ground once we turn to the Ἥβας γάμος (‘Marriage of Hebe’) and its revision under the title Μοῦσαι (cf. Athen. 3.110b). At first sight, at least the earlier title also seems to point to a mythological plot of sorts. When we look at the fragments, however, it becomes hard to believe that this was the same type of burlesque play as, for instance, the Ὀδυσσεὺς αὐτόμολος of  Epich. fr. 97. Of the 26 extant fragments of the Ἥβας γάμος, 21 – all from Athenaeus – contain 47 trochaic tetrameters amounting to an elaborate catalogue of foodstuff (mainly fishes and seafood). Three more (Epich. frr. 46, 62, 64) cite the play as a source for specific fish and bread names, one adduces the term λεκίς ‘pot, pan’ (Epich. fr. 63, from Poll. 10.86), and the last one (Epich. fr. 39) mentions the names Epicharmus gave to the Muses, clearly with a humorous twist because here they are the daughters of Πίερος καὶ Πιμπληΐς ‘Mr Fat and Ms Full’. To blame this situation exclusively on Athenaeus’ biased interests is difficult. Firstly, even trying hard it would be impossible to come up with an equally one­sided and uniform selection of dozens of lines drawn by Athenaeus from any Athenian comic author. Secondly, the past­tense third­ person verbs39 in these fragments suggest an ekphrastic layout in which the 38

39

(1) οὐ for transmitted οἱ, but the nom. pl. of the article is τοί in Epicharmus, and Ahrens’s (1843: 446) “fort[asse] ὤ (aut οἴ)” fails to convince stylistically; (2) κὰτ τὸν ἅδιστον for transmitted (unmetrical) καὶ τὸν ἄριστον, with κὰτ τόν as already suggested by Porson apud Gaisford (1810: 45) and Ahrens (1843: 446), but ἅδιστον (cf. Epich. fr. 84 ἅδιστον κρέας) instead of ἀρχαῖον (Porson), ἀχάριστον (Αhrens), ἀμπαιστόν (Vaillant 1927), or Ἀνανίου (Rotstein 2010: 220): the first two of these alternatives would hardly have been corrupted (since they are also plain Attic), and the third and fourth would presuppose a much more substantial change in the transmission (next to a less likely starting point for the third: what is an ‘anapaestic manner’?). For the interpretation of the fragment cf. already Pace (1940: 71), Guardì (1980: 31), or West (1974: 34): “It seems likely that Epicharmus, speaking outside the action of the play [...], was here contrasting his own kind of show with a different kind that was in fashion before.” Cf. Epich. fr. 47 καρκίνοι ἵκοντ(ο) ‘crabs arrived’, 48 ὁ Ποτειδὰν ἷκε ‘Poseidon arrived’, 49 ν δὲ σαργῖνοι ‘there were sarginoi (fishes)’, 52 ν δὲ νάρκαι ‘there

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speaker(s)40 are / is describing in hindsight and with much detail a lavish banquet of the gods, apparently in the form of a monologue.41 Again this has no parallel in extant comedy, including notoriously food­happy Middle Comedy: here an extreme case42 like Anaxandrides fr. 42.37–66 presents a simple list, perhaps for virtuoso delivery,43 but not the leisurely catalogue one must infer for Epicharmus. It is therefore safe to say that the Ἥβας γάμος was a ‘comedy’ sui generis, if  ’comedy’ is the right term for it.44 This is all the more true since passages such as Epich. frr. 40.3–6, 49.1–2, or 51 are reminiscent of a different genre that came into existence in (presumably later) fifth­century Sicily – cookery­books:45

40

41

42 43

44

45

were electric rays’, 57 ἆγε τρίγλας ‘(s)he brought red mullets’, 58 ν δ᾿ ὑαινίδες τε βούγλωσσοί τε καὶ κίθαρος ἐνῆς ‘there were hyena fishes and soles and a cithara flatfish among them’ (and similarly, from the Μοῦσαι, Epich. fr. 85 ν δ᾿ ἐρωιδιοί ‘there were herons’, 88 ὁ Ζεὺς ἔλαβε κ κελήσατο ‘Zeus took and ordered’, 89 οὔτε μυραινᾶν ἀπῆς ‘nor was there a lack of sea­eels’). The presents in Epich. fr. 40.1 (ἄγει ‘he brings’) and 42.1 (λαμβάνοντι ‘they take’) may be visualising historical presents. On the first­person plural references in Epich. fr. 40.11 (Ἥβας γάμος) and fr. 84 (Mοῦσαι) cf. §6. Cf. already Lorenz (1864: 88–89), von Salis (1905: 43); Epich. fr. 49 αἰ δὲ λῆις ‘if you like’ need not imply a stage dialogue (pace Sieckmann 1906: 18): contrast the dialogical arrangement of e. g. Ar. fr. 581 with typical bomolochic interventions. Antiphanes fr. 140, Ephippus fr. 12, or Eubulus fr. 63 are much shorter. Cf. Nesselrath (1990: 272–276); pace Schmid (1929: 646), Albini (1986: 14), or Kerkhof (2001: 119), nothing in the Epicharmian fragments from the Ἥβας γάμος or Μοῦσαι suggests a similar speed performance (whereas the mere list of votive offerings in Epich. fr. 68, from Θεαροί, might). Dionysius the Younger significantly entitled his critical treatise Περὶ τῶν ποιημάτων (not: κωμωιδιῶν) Ἐπιχάρμου (Εpich. test. 33; cf. §2.2); “[w]ir wissen nicht, wie Epicharmos seine gedichte genannt hat” (Wilamowitz­Moellendorff 1910: 55; cf. Kaibel 1907: 36, West 1974: 34), but δράματα is a possibility. As noted in §1, Plato’s reference to Epicharmus as the ἄκρος κωμωιδίας is still vague, when Homer is at the same time the ἄκρος τραγωιδίας (Pl. Theaet. 152e = Epich. test. 3). A specific application of the (Attic) term κωμωιδία to Epicharmus’ oeuvre is thus first found in Aristotle (implicitly: Poet. 1448a29–34 = Epich. test. 4) and Theocritus (explicitly: Epigr. 18 = Epich. test. 18 ὁ τὰν κωμωιδίαν εὑρὼν Ἐπίχαρμος ‘Epicharmos the inventor of comedy’; cf. Sud. ε 2766, s. v. Ἐπίχαρμος = Epich. test. 1); see further e. g. Porph. vit. Plot. 24 (= Epich. test. 34, Ἐπίχαρμον τὸν κωμωιδιογράφον), Anon. de com. (Proleg. de com. III) 9 p. 7 Koster (= Epich. test. 6, Epicharmus as an author τῆς ἀρχαίας κωμωιδίας). See Bilabel (1921), especially on Mithaikos of Syracuse (5th cent.; cf. Cassio 1989: 144) and Herakleides of Syracuse (4th cent.).

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κτένια, βαλάνους, πορφύρας, ὄστρεια συμμεμυκότα, τὰ διελεῖν μέν ἐντι χαλεπά, καταφαγῆμεν δ᾿ εὐμαρέα, μύας ἀναρίτας τε κάρυκάς τε καὶ σκιφύδρια, τὰ γλυκέα μέν ἐντ᾿ ἐπέσθειν, ἐμπαγῆμεν δ᾿ ὀξέα ‘scallops, barnacles, purple­fishes, firmly­closed oysters, which are difficult to take apart, but easy to be swallowed, mussels and sea­snails and trumpet­shells and sword­shells, which are sweet to eat, but sharp when one is stuck on them’ ν δὲ σαργῖνοί τε μελάνουροί τε καὶ ταὶ φίνταται ταινίαι, λεπταὶ μὲν ἁδέαι δὲ κὠλίγου πυρός ‘there were sarginoi fishes and black­tails and the most pleasant ribbon­ fishes, fine but sweet and not to be roasted for long’ καὶ σκιφίας χρόμις θ᾿, ὃς ἐν τῶι ρι κὰτ τὸν Ἀνάνιον ἰχθύων πάντων ἄριστος, ἀνθίας δὲ χείματι ‘and sword­fish and chromis­fish, which, according to Ananius, is the best of all fishes in spring, whereas the anthias­fish is in winter’ As it is easy to see how verses like these could be further elaborated upon, we may even grasp here the elusive starting­point for the creation of Pseudepicharmeia.46 As mentioned in §2, these works included an Ὀψοποιΐα, and given the general Sicilian interest in gastronomy (which later culminates in Arche­ stratus of Gela’s didactic δυπάθεια47), this Ὀψοποιΐα could indeed have been the very first Pseudepicharmeion, building upon the material contained in e. g. the Ἥβας γάμος and / or Μοῦσαι. If so, and because the mid­fifth­ century also saw the beginnings of a Sicilian empiricist school of medicine with a strong interest in dietetics, and therefore food again,48 the step from 46

47

48

Contrast e. g. Pace (1940: 53) and Guardì (1980: 33–34), according to whom the Γνῶμαι were pivotal; but why should such a collection give rise to pseudepigra­ phical texts of an entirely different kind? On Archestratus’ work and its literary background (but very little on any Epichar­ mian connections) see Olson / Sens (2000: esp. xxviii­xliii). According to Sud. α 1026, s. v. Ἄκρων, the fifth­century doctor Akron of Akragas wrote Δωρίδι διαλέκτωι περὶ τροφῆς ὑγιεινῶν βιβλίον α´ ‘one book in Doric “On the diet of healthy people”’ (cf. Cassio 1989: 143); some decades later Philistion of Lokroi, who was active in Syracuse (Pl. Epist. II 314d = Philistion fr. 2 Wellmann), also focused on dietetics, as Athen. 3.115d (= Philistion fr. 9 Wellmann) implies, and as the ascription of Ὀψαρτυτικά to him indirectly confirms (Athen. 12.516c = Philistion fr. 13 Wellmann; cf. Wellmann 1901: 73–74, Diller 1938: 2406).

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an Ὀψοποιΐα to the more generally medical Χείρων was small; and finally, in an intellectual environment where certainly Empedoclean, if not strictly Pythagorean, ideas undoubtedly informed medical thought,49 the Χείρων in turn would provide a natural bridge to, first, a pseudepigraphical carmen physicum of wider scope, as seems to have constituted the basis for Ennius’ Epicharmus (and / or the Κανών: cf. fn. 7), and, next, Pythagoreanising treatises à la Chrysogonus’ Πολιτεία. Thus, we may postulate an overall model for the genesis of the Pseudepicharmeia as in Figure 1. Epicharmus (active c. 500–460 B.C.) I. Dramatic plot comedy

II. Non-dramatic ‘catalogue’ satire/parody • often mythological characters/travesty • possibly dialogic frames • focus on character depiction (?) • everyday subject matter • everyday scenes/behaviour/language (fishes, not heroes)

Excerption of (later 5th c.?)

Extensions/ interpolations

Extensions/ additions

‘Philosophical fragments’ Medical (incl. dietetic) (esp. frr. ex Alcimo, (Anonymous, 5th/4th c.?) 5th/4th c.?)

of ‘Axiopistus’ (early 4th c.?)

Gastronomical (Anonymous, later 5th c.)

Pythagoreanising (?) and/or carmen physicum (‘Axiopistus’, early 4th c.?) [Epicharmus Ennii?] Pythagoreanising (Chrysogonus, mid-4th c.)

Fig. 1: A model for the genesis of the Pseudepicharmeia 49

Cf. e. g. Plin. NH 29.5 (= Akron fr. 2 Wellmann) on Akron and Galen. X 5 (from De methodo medendi, = Philistion fr. 1 Wellmann) on Philistion as followers of Empedocles, the latter for instance with the doctrine that the human body consists of the four elements, a disturbance of whose balance causes illness (Philistion fr. 4 Wellmann): Wellmann (1901: 67–75), Diller (1938: 2407).

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4. Counter-canonical Epicharmus Obviously, in such a model much remains hypothetical, but the essential point is this: to judge by the evidence we have, Epicharmus’ comedy was fundamentally heterogeneous, and Aristotle’s observation that plot comedy came from Sicily (§1) need not imply that all of Sicilian (and Epicharmian) comedy was plot comedy. However, the (at least50) two ‘groups’ of works we are able to distinguish – burlesque plays like the Ὀδυσσεὺς αὐτόμολος on the one hand and catalogue­like compositions such as the Ἥβας γάμος and Μοῦσαι on the other51—may still have things in common. What they share, and what makes them intrinsically innovative, is their iconoclastic attitude towards the cultural canon. In the Ὀδυσσεὺς αὐτόμολος we recognise the persiflage of a story referred to in both the Iliad (Book 10) and the Odyssey (4.242–258) and fully developed in the Ἰλιὰς μικρά (cf. Procl. Chrest. 206 Severyns): how Odysseus was given the task of going to Troy as a spy and explore the city – only that in Epicharmus he did not dare to do so, but instead deserted, with unexpected and demeaning consequences (Epich. frr. 97, 99).52 Similarly, in the Busiris Heracles was de­heroised and made fun of as a glutton whose table manners are those of a pig (Epich. fr. 18), perhaps contrasting negatively with the well­ behaved conduct of the title figure;53 and although the fragments are insufficient to prove it, one may doubt that Odysseus and Heracles were presented more awe­inspiringly when the first was visiting the Cyclops (Κύκλωψ), travelling past the Sirens (Σειρῆνες), οr shipwrecked in the Ὀδυσσεὺς ναυαγός, and when the second was encountering the gigantic Alcyoneus (in the homonymous play), hunting for the Amazon’s belt in the ρακλῆς ὁ ἐπὶ τὸν 50

51

52 53

I deliberately leave open the question whether there was an additional divide between ‘character comedies’ (such as an Ἀγρωστῖνος) and ‘mythological comedies’ (such as the Heracles or Odysseus plays). Our knowledge of the former is too limited, but it is conceivable that they presented mime­like character studies, not fully­fledged plots. Similar titles of Middle and New Comedy (e. g. Menander’s Δύσκολος) could advocate against this, but for example the fragments of Ἐλπὶς Πλοῦτος (with the parasite’s monologue in Epich. fr. 32) would be compatible with it, and of course mime had a subliterary ancestry in the Doric world (cf. §5). What other titles (if any) belong to this group is difficult to say: one may think for instance of the Ἑορτά ‘Feast’ (from which fr. 38 cites the word κόγχος ‘shell’), the Θεαροί ‘Festival­goers’ (with the catalogue­like fr. 68), the Ὀρύα ‘Sausage’, or also the Νᾶσοι ‘Islands’. See the literature cited in fn. 31. Cf. Pianko (1948: 419–420), Kerkhof (2001: 117), Casolari (2003: 269–270), Olson (2007: 40–41).

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ζωστῆρα, or feasting at the centaur Pholos’ in the ρακλῆς ὁ πὰρ Φόλωι. That Heracles and Odysseus should figure so prominently in Epicharmus is no coincidence.54 In the colonial West these archetypical travellers and ambassadors of civilization had acquired an identitarian resonance that transcended their role in metropolitan culture.55 To demote such heroes in Sicily therefore represented even more of a counter-canonical challenge. Turning to the Ἥβας γάμος and the Μοῦσαι, things are perhaps less obvious, but the general stance appears to have been similar. The crucial point is not so much that Hebe is Heracles’ wife (Hes. Theog. 950–955), so that a connection with this hero again lurks in the back, but the very form of the catalogue­like fragments. These commonly consist of (1) a transitive or intransitive lead verb such as ἆγε ‘(s)he brought’ or ν ‘there were’ / ἵκοντο ‘(there) came’ with (2) a series of objects or subjects, respectively, listing fish names or items of seafood, some of which are elaborated upon by (3) descriptive relative clauses and / or (4) colourful (often compound) epithets. This structure exactly mirrors that of an epic­didactic catalogue of the type seen in Hesiod’s Theogony (e. g. (1) lead verb τέκε(ν) / ἐγένοντο ‘gave birth to / were born’, followed by (2) a list of objects / subjects, some amplified by (3) relative clauses and / or (4) (often compound) epithets): [ἆγε]1 δὴ [τρίγλας τε κυφὰς [κἀχαρίστους]4 βαιόνας]2 ‘So she brought curved red mullets and unpleasant baiones’ (Epich. fr. 57) [καρκίνοι θ᾿]2 [ἵκοντ᾿]1 [ἐχῖνοί θ᾿, [οἳ καθ᾿ ἁλμυρὰν ἅλα νεῖν μὲν οὐκ ἴσαντι, πεζᾶι δ᾿ ἐμπορεύονται μόνοι]3]2 ‘Crabs came and sea­urchins, who are unable to swim in the salty sea, but are the only ones to travel on foot’ (Epich. fr. 47) Τηθὺς δ᾿ Ὠκεανῶι ποταμοὺς [τέκε]1 δινήεντας, [Νεῖλόν τ᾿ Ἀλφειόν τε καὶ ριδανὸν [βαθυδίνην]4]2 ‘Tethys bore Oceanus the eddying rivers, the Nile and the Alpheius and also the deep­whirled Eridanus’ (Hes. Theog. 337–338)

54

55

Cf. Pickard­Cambridge (1962: 255–264), Reinhardt (1996: 26–35), Kerkhof (2001: 117–119, 121–128), Rodríguez­Noriega Guillén (2012: 79–81). See, for example, Jourdain­Annequin (1988/9) on Heracles, and Malkin (1998: 3–5 and passim) on Odysseus.

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Nηρῆος δ᾿ [ἐγένοντο]1 μεγήριτα τέκνα θεάων πόντωι ἐν ἀτρυγέτωι καὶ Δωρίδος υκόμοιο, κούρης Ὠκεανοῖο τελήεντος ποταμοῖο, [Πρωθώ τ᾿ Εὐκράντη τε Σαώ τ᾿ Ἀμφιτρίτη τε [...] Νησώ τ᾿ Εὐπόμπη τε Θεμιστὼ τε Προνόη τε Νημερτής θ᾿, [ πατρὸς ἔχει νόον ἀθανάτοιο.]3]2 ‘Numerous divine girls were born in the barren sea from Nereus and Doris with the lovely hair, the daughter of Oceanus the circling river, Protho and Eukrante and Sao and Amphitrite [...] and Neso and Eupompe and Themisto and Pronoe and Nemertes, who has the mind of her immortal father’ (Hes. Theog. 240–262) That Epicharmus had Hesiod in mind when he wrote the Ἥβας γάμος is confirmed by Epich. fr. 39 (from Tzetz. ad Hes. Op. 6, ed. Gaisford, Poetae minores Graeci III, p. 23). As already mentioned (§3), this fragment gives Epicharmus’ names of the ‘Muses’. The comic name of their mother Πιμπληΐς recalls the Oceanid names Κερκηΐς or Περσηΐς presented by Hesiod (Theog. 355–356) in the same catalogue section that also lists Oceanus’ river sons Νεῖλος, Ἀχελωιός, Ῥόδιος, and Ἑπτάπορος (Theog. 338–341). All of these in turn are echoed among Epicharmus’ Muses, presumably because such ‘river Muses’ would naturally attend the wedding together with their respective fishes:56 Ἐπίχαρμος δὲ ἐν τῶι τῆς Ἥβης γάμωι ἑπτὰ λέγει, θυγατέρας Πιέρου καὶ Πιμπληΐδος νύμφης, Νειλοῦν Τριτώνην Ἀσωποῦν Ἑπταπόρην Ἀχελωΐδα †Τιτόπλουν† καὶ Ῥοδίαν ‘But Epicharmus in his play The Wedding of Hebe names seven [Muses], daughters of Mr Fat and the nymph Ms Full: Neilo, Tritone, Asopo, Heptapore, Achelois, Titoplo (?), and Rhodia’ Thus, just as Epicharmus’ plot drama satirically rewrites the myth of narrative epic, so his catalogue poetry comically rewrites didactic epic, replacing divine genealogies with the offer in a fishmonger’s shop. The two facets of Epicharmus thereby correspond to the two most hallowed genres of Greek culture, and they treat them with as little respect as Aristophanic comedy later treats noble tragedy.

56

Cf. Welcker (1844: 289–290), Moessner (1907: 39).

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5. Hybridisation and the ‘invention’ of comedy In Willi (2008), I already made an argument along these lines for Epicharmus’ mythical plot comedy, but I had not yet seen the para­Hesiodic parallel to it in the Ἥβας γάμος. In particular, I argued that this subversive, counter­ canonical dimension of Epicharmus’ work must be related to its colonial context. Mutatis mutandis, similar phenomena can be observed in colonial worlds, both ancient and modern, even in non­comic genres: “In der Aufgabe und in dem Bedürfnis, überkommene und allgemein akzeptierte Dinge anders zu sehen und zu bewerten, überschneiden sich die Rollen des kolonialen und des komischen Autors. Insofern stellt die Komödie geradezu den Idealtypus kolonialer Literatur dar”.57 At the same time, I argued that another typical feature of ‘colonial’ literature is also replicated in Epicharmus: generic experimentation and hybridity. The focus then was mainly on the innovative combination of a colloquial linguistic register with an art form that aspired to literary recognition in public life.58 But adopting the dichotomy suggested above, we can also detect behind the more dramatic half of Epicharmus’ oeuvre a novel hybrid in another, yet more fundamental respect. According to Aristotle (Poet. 1449a11–13), Attic comedy ultimately arose ἀπὸ τῶν τὰ φαλλικὰ [sc. ἐξαρχόντων] ἃ ἔτι καὶ νῦν ἐν πολλαῖς τῶν πόλεων διαμένει νομιζόμενα, ‘from the leaders of the phallic choruses, which are still organised even today in many cities’. Whatever the exact details of the relationship,59 it is easy to recognise here a connection between comedy and both ritual scurillity and – less directly – literary iambus, whether or not iambic performers also occasionally wore a phallus (cf. Archil. frr. 66–67 W., Hip57

58

59

Willi (2008: 192); for the concept of a ‘canonical counter­discourse’ in modern colonial and post­colonial literature see esp. Tiffin (1987) and Ashcroft / Griffiths / Tiffin (2002: 77–114), and for a comparison with Greek literary culture in ancient Sicily Willi (2008: 327). Willi (2008: 158–161); cf. Willi (2008: 4–6 and 325), following Tiffin (1987: 19–20), Ashcroft / Griffiths / Tiffin (2002: 137–138 and 153–163), and Boehmer (2005: 237– 243), on hybridity and generic experimentation as defining features of modern (post­)colonial texts. The literature is vast and controversial (but Depew 2007 shows how unwise it would be to dismiss Aristotle’s primary information on the origins of drama, simply because he applies his own methodological lense to it): cf. e. g. Herter (1947: esp. 26–27), Pickard­Cambridge (1962: 132–162), Sifakis (1971), Adrados (1975), Rosen (1988), Degani (1988) and (1993), Henderson (1991: 13–28), Bowie (2002), Sourvinou­Inwood (2003: 172–177), Lennartz (2010: 310–338), Rotstein (2010: 266–276). Leonhardt’s (1991) complete reinterpretation of Aristotle’s words remains unconvincing.

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ponax fr. 78.14 W.?60). Thus, the choral (parodos and / or) parabasis of comedy may go back to the earlier φαλλικά as such, whereas the spoken sections correspond to a more narrowly defined61 iambus  –  witness their typically iambic metres. In these spoken parts the chorus leader (ἔξαρχος), increasingly detaching himself from his group,62 performed a (perhaps initially introductory or ‘prologic’) monologue not dissimilar from the character impersonations seen in literary iambus (e. g. a cook at Semonides fr. 24 W., a crook at Hipponax fr. 32 W.63). Following Aristotle, Attic comedy may therefore be regarded as an organic outgrowth of ritual ribaldry, both phallic in kind and iambic in tone. Meanwhile, and to return to Epicharmus, we know that iambus also flourished in Sicily, not only because Epich. fr. 77 probably refers to the ἴαμβοι of Aristoxenus of Selinus (cf. §3), but also because Athenaeus (5.181c) specifically highlights a Syracusan liking for ἰαμβισταί, contrasting with the Athenian preference for Dionysiac choruses. For our purposes this Sicilian iambic tradition is relevant because Epicharmus’ main metres – the iambic trimeter and, even more commonly, the trochaic tetrameter – unambiguously point to such a background as much as the metrical form of Attic comedy squares with Aristotle’s account of the origins of that genre. In other words, when we encounter a composition in tetrameters such as the Ἥβας γάμος, the core of which consists of a monologic performance with a distinctly satirical or parodic aim, there is little surprise in this: after all, satire and parody had always been an important ingredient in iambus, as illustrated for example by the Pseudo-Homeric Margites or Semonides’ ‘gynaecogony’ (fr. 7 W.). 60

61

62

63

Cf. West (1974: 30, 125–126, 143); Pohlenz (1949: 32–36) doubted an ithyphallic costume for the earliest comic choruses, but neither is this a necessary prerogative for a group of φαλλοφόροι (‘phallus­bearers’, not necessarily ‘phallus­wearers’), and the entire issue remains controversial (cf. Rothwell 2007: 25–27). I. e. iambus in the sense of “Sprechvers monologues of Ionian writers” (West 1974: 36); the ancient category of ἴαμβος was broader and included choral performan­ ces, whether or not these were metrically defined (as maintained by Lennartz 2010, against e. g. West 1974: 22–39; cf. also the cautious position of Rotstein 2010: 221–225). In comparison, that is, with the earlier situation where the ἔξαρχος was a “Protoschauspieler, der zwar als Teil des Chores keine eigene Identität besitzt, aber trotzdem eine in der Gruppe herausgehobene Stellung innehat und, indem er das Lied beginnt, über eine eigene Stimme verfügt” (Zimmermann 2011: 458); see Herter (1947: 38–40) and cf. further below. Adrados (1975: 252), Ieranò (1997: 175–179), and Scullion (2002: 108–109) comment on the role of the chorus leader in dithyramb and other hymnic genres. Cf. West (1974: 32–33).

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Iambus had not, however, been a dramatic (i. e. dialogic) genre. As indicated above, and as presupposed by Aristotle’s derivation of both tragedy and comedy, there could at best have been a sort of exchange between a chorus (dithyrambic, phallic, iambic, or whatever) and its ἔξαρχος, with the latter adopting iambic verse as a spoken medium.64 True drama, with a dialogue between two or more individual participants, is something quintessentially different. The origins of this we may best seek in subliterary mimetic ‘farce’, about which we know very little, except that it existed particularly in the Doric Peloponnese. The historian Sosibius (FGrH 595F7, apud Athen. 14.621d) informs us about the Laconian δ(ε)ικηλισταί (identified by Athenaeus with both the Sicyonian φαλλοφόροι and the φλύακες in Italy), and various sources point to a pertinent tradition in Megara, triggering the Megarian claim that comedy was ‘theirs’ (Arist. Poet. 1448a31–32).65 Since much of this farce must have been improvised – giving rise to the alternative terms αὐτοκάβδαλοι ‘extemporisers’ and ἐθελονταί ‘volunteers’ for the performers of such mimesis ἐν εὐτελεῖ τῆι λέξει ‘in simple language’ (Athen. 14.621d–f) – and since later on Sophron’s literary mime is written in prose too,66 it is likely that little if anything of this was versified. So where does this all lead? The Greek colonists who went to the Western Mediterranean took with them, on the one hand, the (predominantly Ionic) tradition of iambus and, on the other hand, the (predominantly Doric) tradition of mimetic farce. In the dichotomous Epicharmian fragments we recog64

65

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Cf. Wilamowitz­Moellendorff (1910: 87) on the origins of tragedy: “Und nun tat Thespis im jahre 534 den nächsten schritt: denn name und jahr darf geglaubt werden. er fügte den ersten schauspieler hinzu oder richtiger, er trat als sprecher zu seinem chore. dieser schritt konnte nur in einer ionischen stadt geschehen, da aber lag er nahe genug, denn der sprecher war als solcher vorhanden: der recitator des ionischen iambos.” West (1974: 33–34) concurs (except for the exact dating of Thespis, cf. West 1989), stressing that “[t]he model cannot have been iambus in the strict sense, verse of a scurillous, lubricious or farcical character, but rather the more dignified poetry which had been or was being composed in similar metres in the Ionian sphere and (with touches of Ionic dialect) by Solon at Athens”. See, after Körte (1921: 1221–1223), now especially Kerkhof (2001: 1–50), also on the problematic figure of Susarion (who must not be dismissed too easily, cf. Rusten 2006: 42–44; in theory there could have been a particularly well­remembered ἔξαρχος φαλλικῶν, who endowed himself with the sobriquet ‘Shoo!Shoo!­ Arion’ aimed at the famous dithyrambist: cf. Ar. Vesp. 209 σοῦ, σοῦ). Given the variety of sources, the scepticism expressed by Breitholtz (1960) and Henderson (1991: 223–228) on the entire complex certainly seems excessive. For Sophron’s mime and its background in this tradition cf. now Hordern (2004: esp. 4–10).

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nise, on the one hand, pieces that look like natural offshoots of iambic satire (the Ἥβας γάμος type), and, on the other hand, ‘plot comedies’ whose centrepiece is versified dramatic dialogue (the Ὀδυσσεὺς αὐτόμολος type). This latter kind of work therefore combines the crucial elements of both traditions in a new hybrid genre: dialogic comedy with a satirical­parodic storyline but written, like proper iambus, in trimeters and tetrameters. This is no longer an organic development out of a single root, but the courageous experiment of an individual genius, as represented in Figure 2, which extends Figure 1 into the past. Metropolitan (Doric/Peloponnesian) farce • mimetic dialogue • improvised plot development • prose

(Ionic) iambus • monologic satire/parody • ritual and choral connections (cf. ) • iambic verse

Sicilian (Megarian?) farce

Sicilian iambus (Aristoxenus,

)

Hybridisation I. Epicharmian plot comedy • mimetic dialogue • iambic verse

II. Epicharmian (non-dramatic) satire/parody • monologic satire/parody • iambic verse

Fig. 2: A model for the genesis of Epicharmus’ ‘comedy’

6. The problem of the chorus So far, we have deliberately eschewed the vexed question to what extent (if any) Epicharmian ‘comedy’ was choral. In fact, for the genetic model just proposed this question is only of limited consequence. If there were a choral element in Epicharmus, it would clearly belong to the iambic side of things and suggest a link with the Syracusan ἰαμβισταί similar to the choral roots of Attic comedy according to Aristotle. On balance, the fragments, while not

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conclusive, seem favourable to this possibility.67 The existence of plural titles alone does not of course prove anything, and some plural titles (such as Διόνυσοι and Ἀταλάνται) may rather point to plays about mistaken identities, along the lines of Plautus’ Bacchides or Menaechmi, or also the Dionysus­ Xanthias role exchange scene in Aristophanes’ Frogs, not to a god or a heroine with their respective entourage.68 However, according to Hephaestion (ench. 8.2 = Epich. Ἐπίνικος test. ii) both Epicharmus’ Ἐπίνικος and his Χορεύοντες (or Χορευταί69) were written entirely in anapaestic tetrameters, the recitative metre of a marching chorus, and incidentally the one metre attested in the only preserved fragment from Aristoxenus of Selinus’s ‘iambic’ (?) poetry. Add to this the first­person plural references in the trochaic tetrameters of Epich. frr. 40.11 (ἁμὲς [...] τοὶ θεοί ‘we, the gods’) and 84 (καλέομες ‘we call’), from the Ἥβας γάμος and Μοῦσαι respectively, Epich. fr. 122, from the equally trochaic Σειρῆνες, possibly addressed by the enticing title figures to a suffering Odysseus,70 plus the iambic trimeters of Epich. fr. 68, from Θεαροί, in which (as Athenaeus 8.362b tells us) a group of festival­goers describe the votive offerings at Delphi, and the picture emerges of a chorus who speaks or recites in the iambic mode, but – crucially – does not sing. Not a single fragment contains evidence of sung metres, and even basic spoken / recited polymetry appears to have been exceedingly rare in Epicharmian δράματα.71 67

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Cf. e. g. Berk (1964: 27–34), Pickard­Cambridge (1962: 278–280), and West (1974: 34–35), against Wüst (1950: 341–342 and 348–349) and Kerkhof (2001: 151–155). Cf. Pianko (1948: 425), Reinhardt (1996: 31); the latter interpretation (e. g. Berk 1964: 32–33) seems partly based on the ‘parallel’ with Cratinus’ Ὀδυσσῆς, but even there a rendering like ‘Odysseus and his comrades’ (Bakola 2010: 238; cf. Perusino (1986: 82), and contrast Wilamowitz­Moellendorff (1910: 56 n. 14), “Odys­ seuskomödie”) is not certain. The title itself, though commonly adduced in this context, does not unambiguously suggest a choral group: in Epicharmus’ dialect χορός was also the word for ‘school class’ (cf. Epich. fr. 13 and 103, Sophron fr. 136 and 147, also on χοραγός ‘school teacher’, χοραγεῖον ‘school’; but contrast Epich. fr. 108 χορεύει ‘dances’), and χορευταί might therefore conceivably be ‘school pupils’ rather than ‘dancers’. But note that the Sirens (or a Siren, Pianko 1948: 423) can hardly be the only speaker(s), given the masculine participles ὀπτᾶντες and ἁδύνοντες in Epich. fr. 122.8: cf. Kerkhof (2001: 122–123), who thinks of Odysseus’ companions. Cf. Kerkhof (2001: 152). The main exceptions are (1) Epich. fr. 113.415 with a proverbial hexameter quotation from Homer (Il. 9.63), Epich. fr. 114 with an anapaestic tetrameter, and Epich. fr. 115 with an iambic trimeter, all from an overwhelmingly trochaic play (Πύρρα καὶ Προμαθεύς), (2) similarly Epich. fr. 121 with a parodic hexameter from the trochaic Σειρῆνες (whereas Epich. fr. 224 may come from a hexameter or an anapaestic tetrameter), and (3) Epich. fr. 100 with two

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Moreover, this analysis – that Epicharmian comedy could feature a speaking or reciting chorus, continuing the tradition of satirical ἰαμβισταί, but no singing chorus – may find indirect confirmation in a piece of evidence that has been overlooked so far in this context. In his discussion of the evolution of Attic comedy, Platonius (diff. com. (= Proleg. de com. I) 31–34, p. 4 Koster) notes that Middle Comedy abandoned choral invective and then cites as forerunners of this different ‘type’ of comedy Aristophanes’ Αἰολοσίκων, Cratinus’ Ὀδυσσῆς,72 καὶ πλεῖστα τῶν παλαιῶν δραμάτων οὔτε χορικὰ οὔτε παραβάσεις ἔχοντα, ‘a great number of old plays which have neither choral songs nor parabaseis’. If one accepts the common view that the choral parabasis (including the parabatic odes) was the nucleus of primitive Attic comedy, it is difficult to see what ‘great number’ of apparently pre­Cratinean comedies Platonius may have in mind here – unless Platonius is not referring specifically to old Attic plays, but more generally to any παλαιὰ δράματα, notably those of Epicharmus. As we have just seen, if he is thinking of Epichar­ mus the claim that there were neither χορικά nor παραβάσεις is perfectly borne out by the available evidence. 7. From Sicily to Athens Be that as it may, some other implications of the genetic model presented in §5 are of far greater significance. If Aristotle’s presentation is accepted (and there is little reason not to accept it), Attic Old Comedy too became a hybrid genre in the age of Crates, when an iambic­parabatic tradition ultimately going back to the φαλλικά was married with the Sicilian tradition of plot comedy. Given the Epicharmian precedent, however, we now see that this was a generic innovation only within the Athenian paradigm. From a more general point of view, it simply replicated the generic hybridisation undertaken ear-

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anapaestic dimeters from (the very end of?) the otherwise trochaic Ὀδυσσεὺς αὐτόμολος. The situation in Ἄμυκος (with Epich. frr. 6 and 7) and Σφίγξ (Epich. frr. 125, 126) is less clear. It is hard to say how valid Platonius’ statement is for Cratinus’ Ὀδυσσῆς (cf. Bertan 1984, Perusino 1986: 80–84). The glyconeans of Cratin. fr. 153 are a lyric metre, but in principle they could be sung by an actor. Also, Platonius does not deny the presence of a chorus (which would be contradicted by the anapaestic fragments, notably the dimeters of Cratin. fr. 151 with μῖν δ᾿ Ἰθάκη πατρίς ἐστι, | πλέομεν δ᾿ ἅμ᾿ Ὀδυσσέι θείωι ‘our home is Ithaca, and we sail with divine Odysseus’; cf. Bakola 2010: 238). Instead, it is tempting to see the Ὀδυσσῆς as one of the first ‘Epicharmian’ plot comedies (with speaking / reciting chorus) in Athens (cf. further §9).

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lier in Sicily. To be sure, both because of the different and more fundamental role of the chorus in Athens and because the process there was additive rather than truly amalgamating, the – unavoidably much longer – Attic end result consisting of a plot in addition to a choral parabasis (which retained its ἰαμβικὴ ἰδέα) was far from identical. And yet, the Sicilian (and, most probably, specifically Epicharmian) influence in all of this can hardly be overrated. There is simply no ‘logical’ development that would ‘automatically’ lead from a choral performance with, at best, a dialogue between chorus and ἔξαρχος to a dramatic­dialogic form as we find it in the spoken scenes of classical Old Comedy. To hypothesise two independent but parallel developments is both uneconomical and implausible, all the more since in Athens there was not even a strong local mime tradition to provide the inspiration it would provide in Sicily.73 Everything – Aristotle’s account, the fragmentary evidence for early Old Comedy, the character of Epicharmus’ work, and the colonial blueprint of generic experimentation – thus concurs and produces a coherent picture once we accept that Athens was simply less instrumental in the early development of Greek comedy than the anachronistically Athenocentric perspective of classical scholarship wants to make us believe. Foreseeably, though, Athenocentrics will raise at least two objections to such a ‘Sicelocentric’ account. The first of these brings us back to the more traditional arguments for and against Epicharmian influence on fifth­century Attic comedy. If Epicharmus’ drama was really as macroscopically influential as I have argued, why is there so little evidence of influence on the microscopic level? The only point highlighted already by ancient critics is found in a scholion on Ar. Pax 185 (= Epich. fr. 123). Hermes has greeted Trygaeus with a lot of abuse, then wants to know his name, family name, and father’s name; and he is given the sarcastic answer Mιαρώτατος ‘Mega­Bastard’ each time. According to the scholion, this was inspired by a similar scene in Epicharmus’ Σκίρων where a basket (φορμός) was asked about its father’s, 73

Symptomatically, Zimmermann (2011: 468) or Rothwell (2007: 24–25), following e. g. Zielinski (1885: 244), Körte (1914: 5–6) and (1921: 1221), Pohlenz (1949: 38–44), and Wüst (1950: 350), have to invoke, somewhat vaguely, influence from neighbouring Megara in order to explain the rise of Attic drama (including tragedy, on which cf. Bickel 1942 and see further §8); but in a traditionalist society there was little incentive for the fundamental modification of choral proto­drama by contamination with a poorly regarded ‘foreign’ genre. Herter (1947: 34–35) solves the problem differently, by positing an encounter of two choruses as the nucleus of drama, but the splitting of a chorus is too rare in attested drama to make this plausible (cf. Pickard­Cambridge 1962: 149–150). Only Green (2007: 104) has recently remarked in passing that “it could be that Epicharmus came into the equation”.

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mother’s, and brother’s name and each time replied Σηκίς ‘Maid’. Modern scholars have dismissed this claim because the scenes are not exactly parallel: the Epicharmian one probably parodies Andromache’s words to Hector in Il. 6.429–430, whereas Aristophanes imitates the Athenian δοκιμασία procedure (cf. Arist. Ath. Pol. 55.3).74 But even if the scholion were right – and if Ar. Ach. 333 were to be added, since a charcoal basket, λάρκος, is there referred to as a ‘deme­fellow’, δημότης, by the Acharnian chorus – , the case would remain fairly isolated; for similar hesitations also apply to further modern comparisons, for example between the puns on τρίπους ‘tripod’ in Epich. fr. 147 and on τράπεζα ‘table, (lit.) four­footer’ in Ar. fr. 545, between Epich. fr. 76 with a pun on ἔρανος vs. γέρανος (cf. fn. 30) and Strattis fr. 63 with a misunderstanding of γαλῆν ‘weasel’ vs. γαληνά ‘calm of the sea’, or between the para-rhetorical epoikodomesis figure in Epich. fr. 146 and the line of thought in Ar. Vesp. 1253–1255 or Eubulus fr. 93 (both without epoikodomesis).75 However, even if one chooses to follow the sceptics and reject all of this, to conclude from it that Epicharmus must have been unknown in Athens because none of the alleged echoes can be corroborated would be methodologically wrong. Instead, we should ask whether we should expect any such echoes at all. Good comedians do not copy each other, or if they do, then certainly not to an extent that would allow us to recognise the source of inspiration without ambiguity. The entire search for microscopic influences is

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See the detailed discussion and cautious rejection in Kerkhof (2001: 144–145), following van Leeuwen (1906: 36) and Cassio (1985: 42), against Kaibel (1889: 54–55 n. 1) and von Salis (1905: 36–38); on the fragment cf. now also Petrides (2003) with a daring reconstruction. See again Kerkhof (2001: 146–150), who also dismisses (1) von Salis’s (1905: 41) idea that the superlative αὐτότατος in Ar. Plut. 83 follows Epich. fr. 5 (αὐτότερος αὐτῶν), (2) Crusius’s (1891–1893: 291–293) complicated connection of Ar. Pax 73 referring to Trygaeus’ Αἰτναῖος κάνθαρος ‘Aetnaean dung­beetle’ with the mention of the same notorious type of beetle in Epich. fr. 65, and (3) Cassio’s (1985: 42) phraseological parallelism of Epich. fr. 113.243 ὀπτῆν φαντι καὶ πὸτ τὰν ἕλαν ‘to roast, they say, also in the sunshine’ and Ar. fr. 636 καὶ τῶν πρὸς εἴλην ἰχθύων ὠπτημένων ‘and of the fishes roasted in the sunshine’. For Epich. fr. 147 ~ Ar. fr. 545 see von Salis (1905: 38) and Kaibel (1907: 39) (but Hes. fr. 266a M.­W. suggests that the paradox of a τρίπους τράπεζα may be much older: cf. Merkelbach / West 1965: 310–311), for Epich. fr. 76 ~ Strattis fr. 63 von Salis (1905: 38) (but Kerkhof compares e. g. Plaut. Truc. 262–264), for Epich. fr. 146 ~ Ar. Vesp. 1253–1255 Starkie (1897: 349–350) and van Leeuwen (1909: 195), followed by Oli­ vieri (1946: 98), Carrière (1979: 200), and Cassio (1985: 42). Further inconclusive material in Crates is discussed by Bonanno (1972: 47–50).

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therefore absurd. If there was a visible Epicharmian impact on Attic comedy, it should be macroscopic. Of course, this is not a free ticket to empty speculation, and this is where the opposite side has sometimes been guilty. For instance, there is no reason to believe that the trochaic tetrameter was introduced into Attic comedy on Epicharmus’ model merely because Epicharmian tetrameters, like their Attic counterparts, are richer in resolution than those of iambus and tragedy.76 Both trimeter and tetrameter are conventional metres of iambus, which could therefore easily find their way into Attic comedy without a detour via Sicily. More generally, it is never safe to ascribe to Epicharmian (or other Sicilian) influence any constituent feature of Attic comedy that has equally plausible roots in early iambus. If, say, the satirical depiction and even impersonation of character types was probably known to iambus (cf. §5), the invention of ‘character comedy’ cannot safely be attributed to Epicharmus. At best, an Epicharmian legacy may lurk behind specific figures, notably the parasite (with Athenaeus 6.235e).77 By contrast, all those features which we find in Epicharmus but which we have no good reason to derive directly from the tradition of iambus, whether popular or literary, strengthen the case for

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For the doubtful statistics behind this argument see Kanz (1913: 39–45), refuted by Wüst (1950: 343–346); there is no more substance to the view that Epicharmus ‘took over’ the tetrameter from Phrynichus (Radermacher 1954: 19). The situation with the anapaestic tetrameter is somewhat different, but even here it is risky to postulate any Epicharmian influence on Attic comedy (with Crusius 1891–1893: 284, Kaibel 1889: 54–55 n. 1 and 1907: 39, Körte 1914: 10 and 1921: 1224; cf. Wüst 1950: 346–347). Athenaeus objects to Carystius of Pergamon’s claim that Alexis invented the para­ site and cites Epich. frr. 31 and 32 from Ἐλπὶς Πλοῦτος as counterevidence; he then compares the κόλακες of Old Comedy quoting Eupolis fr. 172 from Κόλακες (which von Salis 1905: 46–47 wants to relate directly to Epich. fr. 32; but cf. Wüst 1950: 359–361 and Kerkhof 2001: 169–170). Despite Epich. fr. 33 (from Schol. (T) Hom. Il. 17.577 and Poll. 6.35), and to judge by Athenaeus’ wording (τὸν νῦν λεγόμενον παράσιτον; cf. Athen. 6.236e), the term παράσιτος (*πάρσιτος) was probably not Epicharmus’ (cf. Epich. fr. 31.3 ἀείσιτον; Prescott 1917: 415, Arnott 1968, Nesselrath 1985: 102 n. 314, Kerkhof 2001: 166–167). Wüst (1950: 361–362) and Kerkhof (2001: 162–173) further discuss the ‘miles gloriosus’ and the ‘ἀλαζών doctus’ types, but for the former (cf. Wysk 1921: 3–6, Körte 1921: 1225) there is no evidence at all in Epicharmus, and for the latter (cf. Süss 1905: 33–35, Willi 2008: 170–175 and 2012a: 58–63) much remains in the air given how little Epich. fr. 136 really tells us about the setup and characters of the αὐξ(αν)όμενος λόγος play (cf. §3).

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Epicharmus’ role in the development of Attic comedy. As highlighted above, the prime example for this is mimetic dialogue between dramatic actors. As a consequence, some earlier discussions about two further macroscopic candidate features were awkwardly framed. Old theories that the existence in Attic comedy of (a) ἀντιλαβή (that is, changes of speaker within a verse)78 and / or (b) mythological travesty and burlesque79 might also betray Epicharmian influence were easy to dismiss as pure speculation as long as no­one80 asked the real question: Was early Attic ‘comedy’ dialogic­dramatic at all? The answer to this is very likely ‘no’, and if this may come as a surprise, it is only because Aristotle has not been listened to. To recall (cf. §1), he observes (Arist. Poet. 1449b5–9): τὸ δὲ μύθους ποιεῖν τὸ μὲν ἐξ ἀρχῆς ἐκ Σικελίας λθε, τῶν δὲ Ἀθήνησιν Κράτης πρῶτος ρξεν ἀφέμενος τῆς ἰαμβικῆς ἰδέας καθόλου ποιεῖν λόγους καὶ μύθους ‘The construction of plots, however, originally came from Sicily, and in Athens Crates was the first to abandon the iambic mode and create, with a general scope, λόγοι and μῦθοι.’ The last phrase is crucial: it mentions not only μῦθοι (echoing the first part of the sentence, which everybody focuses on), but also λόγοι. The latter is of course a highly polysemic term, and traditionally it has been understood as a somewhat redundant synonym of μῦθοι here.81 More plausibly, however, it 78

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Cf. von Salis (1905: 39–40) and Körte (1914: 10), criticised by Wüst (1950: 340) and Radermacher (1954: 20). Particular emphasis is here put on the figure of a gluttonous Heracles: cf. von Salis (1905: 44–46), Süss (1905: 131) on Ar. Vesp. 60 and Pax 741. Even Sieckmann (1906: esp. 25), who wanted to derive the agon of Attic comedy from Epicharmus, did not do so, but somewhat arbitrarily distinguished between a ‘Doric’ anapaestic agon and ‘Attic’ trimeter dialogues; for criticism see Süss (1907), Wüst (1950: 350–352), and Radermacher (1954: 20–36), and note that what we now have of Epicharmian dialogue (e. g. in Epich. fr. 97) is quite unlike an Attic agon involving the chorus. Lucas (1968: 91) states that “the καί is explanatory, λόγος being rather more general than μῦθος” (cf. similarly Gudeman 1934: 152, Dupont­Roc / Lallot 1980: 180), and e. g. Janko (1987: 7) and Schmitt (2008: 8) accordingly translate, respectively, “Crates was the first to relinquish the form of the lampoon and compose generalised stories, i. e. plots” and “[Krates] begann damit, überhaupt Geschichten als durchorganisierte Handlungen [Mythen] zu konzipieren”. By contrast, Lorenz (1864: 190) had taken μύθους to refer only to ‘mythological plots’, but this seems too restrictive for Aristotle’s general argument (cf. Vahlen 1865: 295–298).

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takes up the use of λόγος just a few lines earlier where λόγος contrasts with τὰ τοῦ χοροῦ and refers to the spoken word in ‘(actorial) dialogue’, as Aristotle is describing Aeschylus’ innovations in tragedy (Arist. Poet. 1449a15–18): καὶ τό τε τῶν ὑποκριτῶν πλῆθος ἐξ ἑνὸς εἰς δύο πρῶτος Αἰσχύλος γαγε καὶ τὰ τοῦ χοροῦ λάττωσε καὶ τὸν λόγον πρωταγωνιστεῖν παρε­ σκεύασεν ‘The number of actors was first increased by Aeschylus from one to two, and he reduced the role of the chorus and assigned the central role to dramatic dialogue.’ Thus, under the ‘heading’ μύθους ποιεῖν the sentence about Crates relates three interconnected innovations vis-à-vis the iambic mode: the shift towards a general scope (καθόλου, not καθ᾿ ἕκαστον: cf. Arist. Poet. 1451b11–15, also on the ἰαμβοποιοί), the composition of spoken dialogue (λόγοι, not just τὰ τοῦ χοροῦ as in the old φαλλικά), and, as a trigger for all of it, the construction of plots / stories (μῦθοι, not episodic invective). But if dramatic dialogue – excepting the non­actorial (pseudo­)dialogue between an iambic chorus and its ἔξαρχος, which could at best develop into a proto­agon between the purely choral parodos and parabasis – was absent in Athenian comedy before Crates, it follows that there could also be neither (a) lines with ἀντιλαβή (for there were no actorial conversations) nor (b) mythological comedies (in the strict sense: for there were no dramatic plots). Strictly speaking, however, the post­Epicharmian presence of these two features in Attic comedy is merely epiphenomenal to the takeover of Sicilian­style dialogic plays as such and therefore less revolutionary than the dramatisation of comedy itself. 8. Epicharmus and tragedy At this point, however, the Athenocentrics may wish to play their second card. Attic comedy did not exist in a vacuum: it had its ‘sister genre’ tragedy, whose genesis Aristotle describes as a close parallel. So what if – contrary to Aristotle’s statement about Crates’ innovative use of λόγοι – a pre­Cratean type of Attic dialogue comedy had already been invented independently of any Sicilian ‘plot’ input, by inspiration not from (Doric) mime but from local tragedy? If so, myth too (and, for that matter, ἀντιλαβή as well) could have come in by that door, and the desperate attempt to keep Epicharmus and Si­ cily at bay might succeed. The condition sine qua non for this to work would be the existence of an early dialogic tragedy. But thanks to Aristotle we know when tragedy became

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truly dramatic­dialogic, since “[i]t was the introduction of the second actor that opened the way for true drama”.82 That is, before Aeschylus’ innovation of a second actor, Athenian tragedy itself was rather unlike all of ‘classical’ tragedy. Unfortunately, we are unable to date this change more precisely than between 499 B.C., when Aeschylus’ career started, and 472 B. C. when Aeschylus’ first extant play, the Persians, was produced (cf. Aesch. test. 55a  R.); in the Persians the chorus is still fairly central but here already ὁ λόγος πρωταγωνιστεῖ. This time window matches exactly the crucial decades of Epicharmus’ lifetime. We also know that Epicharmus was already active in Syracuse in the 480s (Sud. ε 2766, s. v. Ἐπίχαρμος = Epich. test. 1), and he seems to have been a slightly older contemporary of Aeschylus’, probably born around 540 B.C., and therefore undoubtedly active also from around 500 B.C. at the latest.83 Taking stock, we now have (1) Epicharmian dramatic­dialogic comedy in Sicily, certainly no later than the 480s, and well­rooted in the colonial Doric context with its subliterary mime tradition next to iambus, (2) Aeschylean dramatic­dialogic tragedy in Athens, certainly by 472 B.C., and without organic roots in the preceding ‘choral­dithyrambic’ tragedy tradition. If we add to this (3) the fact that Aeschylus was invited to Sicily in 476, on the occasion of Hieron’s foundation of Aitna, for which Aeschylus wrote the Women of Aitna (Σ Ar. Ran. 1028a = Aesch. test. 56a R.), there is only one satisfactory way of bringing it all together chronologically and developmentally: to assume that Aeschylus’s bold innovation, the second actor of Attic tragedy, was inspired by his visit to Syracuse, and his discovering there a novel type of dialogic drama that was already flourishing thanks to Epicharmus’ ground­ breaking generic experiment. The only reason why this scenario has not been considered before (as far as I know), is that modern scholarship has been hampered by a simple prejudice, the notion that comedy may respond to

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Lucas (1968: 83), echoing Wilamowitz­Moellendorff (1910: 94): “Aischylos [...] führte den dialog ein: damit war das dramatische gefunden”; cf. similarly Pohlenz (1949: 37), Schmitt (2008: 300–301). Scullion (2002: 105) generally doubts Aristotle’s information here, but I am not so sure that “[no poet], simply on his own say­so, could have written for and shown up at the competition with a second or third actor”. For Epicharmus’ chronology see Berk (1964: 3–6) and Willi (2008: 119–120); the approximate birth date is partly based on his being a younger contemporary of Simonides (Vit. Pind. Ambr. I, p. 2.21 Drachmann = Epich. test. 4), but could be revised upwards if the iconographic arguments of Reinhardt (1996) were confirmed.

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tragedy, but the inverse must not be true.84 Once we abandon this unhealthy restriction, everything falls into place and we need not discard any element of the – primarily Aristotelian, and therefore perfectly respectable – information we have. Instead, we can start to rewrite the early history of Attic drama as an art form which, exactly like Attic rhetoric some decades later,85 reached its τέλος precisely because it was not hermetically closed to outside influences, but took part in a cultural discourse that reached well beyond the boundaries of Attica. 9. Conclusion To sum up, I propose that Epicharmus, imbued with the colonial spirit of generic experimentation that pervades most preclassical and classical Sicilian literature, ‘invented’ dramatic­dialogic plot comedy by combining mime­ inspired plotlines with the metres of iambus, around or shortly after 500 B.C., at a time when ‘comedy’ in Athens was still a fully choral genre centering around the ἰαμβικὴ ἰδέα. When Aeschylus first visited Sicily two decades later, he got to know this new type of stage performance and immediately saw the potential for his own genre. Returning to Athens he (perhaps quite literally) took Epicharmus’ plays with him and ‘invented’ dramatic­dialogic tragedy by adding a second actor to the traditional layout of choral tragedy. This proved a success, both in Athens and abroad: at the Dionysia of 472 already, Persians won first prize, and Aeschylus was invited again to Si­ cily, to produce Persians there too (cf. Vit. Aesch. 18 = Aesch. test. 1.18 R.).86 84

85

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Cf. e. g. Wilamowitz­Moellendorff (1910: 53–54), Pohlenz (1949: 509), Breitholtz (1960: 182–187), or Berk (1964: 12–13 and passim), followed by West (1974: 35): “Wilamowitz’s assumption that [Aeschylus’ and Phrynichus’] work provided the model for [Epicharmus’] new form is very plausible”; cf. Carrière (1979: 193). Rather exceptionally, Epicharmian influence at least on Aeschylean satyr­play is postulated by Setti (1952): Veniero (1906–1907: esp. 392), while foreshadowing in some ways the hybridisation theory developed above, had argued for the opposite direction (“io credo che modello ad Epicarmo nel trasformare gli antichi cori giambici e la farsa megarese sia stato il dramma satirico”). For the Sicilian role in the development of Attic rhetoric (Korax, Teisias, Gorgias) see e. g. Kennedy (1994: esp. 17–21, 30–35) and now Willi (2008: esp. 290–293), with earlier literature. The number of Aeschylus’ visits to Sicily is a contentious matter (cf. Guardì 1980: 38 n. 23), but I do not see how the Women of Aitna can easily belong to any other year than 476/5 (pace Herington 1967: 75–76, Guardì 1980: 41–42; cf. Vit. Aesch. 9 = Aesch. test. 1.9 R., Ἱέρωνος τότε τὴν Αἴτνην κτίζοντος ‘as Hieron was then founding Aitna’: not κτίσαντος). If, for no particular reason, one feels compelled

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Epicharmus, ever ready to face a new challenge, replied in turn, with his Πέρσαι, presumably the first paratragedy the Greek world had ever seen.87 Moreover, after Aeschylus’ step the Athenian sluice­gates were open, and Attic comedy too began to look westwards. Unsurprisingly here it was someone who had first distinguished himself as the single actor (or chorus respondent) in comedy to pick up the idea of shifting the emphasis away from the iambic chorus and onto actorial interaction in a plot: Crates, ὃς πρῶτον ὑπεκρίνατο ⟨τὰ⟩ Κρατίνου, καὶ αὐτὸς ποιητὴς ὕστερον ἐγένετο ‘Crates who first acted in plays by Cratinus, and later became a poet himself’ (Crates test. 3 = Σ Ar. Eq. 537a). In comedy, however, the Athenian audience was not apparently so ready to live without the extensive – and expensive – choral fun they had got used to, and they felt short­changed at first (Ar. Eq. 537–539): οἵας δὲ Κράτης ὀργὰς ὑμῶν νέσχετο καὶ στυφελιγμούς, ὃς ἀπὸ σμικρᾶς δαπάνης ὑμᾶς ἀριστίζων ἀπέπεμπεν ἀπὸ κραμβοτάτου στόματος μάττων ἀστειοτάτας ἐπινοίας. ‘And what anger and rejection did Crates experience from you, because he gave you only a breakfast without great expense, before sending you home again, wiping off his super­sober88 mouth clever ideas!’ Perhaps, then, this fundamental change did not really catch on until Crates’ former mentor, the great Cratinus himself, ventured onto the new ground and produced with (plays like) the Ὀδυσσῆς the first Sicilian­style blockbuster(s) in Athens – self­referentially (?)89 calling that comedy a νεοχμὸν ἄθυρμα or ‘novel entertainment’ (Cratin. fr. 152; cf. fn. 72). Admittedly, many details in the above reconstruction must remain open, but I hope to have shown that the μῦθος as such is watertight. Aristotle was

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to reduce the number of early visits, one might consider that Persians was first staged in Syracuse back then, and repeated in Athens a few years later (cf. Kiehl 1852: 363–365, Wilamowitz­Moellendorff 1897: 394–398, Bosher 2012a; but note the wording ἀναδιδάξαι in Vit. Aesch. 18 = Aesch. test. 1.18 R.). Information about Epicharmus’ Πέρσαι is scarce (cf. Epich. test. 35.4, from a list of Epicharmian titles in P.Oxy. 2426; Epich. fr. 110, 111 from the lexicographical tradition), but since Eratosthenes wrote in the third book of his treatise on comedy (Περὶ κωμωιδιῶν) about the reperformance of Aeschylus’ Πέρσαι in Syracuse (Σ Ar. Ran. 1028a; cf. Griffith 1978: 116), a parodistic relationship between Aeschylus’ play and Epicharmus’ comedy is most likely. On the meaning of κραμβοτάτου see Bonanno (1972: 36–38), who also comments on Aristophanes’ judgment more generally. Cf. Kassel / Austin (1983: 198) on possible referents for this phrase; Bergk (1838: 161) came closest to the interpretation favoured here.

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a sensible man, and Plato and Xenophon too knew what they were doing when they let Socrates refer to Epicharmus as a great authority in intellectual history (§§1, 2.1). The curious modern urge to remove Epicharmus from the literary map of fifth­century Athens tells us more about modern conceptions and preconceptions of literature and its workings than about ancient culture and society itself. Of course, to make not only classical comedy, but in some ways also classical tragedy ‘start’ with Epicharmus is much bolder than what even the most devoted pro­Epicharmianists have ever dared to do. Those who feel that it is going too far may just be asked to remember: a parasite always eats more than he is entitled to.

Types and Styles of Comedy between 450 and 420 Jeffrey Henderson

The various types and styles of comedy have long been imagined as characterizing its three traditional periods and as marking their evolution from Old to New, with Aristophanes and Menander as the outer paradigms, by way of a transitional Middle.1 At the same time, however, closer attention to the fragments of the other poets helps us recognize that there was originality and variety within each era and also significant continuity between the eras. If we simply list the main types of comedy that were popular in competition at the turn of the fourth century, we can easily see that Aristophanes was hardly paradigmatic: Mythic / Myth Burlesque2 — paramythic (“burlesque”) — paraepic — paratragic / parasatyric (episodic or sustained) — ?original (Cratinus’ Nemesis, other birth­comedies?) — ?allegorical (δι᾽ ἐμφάσεως) Cratinus’ Dionysalexandros, Nemesis — ?domestic (naturalized) Fantastic / Utopian / Golden Age / Escapist3 — Cultural — literary4 1

2 3

4

Recent (re)evaluations of comic periodicity are Nesselrath (1990), Csapo (2000), Olson (2007: 22–26), and Arnott (2010). See now Casolari (2003). This was a popular category as early as Cratinus’ Ploutoi and could have dystopian plots too, e. g. Pherecrates’ Savages of 421. The escapist variation seems to be in vogue in the 410s (e. g. Ar. Birds, Phrynichus’ Monotropos), and Aristophanes used some elements as late as Wealth and Eccl. For the golden age Athenaeus 6.267e­ 270a offers as examples in chronological order Crates’ Beasts, Telecleides’ Amphictyones, Pherecrates’ Metalles and Persians, Aristophanes’ Fry-Cooks. Far­off lands are featured in Pherecrates’ Persians, Metagenes’ Thuriopersians, and Nicophon’s Sirens (?), while Eupolis’ Golden Race reverses Ar. Knights by transporting Athens to Asia, as similarly Cratinus’ Seriphians. See Pellegrino (2000). Mainly involving drama but also other genres, e. g. Cratinus’ Archilochoi and Cleobulinai, Telecleides’ Hesiodoi, Ameipsias’ Sappho, Metagenes’ Homeros and Strattis’ Cinesias.

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metatheatrical intellectual social cult / festival, symposium, agora

Personal / Political (Forensic) — style: incidental mockery — type: sustained / thematic engagement / attack (ca. 431–417, 413–411, 410– 405, 403–402) — ?mythic / allegorical Hetaera5 ?Domestic (non-allegorical / -mythical, fictional household / neighborhood) Nor were Aristophanes and his rivals static: just as a poet’s career could overlap eras or significant poetic generations, so too could a given type or style of comedy persist, or reappear after a hiatus, or be transformed into something else.

The thirty­year period of Old Comedy between 450 to 420 was important in introducing and establishing most – though as I will suggest, not all – of the principal types and styles of comedy, and most of them persisted in the repertory, albeit sporadically, for generations to come. The fifth­century comic 5

See Henderson (2000, 2002).

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landscape was also very dynamic, so that a commentator of the fragments should keep its dynamic patterns in mind while providing information or speculation about particular poets and plays. Our period is clearly articulated by three creative and distinct, though overlapping, generations of poets: Magnes and company, the first identifiable generation to compete at the Dionysia; second, Cratinus and company in the mid­450s, as Pericles was consolidating his long ascendancy, in which he would develop an inclusive and imperialistic version of democracy; and third, in the wake of Pericles’ death in 429 and the great social­political changes that ensued, a group of young poets headlined by Eupolis and Aristophanes, who in 426 was the first new poet to win a victory since Hermippus in 435 (Storey 2003a). Within and between these generations, we can see that poets experimented and responded to one another as rivals and also in various ways as collaborators (Biles 2010, Ruffell 2011: 361–426); some were original, some followed paths established by others; some specialized, some were more versatile, some changed focus at different points in their careers, which were sometimes quite long; some novelties were dead ends, some caught on, some were false starts ahead of their time; while some plays belonged primarily to one of the principal types, others were hybrids or combinations;6 and elements of style – for example, language and poetic texture, modes of topicality and personal abuse, deployment of the chorus, and epirrhematic structures – all of these were fluid within and among the types and styles; the parabasis, for example, begins a play in Cratinus’ Dionysalexandros and Eupolis’ Maricas, and iambic mockery was eschewed, perhaps even abandoned by Crates.7 As Old Comedy developed by its own internal, generic logic, it remained a genre engaged with the actual world, even if in fantastic ways, and thus it was liable to be significantly affected also by external factors: spectator whims, related poetic genres, and of course social and political change. The establishment of the Lenaea ca. 440 doubled the annual number of competing plays and provided a parochial venue amenable to the type of personal / political comedy that apparently debuted at the same time; so too the appear-

6

7

For example, depictions of the household; Hutchinson (2011) is a thorough study of the various fifth­century scenarios. Arist. Poet. 1449b5 ff. “the composition of plots (τὸ μύθους ποιεῖν) came originally from Sicily; of those at Athens Crates was the first to abandon the iambic mode (ἰδέα) and compose general plots and stories (καθόλου ποιεῖν λόγους καὶ μύθους).” All translations in this paper are my own.

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ance of secondary production venues in the demes,8 and apparently farther afield as well.9 There was also continuous generic interaction, which even in the case of Aristophanes and Euripides has yet to be fully mapped: long before Aristophanes usurped Euripides in Acharnians, Cratinus’ coinage Choerilecphantides (fr. 502) suggests that at least for Ecphantides paratragedy was a noteworthy emphasis,10 and the criticism perhaps signals Cratinus’ own different intertextual allegiances (evident in the fragments are satyr drama, epic / didactic, and iambic), although Bakola (2010: 118–79) has made an attractive case for a Cratinean paratragedy focused on Aeschylus. Aeschylus does appear as a character in Pherecrates’ Crapataloi, evidently set in the underworld (fr 100, 102), but the date is uncertain and the play may belong to the next generation, since Pherecrates’ career spans the two. Social and political change provided opportunities that some poets chose to exploit, for example the comic potential afforded by the sudden eclipse of elite politicians and the rise of popular ones after 429: Aristophanes’ Babylonians followed by the attack by Cleon, which inspired his brilliant riposte with Acharnians; and then the creation of the first demagogue­comedy in Knights the following year (Sommerstein 2000), a new stereotype that just months before the performance had to be adjusted in light of Cleon’s victory at Pylos. Similarly, the comedies about intellectuals that begin to appear in the 420s11 were responses to the coming­of­age of the first sophistically­ trained politicians and litigators. This type of comedy flourished well into the fourth century, when Plato is our most frequently attested komoidoumenos (Weiher 1913, Imperio 1998, Carey 2000). The terrain in our period is indeed uneven: of the principal types, only the fantastic / utopian type is attested in each decade: perhaps a heritage of earlier times, when vase­paintings for the most part depict fantastic, exotic, or theriomorphic choruses. The other types come and go. Even the most common type, myth­comedy – accounting for at least 1/3 of the total output and probably present in the comic repertory from the earliest times12 – has an inconstant trajectory, being eclipsed by more topical / forensic types of comedy for about 20 years, from around 430 to around 410. During that hiatus we 8

9 10 11

12

Csapo 83–116 (list of venues on p. 102). Big names were not excluded, e. g. IG II2 3091 near Halai Aixonides recording both tragedy (Sophocles, Timotheus) and comedy (Ecphantides, Cratinus). In general see the essays in Bosher (2012b). Compare fr. 342 εὐριπιδαριστοφανίζειν. Ar. Banqueters, Clouds, Eup. Goats, Spongers, Ameipsias’ Connus, and perhaps earlier (Telecleides fr. 41 mentions the influence of Socrates on Euripides). It is prominent in Epicharmus’ comedy.

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find only a Medea and a Tereus by Cantharus, perhaps paratragic. But after its hiatus myth­comedy returns stronger than before, creating new varieties as well as revisiting earlier experiments: for example comedies about the birth of gods, which were very popular late in the century after Cratinus’ Nemesis and Hermippus’ Birth of Athena in the late 430s. Myth­comedies, though poorly documented, clearly came in several varieties and need further, finer­grained typological investigation. While many were probably reactive – burlesques or parodies of treatments in “serious” genres (so Casolari 2003) – others may have captured mythoi unsuitable for serious treatment, or even created original versions of established mythoi, as I would claim for Cratinus’ Nemesis, which was also perhaps the first birth comedy (Henderson 2012). In addition, myth­comedy could productively inform or contain elements of other types, including two that I would like to examine in more detail now: personal / political comedy, traditionally considered the hallmark of the Old Comic era, and domestic comedy, about household, family, and neighborhood, and traditionally considered the hallmark of the New Comic era. In our period of 450–420, how typical in fact was personal / political comedy, how was it related to the other types, and why was domestic comedy so atypical, if it was? Political comedy designates a particular type of play but was also a style found in virtually all the other types. The political style consisted of incidental mockery of individuals and groups, mostly Athenian, across a broad spectrum, from mere foibles, physical abnormalities, or character flaws  –  centered mainly on money, eating, drinking, and sex – to activity with political or social impact. This mockery took the form mostly of incidental jokes, references, or brief songs unconnected with the main plot or themes of the play. Ancient scholars noted as exceptional the avoidance of this style by certain poets – in particular, Crates and Pherecrates – or in particular plays, for example in Cratinus’ Odysses. Naturally, most of the targets (komoidoumenoi) were associated with politics and the courts, the rest mainly with the arts (especially theater) and the trades or professions. And among the poets we can discern what may be predilection for certain targets: in Pherecrates, for example, mockery of poets and musicians but not politicians, in Eupolis the reverse. The political type of play consisted of comedies that assumed a recognizable and more or less coherent political stance and that focused topically on public life. These engaged with individuals and / or civic / political issues in a sustained or thematic way; criticised or admonished the spectators; and could involve the poet himself as a partisan, at least in the case of Aristophanes in his series of plays attacking Cleon (from 426 to 422). This forensic type of

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comedy was produced by a small subset of poets and only in certain periods, and should be distinguished from the private type that focused on the target’s family or friends – the type of play that Eupolis pursued, for example in Spongers (Κόλακες) and the two Autolycus plays; only three, perhaps four, of Eupolis’ plays were of the political type,13 the rest private caricature of celebrities, though not literary ones. A striking feature of both the political type and the style – however we wish to account for it – is their consistent bias. Virtually all of the political targets are democrats in the populist mold of Pericles and his successors (the “demagogues” who emerged after his death in 429), while rightist figures like Nicias, Laches, Alcibiades; those implicated in the scandals of 415; and the oligarchs disenfranchised after the coup of 411 – all having obvious potential for political abuse – are almost entirely spared and occasionally even defended; and when they are mocked it was on private not political grounds (Sommerstein 1996). At the ideological and policy level, the political poets consistently take a partisan line: they espouse the social, moral, cultural, and political sentiments of elite conservatives or conservative democrats; deplore full popular sovereignty (the demos was a gullible majority intent on soaking the rich and empowering scoundrels) and decry the operation of the council, the assembly, and the courts (to its own detriment the demos believes the flattery and lies of selfish demagogues); criticise the poor as a class but never the wealthy (at least in the fifth century: Sommerstein 1984); completely ignore the true and always­live threat of oligarchy while instead ridiculing the populist bogey of elite tyranny (Henderson 2003); and attack the prosecution of the Peloponnesian War when (and only when) it either exposed the Attic countryside, and thus the landowners, to enemy devastation or bolstered the authority of leaders like Cleon. Like Thucydides (2.65), the comic poets held that the democracy needed but no longer tended to choose the best as its leaders, except that comedy did not include Pericles in the latter category. This ideological complexion of politically engaged comedy jibes with its pattern of production: we find it in periods when the elite were politically sidelined or came under populist attack: gulling the people and harrassing the elite were principal characteristics of the comic demagogue. Since the political poets viewed Periclean and demagogic democracy alike as a disruption of a traditional norm, they did not complain when traditional politicians were ascendant. The poets were of course kaloi kagathoi themselves. But then again there was presumably no spectator interest, either, in seeing 13

Demes, Maricas, Cities, ?Golden Race. In general see Storey (2003a: 338–48), Telò (2007).

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traditional / elite leaders attacked: surprising to say the least in an era when Cleon and his like were ascendant; that the theater audience was not representative of, and more conservative than the demos at large (Sommerstein 1998) does not seem to jibe with the rhetoric of Aristophanes’ appeals to it. Although Aristotle implies that comedy was iambic or political from the first,14 this may be valid only for incidental mockery, for our earliest evidence begins only around 440, when the Lenaea was inaugurated and Pericles took Athens to war against Samos; and Aristophanes’ statement in Knights that as an old competitor Magnes was rejected because he was deficient at σκώπτειν implies that skoptein was a more recent feature.15 Ιn the development of political comedy proper Cratinus was clearly the key figure. In the 430s, during the run­up to the Peloponnesian War, he and Hermippus seem to have launched the political type of comedy in order to criticize Pericles’ policies as well as his character and private life, especially his relationship with Aspasia. They apparently did so by re­purposing or allegorizing myth­comedy, especially Trojan War mythology involving Helen, perhaps inspired by Euripides’ sensational Telephus of 438 (Wright 2007). In Cratinus’ Dionysalexandros, where Dionysus impersonates Paris in the Judgment, Pericles was somehow attacked “very convincingly by implication (emphasis) for bringing the war on the Athenians” (T 1: 44–48), and in Nemesis, produced at around the same time, where Zeus seduces Nemesis in Attica and the Helen­egg is hatched by Leda in Sparta, Zeus is assimilated to Pericles (Henderson 2012). In Hermippus’ Moirai a “king of satyrs” (i. e. Pericles) is chided for his pusillanimous conduct of the war (fr. 47), and the tradition that Hermippus prosecuted Pheidias for impiety and Aspasia for arranging liaisons for Pericles with free-born women (T 2) may well derive from his comedies of this period. The transition of the political type from Cratinean myth­allegory to more direct attack began with the ascendancy of Cleon and other untraditional (that is, non­elite) political leaders after 429, and here Aristophanes took the lead. Initially, in Babylonians of 426, his medium too was mythological emphasis, although perhaps this emphasis was more transparent, for Cleon’s retaliation suggests that something new and bolder was afoot. Aristophanes 14

15

Poet. 1449b5 ff. “The composition of plots (τὸ μύθους ποιεῖν) came originally from Sicily; of those at Athens Crates was the first to abandon the iambic mode (ἰδέα) and compose general plots and stories (καθόλου ποιεῖν λόγους καὶ μύθους).” Eq. 524–25 (Magnes) τελευτῶν ἐπὶ γήρως, οὐ γὰρ ἐφ᾽ βης, / ἐξεβλήθη πρεσβύτης ὤν, ὅτι τοῦ σκώπτειν ἀπελείφθη (in his old age, though never in his prime, he ended up getting booed off the stage, vereran that he was, because he was deficient at mockery).

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then moved to open engagement in Acharnians in 425, although still the plot is modeled on myth – appropriately Euripides’ Telephus – and Cleon is not a character. Then finally he inaugurated the “demagogue­comedy” with Knights of 424, the first comedy devoted to attacking a single individual. Knights is devoid of mythic trappings: this time the allegory is domestic, with a Paphlagonian slave all but portraying Cleon. This transition from mythical to direct attack was not purely arbitrary: Cleon may have started the fight by choosing to engage the young poet, but in any event myth was no longer an effective vehicle in such a fight, having been much better suited to the Olympian Pericles than to fawning demagogues. In this respect it will not surprise us to find that myth­comedy seems otherwise to fall out of favor at just this time, only afterwards to resume where it had left off.16 If the two trends are indeed connected, then perhaps myth­comedy had been more topical and political than we thought, though not nearly as much so as what came next. Aristophanes abandoned demagogue comedy after the death of his great target in 422 but it was pursued by rival poets: Eupolis, Hermippus, and Platon attacked Hyperbolus; after Hyperbolus’ ostracism (ca. 417) Platon attacked Peisander and then Cleophon; and so probably just after the democratic restoration in 403 Archippus attacked Rhinon and Theopompus attacked Teisamenus. Other plays such as Aristophanes’ Clouds, and mostly by these same poets, addressed political / civic issues more broadly, but they too seem to be clustered in periods of populist leadership: ca. 430 to ca. 417 (when Hyperbolus was ostracized), 413 to early 411 (the failure of the Sicilian expedition and renewed investment of Attica), 410–405 (after the oligarchy, when Cleophon was ascendant), and for a short time after 403, when popular democracy was restored and the laws reformed. A generational factor was also at work. The young Aristophanes’ novel style of social / political engagement innovated on the Cratinean style by capitalizing on the stresses occasioned or aggravated by the onset of the Peloponnesian War and on the post­Periclean political changes. This won him the first Dionysian victory by a new poet in ten years (Storey 2003a: 65) and a series of subsequent successes. Aristophanes was not the only ambitious newcomer: among this talented post­Cratinean generation of poets there is evident copy­catting, competition for credit, and perhaps even collaboration (e. g. Eupolis fr. 89) as the novel ideas caught on (Kyriakidi 2006, Biles 2010). If, as seems to be the case, political comedy receded as a dominant type after 403, it was not only because times, politics, and theatrical tastes were 16

For example in the birth­comedies after ca. 410, a type inaugurated ca. 430 by Cratinus’ Nemesis and Hermippus’ Birth of Athena.

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changing but also because it had based itself so narrowly as to leave little scope for continuous development either by veterans like Aristophanes or by new generations of poets, who by and large chose instead to develop the traditional types of comedy – especially mythical – as they adapted to increasingly diverse and less parochial audiences. As we move into the fourth century, we do still find topical comedy, but with the exception of poets like Mnesimachus and the retro Timocles writing in the 340s to 322, the heyday of resurgent patriotic populism under Demosthenes (he was the funeral orator after Chaeroneia in 338), it seems to be more thematic and satirical than personal and ideological. If so, then we could say that in the fourth century personal / political comedy tended to focus more on private than on public life, with the wealthy (now including foreigners) the main targets, after the fashion of Eupolis’ Spongers and the two Autolycus plays. Partisan political comedy did, however, have a final encore at the close of the fourth century, in the brief period of democratic restoration after 307, in the plays of Archedicus and Philippides. Both were politically active oligarchs: Archedicus a partisan of Antipater and Demetrius of Phalerum and prominent in the regime of Phocion (Habicht 1993); Philippides a partisan of Lysimachus and a foe of Demetrius Poliorcetes (Philipp 1973). As in the fifth century, their targets were then­ascendant populist leaders. For Archedicus the target was Demosthenes’ nephew Demochares, a portrayal that was used as evidence by the historian Timaeus, who then drew a detailed refutation from no less a figure than Polybius (12.13). For Philippides the target was Stratocles, who was later biographically paired by Plutarch with Cleon (cf. Demetr. 11.2–3). Indeed in attacking Stratocles Philippides explicitly recalls Aristophanes’ attack on Cleon.17 The pattern in which partisan comedy appears should remind us that in democratic Athens the issue of popular sovereignty was always contentious and regularly settled by violence. But the big story of fourth­century comedy was not civic engagement but the development and final victory of the Menandrian type of domestic comedy: dramas about typical and wholly fictitious people, households, personal relationships, and love affairs that were even less engaged with civic concerns than tragedy. Did our period of 450–420 contribute to this development or was it truly a fourth­century innovation? We would think that at least some of the non­iambic “general plots and stories” that Aristotle credits first to Crates (Poet. 1449b5 ff.) were private / domestic ones, but in fact there 17

E. g. in claiming that it is impious flattery of Demetrius that “undoes (καταλύει) the demos, not a comedy” (fr. 25) Phillipides echoes a slogan of the day ([Plu.] Mor. 851e–f) and defends a prior comic criticism in a situation reminiscent of Aristophanes’ defense against Cleon in Acharnians.

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is little evidence of it. Aristophanes boasts that he for one disdained ordinary men or women as subjects,18 and indeed he never portrays an oikos realistically: naturally comedies like his, with their civic and political orientation, including the fantastic / escapist types, featured adult male citizens operating in public spaces, and households were depicted (if at all) from a civic vantage point and with the women elided (e. g. Clouds and Wasps), except for wives or mothers of demagogues (e. g. in Eupolis’ Maricas) or wealthy wastrels (e. g. Eupolis’ Spongers and the two Autolycus plays); or they were depicted allegorically, as in Knights and Wasps, and Cratinus’ Wine Flask, which starred Cratinus himself, estranged from his wife (Comedy) and having an affair with Methe (Drunkenness). And overall, the requisite personnel of later comedy are not much in evidence until after our period: unmarried citizen boys very seldom and girls virtually never; no citizen wives before Aristophanes’ plays of 411 and then shown only in protected public spaces and behaving like men; before then citizen women had been only market­women, the relatives of demagogues, and perhaps the odd hetaera; or they were women in groups, often the chorus, and in our period always connected with foreign cults; no prominent slaves before Frogs and Wealth; and characters representing personality types, trades, and professions only rarely and in brief illustrative scenes. Banquet­ plays, very popular in the next century, have some domestic features  –  in Spongers, set in a private home, there is a stingy father (Hipponicus) and a spendthrift son (Callias), a massive feast, philosophers and probably hetaeras in attendance – but neither the characters nor the situation is fictitious; they represent an actual family. Nor in our period is the supporting cast of the fourth­century banquet­play yet in evidence: in Old Comedy only ten gourmands are mentioned, only one (Callias in Spongers) a wastrel; no cooks and very few suppliers such as fishmongers; only one pimp and two parasites, though these seem to have been not parasites properly speaking but rather kolakes (spongers). Plastic art too shows the same patterns: there is little variety in masks or costumes until the turn of the century, and sympotic scenes (Peschel 1987) are frequent before ca. 440 but not again until the 380s, when they reappear in more restrained form. To some extent this civic rather than domestic orientation of comedy in the fifth century was forced by social inhibitions that still protected the private world of the household and the respectability of its women (Sommerstein 1980/2009), so that plots about family or love were the province not of 18

Pax 751 (parabasis): Aristophanes does not mock ἰδιώτας ἀνθρωπίσκους ... οὐδὲ γυναῖκας.

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respectable oikoi but rather of myth­ and hetaera­comedy.19 In all eras the great majority of non­mythical or legendary women who are title characters or named in comedies are living, dead, or fictitious hetaeras. Even tragic intrigues that seemed “realistic” (as in Euripides’ plays) could be denounced as outrageous, as they are in Aristophanes’ Thesmophoriazusae and Frogs: here was one area of decorum where comedy could feel self­righteous. The erotic fracas involving a citizen girl in Aristophanes’ Assemblywomen of ca. 391 (877–1111) is hard to imagine in the fifth century. Still, some of the poets of our era did contribute to the development of domestic comedy, and they did so mainly20 by way of myth­ and hetaera­ comedy. They were ahead of their time: by the turn of the century, myth­ and hetaera­comedies had reappeared and overtaken the fantastic / escapist and political types in popularity, and their domestic elements began to coalesce in the sort of plays that paved the way for New Comedy, a development also reflected in vase­paintings and figurines of that time (Green 2010: 75–93). Pherecrates in particular was unusual in his interest in women, who are central to at least one­third of his plays. He seems to have pioneered the hetaera­comedy, with Corianno, The Forgetful Man or Thalatta, Petale, and perhaps Kitchen or Pannychis and Tyrannis; in Cheiron, Music is portrayed as a mature hetaera mistreated by abusive lovers i. e. contemporary composers (Henderson 2000, 2002). The title character of Corianno keeps a prosperous household where much eating and drinking take place; characters anticipating fourth­century comedy include a boastful soldier just returned from Asia, a nurse (probably) Glyke, and a young man telling a love­struck old man (possibly his father) that “it is fitting for me to be in love, but your time is past” (fr. 77): compare the scene in Aristophanes’ Wasps (1326–86), where a son admonishes his father, who has abducted the auletris Dardanis from a symposium. We do not know whether Pherecrates’ hetaeras were actual or fictional, though Thalatta, an attested hetaera­name, is also the title of a play by Diocles, a contemporary of Theopompus, and Pannychis, an hetaera name in Petronius (Sat. 25) and Lucian (Meretr. 9), is also a title for Eubulus. One 19

20

Sometimes hetaera plays are hard to distinguish from myth parodies, e. g. the Danae plays by Apollophanes and Sannyrion. For a roster and dating see Schiassi (1951). There are a few examples of fictional plots with domestic or erotic themes by Crates and Pherecrates: Crates fr. 46 (stock doctor?), Pherecrates’ Slave-Trainer, Cratinus’ Pytine, Philonides’ Philetaerus (a title later for Antiphanes, Amphis, Heniochus, and Hegesippus also); Phrynichus’ Monotropos, Platon’s Man in Great Pain, and Theopompus’ Hedychares anticipate the type­comedy of Antiphanes’ Misoponeros and Menander’s Dyskolos.

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actual hetaera, Myrrhine, lover of the wealthy pheasant­fancier Leogoras, seems to have been a character in Eupolis’ second Autolycus (fr. 50).21 Hetaerae were the breakthrough in representing mortal (as distinct from mythical) women in comedy before it was safe to represent respectable women: when Aristophanes took that step in 411, his old women and young wives no doubt owed much to Pherecrates; indeed in Lysistrata Aristophanes includes a tribute of sorts,22 much as earlier he had acknowledged Cratinus, if in a back­ handed way, when he took political comedy from myth­allegory to domestic allegory. But hetaera­comedies were no more truly domestic than were plays about spongers or about a son’s attempts to confine his jury­mad father to the house. In the development of purely domestic plots, it was myth­comedy that may well have played the essential role. Naturalizing (a polite term for banalizing) the family situations in myth afforded fifth­century comic poets a way around the social inhibitions that protected citizen households from public view and provided established plots that their successors gradually domesticated, by identifying elements amenable to comic exploitation and translating them into contemporary settings. The earliest plays seem to have been more or less straightforward burlesque, not unlike satyr drama, with which comedy seems to have intersected early; 23 these relied on implication (emphasis) when they wanted to reflect contemporary life, for example Cratinus’ Nemesis, suggesting Pericles in the story of the seduction of a maiden (the goddess Nemesis) by Zeus, with Hermes (as often) and Aphrodite assisting. In addition, there was paratragedy, probably early (Choerilus and Aeschylus) and then by the mid 420s centering on Euripides: paratragedy enabled comic characters to channel mythical figures and repurpose tragic plots, for example Euripides’ Telephus in Acharnians and Thesmophoriazusae; paratragedy became a specialty of poets in the period 410–380, notably Strattis (Orth 2009). Tragedy contributed as well, in particular the “romantic” dramas of adventure and intrigue that Euripides began to produce after 415 and that introduced more mundane characters and situations. Influence may have gone in both directions: one wonders whether developments in comedy reciprocally influenced Euripides’ move toward romance and realism, much as his persistence in staging heroes in rags must 21

22

23

This play (ca. 418), like Spongers (421), portrayed the extravagance of the wealthy wastrel Callias. Lines 157–58 (Καλ.) τί δ᾽ ν ἀφίωσ᾽ ἅνδρες μᾶς, ὦ μέλε; (Λυς.) τὸ τοῦ Φερεκράτους, κύνα δέρειν δεδαρμένην (Cal.) But my dear, what if our husbands just ignore us? (Lys.) In the words of Pherecrates, skin the skinned dog! Storey (2005), Bakola (2010: 81–117); for Middle Comedy, Shaw (2010).

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in some way have been a response to comic criticism. In any event, after its heyday from around 410 to the 340s, the popularity of myth­comedy rapidly receded in favor of fully domestic comedy; but even in Menander it is still easy to see the vestiges of the earlier hybrid stage both in plot and style. For love plots beyond boy­falls­for­hetaera, myth­comedy was the main vehicle, particularly the affairs of Zeus, a theme well developed not only in tragedy and satyr­drama already in the time of Aeschylus but also in comedy since the time of Crates and Hermippus (Konstantakos 2002).24 Ancient scholars identified particular innovations: the Life of Aristophanes (T 1.50) informs us that his Cocalus (produced in 387), a myth comedy about the killing of Minos by Cocalus’ daughters (treated also by Sophocles in Men of Camicus), “introduced rape and recognition and all the other themes that Menander imitated,” while the Suda credits Anaxandrides, who wrote in the 380s to 340s, with being “the first to introduce love affairs and the rape of maidens” (α 1982). These statements are compatible if Aristophanes was the innovator in the myth­comic mode and Anaxandrides in the more modern, fully domestic mode, which Aristophanes did not pursue. Likely candidates are Amprakiotis, Kanephoros, Kitharistria, Samia, and Phialephoros (cf. Millis 2001). And of course Satyrus’ Life of Euripides credits the tragic poet for his part. This survey of types and styles of comedy in light of periodicity raises questions that seem well worth following up as the work of commenting the fragmentary remains continues.

24

To ca. 380 in tragedy and satyr­drama: Aeschylus Alcmene, Callisto, Carians or Europa, Semele, Sophocles Amphitryo, Daedalus, Danae, Minos, Tyro (twice), Euripides Alcmene, Antiope, Cretans, Danae, Lamia, Melanippe the Wise, Pasiphae, Ion Alcmene, Chaeremon Io, Dionysius II of Syracuse Leda; in comedy: Crates Lamia, Hermippus Europa, Aristophanes Daedalus, Archippus Amphitryo (twice), Platon Daedalus, Europa, Io, Long Night, Alcaeus Callisto, Ganymede, Pasiphae, Apollophanes Cretans, Danae, Nicochares Cretans, Polyzelus Demotyndareus, Birth of Dionysus, Sannyrio Danae, Io.

Tendencies and Variety in Middle Comedy Ioannis M. Konstantakos

1. Introduction The so­called “Middle Comedy” has not always been regarded as a field for fruitful research. Nevertheless, it has regularly ignited the imagistic creativity of classical scholars, resulting in some vivid literary­historical metaphors. In darker times of the past, before the Kassel­Austin era, impatient readers compared Middle Comedy with a dull desert, full of barren, trickling sand.1 Its landscape might be occasionally enlivened by a small refreshing oasis, but the traveller had to wander through miles of wasteland before encountering such moderate comfort. And of course there was always the danger that the apparent oasis might prove a mirage in the end. More caring experts, such as Eduard Fraenkel, crafted different similes: the student of Middle Comedy was compared to the comic parasite, obliged to be content with the meagre leftovers of the sumptuous feast of yesterday.2 He is the poor sponger feeding on the crumbs that fall from the rich philological tables, the pauper Lazarus of the scholarly community. This second image, in spite of its dreariness, is at least more advantageous for a discussion of “variety” in Middle Comedy. There can be little variety in a sandy desert, apart perhaps from the sparse appearances of a Bedouin on his camel, a vulture up in the air, or a stray and famished lion in pursuit of the traveller. The leftovers of a hearty meal, even in a crumby state, are far more likely to exhibit a range of delectable diversity. Tiny though they may be, yet they recognizably hail from an assortment of various dishes, the products of many different flavours, ingredients and cooking methods. Even if they are too minute to identify with the naked eye or to trigger any remembrance of tastes past on our palate, their variegated provenance can be established if we look at them closely through a magnifying glass or analyze them in the laboratory. Look here, for instance: a small crumb of garlic bread. Just imagine how delicious must have been the whole steaming hot loaf! Examine that other bit over there: a fraction of asparagus – quite a delicacy for a vegetar1 2

See Norwood (1931: 38); cf. Arnott (2010: 331). See Fraenkel (1912: 63); cf. Hunter (1987: 281).

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ian Munchkin. Here is also an ant’s mouthful of fillet mignon in mushroom sauce, and of chicken curry, and of pork roll stuffed with cheese and bacon. And what is this? A driblet of crème brûlée, truly a teardrop of sweetness! Middle Comedy is capable of offering such a banquet of diversity, even though its individual courses may consist of diminutive portions, fit for the tables of Lilliput. However, before enjoying this microcosm of variety, it is necessary to deal with the question of definition. What exactly is Middle Comedy? Is it a genre or a period, a viable critical entity or a fantasy of scholars obsessed with triadic patterns? The answer preferred by the present writer has also been forwarded by several other experts: Middle Comedy is primarily a chronological conception, not a generic one. It is regularly defined as the period between the 380s and the 320s, a time of fluidity and transition, during which the comic theatre was slowly but radically transformed: from the fantastic exuberance and overt political mockery of Old Comedy, it passed on to the sentimental play of love-themes and character depiction that is typical of Hellenistic (and later European) comic drama.3 Of course, the history of poetic genres has an aversion to exact dates. Consequently, there may be some disagreement with regard to pinpointing the precise time limits of this “Middle” epoch, which appears sandwiched between Old and New like the sausage in a hotdog. The lower chronological barrier is usually placed in the 320s or 330s, around the date of Menander’s début or slightly before him. As for the beginning, this is conventionally traced to the last years of Aristophanes’ activity or the time shortly after his demise. As Harold Bloom keeps reminding us, the history of literature is made by strong poets; and therefore our demarcation of literary periods is inescapably biographical. The limits of Middle Comedy are thus determined in connection with the two greatest writers of ancient Greek comic drama. Nonetheless, with regard to the upper boundary an alternative scheme is also feasible: the onset of Middle Comedy can be pushed back for a couple of decades, towards the dawn of the fourth century. The time between approximately 400 and 380 appears to have been a transitional period, already heralding the main developments of the Middle era and germinating its characteristic dramaturgical and thematic traits.4 3

4

For such more or less chronological definitions of Middle Comedy see Arnott (1972: 65–67); Hunter (1983: 4–6); Nesselrath (1990: 27–28, 191–200, 333–340) with further references; Arnott (1996: 18–19); Konstantakos (2000: 2); Olson (2007: 22–26); Papachrysostomou (2008: 10–14); Arnott (2010: 281–283). Cf. Webster (1970: 10–36); Arnott (1972: 67–69); Nesselrath (1990: 27–28, 190–204, 333–334) with references to earlier scholarship; Green (1994: 34–38); Arnott (2010: 281–283, 290–294); Konstantakos (2011a: 145–153).

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It has been occasionally suggested that the appellation “Middle Comedy” should be altogether dispensed with5 – a proposal reiterated in the context of the Freiburg workshop. The present writer would be at ease with such a terminological abolition, but on one condition: it must be made clear that the period of ca. 400–320 presents special traits, which broadly distinguish it from what came before and after it in Attic comic theatre. As will transpire from this essay, the great diversity in themes and types of dramatic composition separates the first three quarters of the fourth century from the commonly styled “New Comedy”, which focuses on a single kind of comic play and thus narrows the thematic repertoire. On the other hand, the transition from the fifth to the fourth century roughly coincides with a perceptible dichotomy in the evolution of Greek comedy, visible initially in formal terms (reduction of the Chorus’ parts, obliteration of epirrhematic structures) and gradually also in matters of content (decline of political satire and obscenity, greater emphasis on myth burlesque, love plots and social manners). Hence, it is often convenient, for the purposes of literary­historical research, to treat this period of seven or eight decades as something distinct both from mainstream fifth­century “Old Comedy” and from Hellenistic comic theatre. If the term “Middle” is rejected, one might speak of “fourth­century pre­Menandrian” or “pre­Hellenistic” comedy, or invent other analogous circumlocutions. But sooner or later a one­word designation would be sorely missed.6 In the end, the definition of Middle Comedy is a showcase problem of literary periodization. All demarcations of period limits in literary history are conventional. The reality of a living theatrical genre is very different: constant flow of evolution and transformation, parallel existence of earlier forms and innovative tendencies, and even intermittent revival of elements that had been abandoned for a longer or shorter time. These are the true phenomena of literary life, and they are extremely difficult to arrange into neatly drawn temporal compartments. Yet, such chronological delimitation is necessary for the study of art forms and their history. It represents our attempt to introduce some kind of order and structure into the polymorphous material of experience, to produce a narrative of meaning out of the mass of disparate data.

5

6

See e. g. Sidwell (2000: 247–257); cf. Csapo (2000: 115–133); Olson (2007: 23–25); Papachrysostomou (2008: 11) with more references. Certain scholars seem uncomfortable not so much with the concept of “Middle Comedy” itself, but rather with the fact that our modern literary­historical use of the term “Middle Comedy” apparently differs from what the ancients meant by these words (see e. g. Hunter 1983: 4–5; Olson 2007: 25). This, however, need not be an issue of great concern, provided that we clearly define what we mean.

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2. A panorama of genres As was already hinted above, diversity of themes and material is a distinctive, possibly determinative trait of Middle Comedy. The first and most obvious mark of variety, within this broad stretch of seventy to eighty years, is found on the macroscopic level, in the multifarious genres and comic forms that were cultivated. During the Middle period several different types of play were presented. Some of them were apparently more popular than others, at least for specific lengths of time. However, no one of these sub­genres reserves the right to monopolize the name of “Middle Comedy”. No individual comic form can define by itself this particular division of literary history, as for instance New Comedy is synonymous with the domestic play of love and manners, or as mainstream Old Comedy is chiefly identified with fantastic scenarios and public satire. Middle Comedy is collectively constituted by all the comic genres produced within its term of duration.7 Ιt looks somewhat like a harlequin’s patchwork costume, made up as a whole of all the multicoloured pieces of cloth sewn together on it. Α brief overview of this generic motley will be useful here. First of all, mythological burlesque was a fashionable and easily identifiable dramatic form of the times. This consisted in more or less large­scale travesty of traditional mythical stories and heroes.8 A kindred type of play was the pseudo­historical travesty comically portraying renowned personalities of the past – usually cultural figures, such as sages, poets and other wordsmiths. A series of comedies entitled Sappho (by Ameipsias, Antiphanes, Ephippos, Amphis, Timokles, and Diphilos) were produced between the early fourth century and the 330s.9 They brought on stage the legendary poetess of Lesbos, 7 8

9

Cf. Arnott (1996: 18); Konstantakos (2000: 2–3); Arnott (2010: 283). Much has been written on this entertaining genre: see most notably Nesselrath (1990: 188–241); Casolari (2003: especially 23–25, 127–183, 214–225, 249–295); Arnott (2010: 294–300); Konstantakos (2014a) and Konstantakos (2014b) with further bibliography; and below, section 3. Myth travesties were composed already by playwrights of the earlier Old Comedy, such as Kratinos, Hermippos and Kallias. But their heyday on the Athenian comic stage largely fell in the period from the end of the fifth century to the 340s or 330s, i. e. exactly the years of Middle Comedy: see Hunter (1983: 23–24); Nesselrath (1990: 189–204). Ameipsias was roughly contemporary with Aristophanes; therefore, his Sappho must belong to the beginning of the fourth century, if not already to the expiring fifth. On the other hand, Diphilos’ and Timokles’ plays cannot have been performed before the 340s or 330s. Cf. also an Apulian bell krater (PhV2 19, mid­ fourth century) portraying a comic scene with Sappho seated and playing the lyre. She is approached by Alcaeus, who holds a full purse in his hand, probably with

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treating her love adventures (notably with men) and social amusements.10 Other travesties of this kind were Nikostratos’ Hesiod, Alexis’ Aesop, Archilochos and Kleobouline (the legendary daughter of Kleoboulos of Lindos, one of the Seven Sages and a famous composer of riddles).11 Much of the comic effect in these scenic fictions must have depended on the incongruous muddle of personages and customs from disparate periods and cultural milieus. For example, in Diphilos’ play Sappho was erotically involved with Archilochos and Hipponax (fr. 71). Sappho, Archilochos, and perhaps other figures of their circle were shown entertaining themselves in Atticized symposia, following typically Athenian banquet rituals (Diphilos fr. 70) or playing riddle­games, a favourite social entertainment of fourth­ century Athens (Antiphanes fr. 194). Antiphanes’ Sappho converses with an old man (possibly Solon or an everyday Athenian) who is strongly preoccupied with Athenian political life, its corrupt politicians, and the imbecility of the deluded demos (fr. 194). In Ephippos’ play a comic parasite, intent on acquiring free meals, was included among the cast (fr. 20, note ἀσύμβολον). A character of Timokles’ Sappho sarcastically describes Misgolas, an eminent upper­class Athenian homosexual, notorious for his involvement in the case of Timarchos in 345 B. C. (fr. 32). In these respects, the comic mechanisms of pseudo­historical plays resemble those of mythological burlesque, which also revelled in muddling together different mythical traditions and especially in mingling them with the culture of contemporary bourgeois Athens.12 Like myth plays, the historical travesties take up a trend occasionally traceable already in Old Comedy (e. g. Kratinos’ Archilochoi and Kleoboulinai, Telekleides’ Hesiodoi). But the fourth­century dramatists appear to have more intensely cultivated and further developed what was a rare tendency in earlier comic theatre. The domestic play of private affairs and love interest also accounts for a considerable portion of the output of Middle Comedy. The literary remains suggest that at least by mid­fourth century this kind of drama was fully de-

10

11

12

the intention of buying Sappho’s erotic favours. See Zahn (1931: 90–93); Wüst (1941: 300); Webster (1948: 23–24); Catteruccia (1951: 55); Bieber (1961: 136–137). On the Sappho plays see Totaro (1998: 173–174) and Konstantakos (2000: 157–180) with more bibliography. See Arnott (1996: 75–79, 112–115, 293–294); Konstantakos (2005b: 15–17); Arnott (2010: 296). On these procedures of mythological burlesque, see the extensive analysis in Nesselrath (1990: 204–241); Konstantakos (2014a); and Konstantakos (2014b).

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veloped and sufficiently exploited.13 For instance, two plays by Philetairos clearly included love affairs with hetairai as part of their plot. Fr. 5 from Korinthiastes is spoken by a man enamoured of a hetaira: he praises his ladylove’s tender glance and deems hetairai far superior to wives.14 Fr. 8 from Kynagis also praises hetairai in almost identical words. Another passage of this latter play (fr. 6) implies an old man involved in a love affair – a popular motif in love plots from Old Comedy to Plautus.15 Finally, fr. 9 consists in an abusive tirade against hetairai that grow old exercising their profession.16 Philetairos was one of the earliest poets of Middle Comedy. His main activity fell between approximately 380 and 350, and his career does not seem to have extended much beyond the middle of the fourth century.17 Therefore, his two hetaira­plays should belong to the 350s, if not to an earlier time.18

13

14

15

16 17

18

See Konstantakos (2002: 143–151); cf. Nesselrath (1990: 318–330); Arnott (2010: 326–329). ὡς τακερόν, ὦ Ζεῦ, καὶ μαλακὸν τὸ βλέμμ’ ἔχει. / οὐκ ἐτὸς ἑταίρας ἱερόν ἐστι πανταχοῦ, / ἀλλ’ οὐχὶ γαμετῆς οὐδαμοῦ τῆς Ἑλλάδος. This allusion to wives might suggest that the speaker is married or facing a prospective marriage, which conflicts with his passion for the hetaira. Compare e. g. Pamphilus in Terence’s Andria and Hecyra, or Menaechmus I in Plautus’ Menaechmi. παῦσαι γέρων ὢν τοὺς τρόπους. οὐκ οἶσθ’ ὅτι /  διστόν ἐστιν ἀποθανεῖν βινοῦνθ’ ἅμα, / ὥσπερ λέγουσιν ἀποθανεῖν Φορμίσιον; Especially the danger of “dying while having sex” suggests that an old man is involved as speaker or addressee (a point missed by Papachrysostomou 2008: 222–223). The initial exhortation (“stop being an old man in your attitude”) does not presuppose that the addressee is young: one may be elderly in age and yet behave (or be exhorted to behave) in a manner more suitable to a youth, e. g. by pursuing a liaison with a hetaira. For this comic theme cf. Pherekrates, Korianno fr. 77; Platon Com., Phaon fr. 195; Plautus, Asinaria, Casina, Mercator. It recurs in comic scenes on South Italian vases. On an Apulian fragment (mid­fourth century B.C.) a hetaira embraces an old man: Green (2001: 37–38, 43–45); Green (2010: 89–90); Rusten (2011: 448). On a calyx krater of the Gnathia style (PhV2 177, Trendall 1967: 79) an old man, with fruit and cakes falling out from beneath his mantle, is running towards a lovely young woman depicted on the other side: Bieber (1961: 138); Maffre (2000: 298–299). On the possible speakers of this tirade, see below. See Körte (1938b: 2163–2164); Schiassi (1951: 219); Webster (1952: 17); Nesselrath (1990: 192–193); Konstantakos (2002: 149–150); Arnott (2010: 289). The Kynagis has often been considered an early play, perhaps produced in the 360s, on the basis of the hetairai enumerated in fr. 9: most of them seem to have flourished in the earlier part of the fourth century. See Breitenbach (1908: 122– 123); Körte (1938b: 2164); Schiassi (1951: 218–222); Webster (1952: 17); Nesselrath (1990: 192); but contrast Papachrysostomou (2008: 222, 230–236).

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All the high­ranking poets of Middle Comedy produced dramas of this type. Anaxandrides included in his comedies “love­affairs and rapes of maidens” (Suda α 1982). An anecdote from Lykophron’s treatise On Comedy, preserved by Athenaeus (13.555a), indicates that Antiphanes’ favourite themes comprised boisterous liaisons with hetairai and brawls over them at dinnerparties.19 The remains of a number of plays from that period suggest a scenario that will later become a staple constituent of comic theatre: a young man is in love with a girl (whether a maiden of citizen birth or a hetaira) but encounters obstacles in the fulfilment of his desire. To overcome the impediments, the lover devises and puts to practice some kind of scheme or intrigue, usually with the help of an assistant (e. g. a slave). Euboulos’ Kampylion (especially fr. 40 and 41) and Pamphilos (fr. 80), Antiphanes’ Hydria (fr. 210), Alexis’ Agonis or Hippiskos (fr. 2) and Anaxilas’ Neottis (fr. 21 and 22) are among the most telling examples of such a storyline.20 This is, of course, the elementary pattern that underlies almost all the plots of New Comedy. In the earlier fourth century, however, it was only one of the options lying open for the comic playwright. Some of the plays with contemporary domestic setting also contained other plot motifs foreshadowing the storylines of Hellenistic comedy. Alexis’ Stratiotes (produced not long after 343 B.C.) included a baby of contested ownership, exchanged between different groups of characters (fr. 212). The title Pseudypobolimaios (“Falsely considered as supposititious”), given to comedies by Krobylos and the younger Kratinos, also indicates a child of doubtful paternity as element of the plot. Euboulos’ Neottis entailed recognition between a parent and his / her lost son (fr. 69). The heroes of Antiphanes’ Neottis, a Syrian brother and sister lost or abducted in childhood and transported to Athens to be sold into slavery (fr. 166), may also have been recognized by their true relatives in the end.21 19

20

21

Ath. 13.555a: Ἀντιφάνης ὁ κωμῳδιοποιός, ἑταῖρε Τιμόκρατες, ὡς ἀνεγίνωσκέ τινα τῷ βασιλεῖ Ἀλεξάνδρῳ τῶν ἑαυτοῦ κωμῳδιῶν, ὁ δὲ δῆλος ν οὐ πάνυ τι ἀποδεχόμενος, «δεῖ γάρ», ἔφησεν, «ὦ βασιλεῦ, τὸν ταῦτα ἀποδεχόμενον ἀπὸ συμβολῶν τε πολλάκις δεδειπνηκέναι καὶ περὶ ἑταίρας πλεονάκις καὶ εἰληφέναι καὶ δεδωκέναι πληγάς», ὥς φησι Λυκόφρων ὁ Χαλκιδεὺς ἐν τοῖς περὶ Κωμῳδίας. Cf. Auhagen (2009: 62–63). For analysis of the fragments and the plotline of these plays see most notably Webster (1970: 7, 74–77); Hunter (1983: 131–137, 172–175); Henry (1985: 37–39); Nesselrath (1990: 282, 321–323); Arnott (1996: 51–70); Konstantakos (2002: 144– 148); Olson (2007: 365–367); Auhagen (2009: 60, 66–67, 73–79); Arnott (2010: 327– 329). See also further discussion below, in section 3. Cf. further Antiphanes’ Hydria fr. 210 (see section 3 below), as well as Alexis fr. 272, evidently from a scene of recognition by token, although the corresponding

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Other titles point to complicated scenarios of cunning schemes and deception tricks. In Alexis’ Tokistes or Katapseudomenos and Pseudomenos lies must have been employed to delude some personage and forward the intrigue. Heniochos’ Dis exapatomenos presumably developed an intricate plot with two successive deceptions of the same character. Antiphanes’ and Epigenes’ Argyriou aphanismos (“Disappearance of money”) indicate theft or sly removal of a monetary sum. This recalls a usual motif of New Comedy, where the young man is regularly in need of cash for promoting his love affair (e. g. buying a cherished slave-girl or gaining a hetaira’s favours); a wily helper (slave or parasite) invents then an artifice in order to purloin the required amount from the young man’s father or rival in love.22 Many comic terracotta statuettes from Attica and Lipari, dating from approximately 375–325 B.C., depict a slave seated on an altar; South Italian vases from the 340s or 330s present the same comic figure. This suggests a tricky slave who has swindled his master or other personages and resorted to the altar, so as to escape punishment, as soon as his guiles were discovered (another storyline familiar from New Comedy).23 In some terracottas the seated slave is holding a purse, possibly a stolen one (cf. the motif of money theft mentioned above). Clearly, the slave as a cunning intrigant was a well­developed figure by the middle of the fourth century. In connection with the type of domestic drama, another notable tendency was being evolved during the Middle era: the dramatic exploration of peculiar character traits or moral flaws. The playwright places at the centre of the action a personage with a temperamental defect or eccentricity and weaves around him various amusing situations, which highlight and caricature his idiosyncrasy. Especially characters of the obsessive type (like those later favoured by Ben Jonson and Molière) seem to have attracted the comic poets’

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play may conceivably have been a late production of Alexis, from the years of New Comedy. The ἱππίσκος (woman’s garment or piece of jewellery) in Alexis’ Agonis or Hippiskos may also have served as recognition token. On these plays and plot motifs see Webster (1970: 64, 74–78); Hunter (1983: 159–160); Henry (1985: 38–39); Hunter (1987: 289–291); Arnott (1996: 51–54, 605–608, 760–762); Konstantakos (2000: 126–140); Konstantakos (2005–2006: 75–77); Arnott (2010: 302–303, 317–319, 328–329). See the plots of Menander’s Dis exapaton, Plautus’ Asinaria, Curculio, Epidicus, Persa and Pseudolus, Terence’s Heauton timorumenos and Phormio. Cf. Arnott (1996: 654–663, 729–730); Arnott (2010: 317). See MMC3 AT 66, 98, 110, 111, ST 9, 23, 24; PhV2 56, 77, 89, 98 (Trendall 1967: 42, 50–51, 56, 59); Webster (1948: 24–25); Green (1994: 66, 187); cf. Green (2008: 217) for a bronze figurine from Thrace. For New Comedy examples of this kind of situation cf. Men. Perinthia 1–23; Plaut. Most. 1096–1180.

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efforts.24 Misanthropes and grouchy men were the protagonists in Anaxilas’ Monotropos and Antiphanes’ Misoponeros. In this latter play the title­hero delivered an angry tirade abusing various groups of people (fr. 157), which brings to mind the ravings of Knemon, Menander’s emblematic misanthrope (see e. g. Men. Dysc. 153 ff., 442 ff.).25 Stingy misers were sometimes the title­ heroes, as in Dioxippos’ Philargyros and Philiskos’ Philargyroi. They also played a part in Antiphanes’ Neottis (fr. 166, about a moneylender living with extreme frugality), Euboulos’ Pornoboskos (fr. 87, describing the pimp of the title as a rich but avaricious and rascally personage, very stingy in shopping) and Ephippos’ Philyra (fr. 21, featuring another old man reluctant to spend money).26 A superstitious personage must have been the main character of Antiphanes’ Oionistes: according to Caecilius (in Eus. PE 10.3.13), Menander heavily borrowed from that play for a comedy of his own, significantly entitled Deisidaimon (“The superstitious man”). The preoccupation with augury, suggested by Antiphanes’ title, may have been a fixation of the over­religious protagonist. Alternatively, the expert in bird­omens (οἰωνιστής) was perhaps a kind of alazon or charlatan, intent on taking advantage of the main character’s all too pious idiosyncrasy. Other comedies featured the rustic (agroikos), characterized by uncouthness, naiveté and ignorance of city manners. This character usually got involved in refined urban environments, in which he behaved badly and ridiculed himself.27 There were also composite figures of this kind. The elderly hero of Mnesimachos’ Dyskolos must have been a cantankerous personage, like the protagonist of Menander’s homonymous drama. In the single surviving fragment (fr. 3), however, his predominant trait is rather pettiness or stinginess: he complains about the expenses of his nephew and comically asks him to use diminutives in describing the items he purchases; in this way the old man will find some solace, imagining their cost to be smaller. Mnesimachos presumably amalgamated the grouch and the miser into a single complex character.28 All these idiosyncratic personages might play a role in a loveplot, typically as blocking figures that obstruct the lovers’ union. But the 24 25

26

27

28

On this tendency see Konstantakos (2005–2006: 80–81). Cf. Handley (1965: 158, 197). Generally on this comic type see Préaux (1959: 327– 341); Photiadès (1959: 305–316); Jacques (1983: xxxi–xxxvi). On these plays and their avaricious characters see Hunter (1983: 179–180); Nesselrath (1990: 320); Konstantakos (2000: 125–140); Konstantakos (2004a: 27, 29). On the comic agroikos see Konstantakos (2004a) and Konstantakos (2005a), with bibliography. Cf. the remarks of Papachrysostomou (2008: 183–184). Menander’s Knemon also combines misanthropy with an aversion towards expense and a passionate at-

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comic illustration of their eccentric character and behaviour may also have constituted a prominent dramaturgical concern in the corresponding plays. The panorama of Middle Comedy forms is not yet complete. There were also other distinctive dramatic themes and play­types handled by the writers of the time, even though to a less intensive degree. The kind of plot known in European tradition as “comedy of errors” (a peculiar, though rather marginal genre of comic composition exploited, among others, by Rotrou, Goldoni and the young Shakespeare) also has its roots in Middle Comedy. Although it may be combined with love adventures (as in Plautus’ Menaechmi and Amphitruo), this theme is of an essentially different nature, closer to the fanciful conceptions of fifth­century, Old Comedy dramaturgy. Like the latter, the “comedy of errors” is based on a fantastic, fairytale premise: a pair of lookalikes or twins of identical appearance, indistinguishable for the other characters. Their similarity causes a sequence of funny misunderstandings, which make up the storyline. Thus, as in so many plays of Aristophanes and his contemporaries, the comic fiction evolves from an extravagant dominant idea and exploits its ludicrous practical consequences within the reality of the comic heroes’ world.29 This type of scenario must have unfolded in comedies entitled with some form of the adjective ὅμοιος (“similar, lookalike”): Antiphanes’ Homoioi or Homoiai, Ephippos’ Homoioi or Obeliaphoroi, Alexis’ and Antidotos’ Homoia. Among the numerous plays called “Twins” (Didymoi by Antiphanes, Anaxandrides and Xenarchos, Auletris or Didymai by Antiphanes, Didymoi or Didymai by Alexis, Didymai or Pyraunos by Aristophon), some at least may also have concerned pairs of identical twin siblings. It is possibly significant that the title in these cases is “Twins”, not merely “Brothers” (Adelphoi), as in many other comic dramas. The quality of twins, and the consequent resemblance in appearance, may have had reverberations on the plot.30

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tachment to frugality, almost to the point of stinginess (see Dysc. 30–32, 326–331, 365–370, 447–453, 473 ff., 576–594). Cf. Webster (1970: 67) and below, section 3. A few more titles also imply fantastic plots, based on a fanciful central idea. Alexis’ and Amphis’ Gynaikokratia might suggest a storyline in which one or more women seize and exercise power by means of some incredible device (cf. Aristophanes’ Ecclesiazusae); see Kann (1909: 78–79); Arnott (1996: 151–152); Papachrysostomou (2008: 42–45). The title­ heroine in Antiphanes’ Halieuomene (“The fishing woman”) may have similarly usurped an occupation traditionally confined to men, in the context of some imaginary role inversion; see Konstantakos (2000: 63–65). On this comic theme see Webster (1970: 67–74); Arnott (1996: 173, 492–493); Masciadri (1996: especially 68–91, 100–102, 156–177, 202–206); Konstantakos (2005– 2006: 72–75) with further bibliography.

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Yet another category of plays appears to have largely centered on the ridicule of philosophers, their abstruse theories and ascetic way of life. This continues a thematic orientation introduced already in the fifth century, at least since Aristophanes’ notorious Clouds. In fourth­century comedies philosophical satire may conceivably have been combined with other material, such as love-plots or domestic life.31 However, at least in some cases (Alexis’ and the younger Kratinos’ Pythagorizousa, Aristophon’s Platon and Pythagoristes) the titles and textual remains indicate a primary concern with philosophical subject­matter. Even a few political comedies were produced in the Middle era, i. e. plays that appear to focus on political issues of the day or to ridicule contemporary public figures on a large scale, in the manner familiar from fifth­century theatre. This type of writing was not very frequent in Middle Comedy. Overall, the political dimension of comic drama declined in the fourth century; public life was displaced from the centre of comic poetics, and the satire of contemporary politicians or state affairs was relegated to occasional jokes, without connection to the main plot. Most of the fourth­century comic references to political actuality seem to be just that: incidental jests, inserted into a play with different, non­political subject­matter (e. g. a mythological burlesque or a domestic drama with love­intrigue), in order to provide a touch of contemporary topicality to the script. Nonetheless, there were a small number of plays more extensively preoccupied with political issues and figures.32 Significantly, most of them are concentrated in the time of the Macedonian expansion, the turbulent period of the 340s and 330s, when Macedonian imperialism was generating an acute political crisis in mainland Greece. Mnesimachos’ Philip, produced shortly after 346 B.C., was apparently a large­ scale satire of King Philip II, his allies, and possibly also his opponents (such as Demosthenes).33 At about the same time, in the 340s, another remarkable 31

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Already in the Clouds the satire of contemporary philosophical and scientific discourse is blended with typical motifs of domestic comedy (Strepsiades’ marriage problems, the agroikos clashing with the refined urban environment, the stingy father worried about the expenses of his spendthrift son). Generally on anti­philosophical comedy in the fourth century see Weiher (1913: 37–80); Webster (1970: 50–56); Sanchis Llopis (1995: 67–82); Arnott (1996: 579–586); Imperio (1998: 50, 75, 121–129); Papachrysostomou (2008: 120–143); Arnott (2010: 305–308). On political references and plays in fourth­century comedy see Nesselrath (1997: 272–277); Csapo (2000: 120); Konstantakos (2005–2006: 53–59); Papachrysostomou (2009: 181–204); Arnott (2010: 300–305); and Konstantakos (2011a: 162–174), with further bibliography. See the analysis of this play in Papachrysostomou (2008: 210–220) and Konstantakos (2011a: 167–168).

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comic poet made his début: Timokles, whose works are full of pungent political lampoons against Athenian statesmen, often recalling the acrid invective of Old Comedy. At least some of his plays, such as the Ikarioi Satyroi and the Heroes, must have devoted considerable attention to the political world.34 An unidentified comedy by Heniochos, treating contemporary political events in an allegorical manner, perhaps belongs to the same broad period. The prologue (fr. 5) shows the Hellenic cities, personified as members of the Chorus and gathered at Olympia to make offerings of thanksgiving for their newly acquired freedom from tribute. However, two women, symbolically named Democracy and Aristocracy, are always accompanying and upsetting them. The political milieu presupposed here seems to be the one emerging after Philip’s victory at Chaeronea (338 B.C.), although an earlier dating cannot be ruled out.35 Clearly, the political turmoil of the Macedonian era rekindled an interest in politics on the Athenian comic stage. However, there are possible instances of this play­type also before the rise of Macedon. Euboulos’ Dionysios seems to have been a fully fledged attack on Dionysios I, the tyrant of Syracuse, probably to be dated in the 360s.36 In any case, political lampoon was a rare but viable mode for the dramatists of Middle Comedy, at least during particular spans of time. The survey attempted above has traced variety on the large scale, on the macro­level of play­types and generic diversity. In this respect, Middle Comedy appears much more as a successor to Old Comedy and its variegated modes, than as a precursor of the more restricted and unified New Comedy world. The comic theatre of the fifth century displayed a comparably wide range of themes and types of spectacle. The mainstream kind of play was strongly orientated towards political satire, with a concomitant use of fantastic material – or at least so we are led to believe by Aristophanes’ works and the remains of his most celebrated colleagues, Kratinos and Eupolis. 34

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See especially Timokles fr. 4, 7, 12, 14, 17, 18, 19, 23; Coppola (1927: 453–467); Bevilacqua (1939: 38–50, 56–62); Constantinides (1969: 54–61); Webster (1970: 45–47); Nesselrath (1997: 275–276); Arnott (2010: 303–305). More bibliography in Konstantakos (2011a: 163). See Nesselrath (1997: 274–275, 285) and Olson (2007: 126–127) with further references; cf. Konstantakos (2011a: 168–169). Other possibilities would be to date the comedy around the beginning of the Second Athenian League (379/8 B.C.) or in the mid­350s, after the Athenian defeat in the Social War. See Hunter (1983: 116–122); Arnott (2010: 301). The surviving fragments depict Dionysios surrounded by flatterers (fr. 25) and mock his pretentious attempts to compose tragedies (fr. 24, 26). Whether the play also touched on more straightforwardly political issues, is unfortunately unknown.

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Nonetheless, apart from this medley of fantasy and politics, there were also dramas predominantly focused on fantastic, Märchen­like storylines, such as those produced by Krates, Pherekrates and other like­minded authors.37 Pherekrates also created comedies of domestic setting and love­affairs with hetairai, such as the Korianno;38 it is this type of drama that will rise to prominence in the fourth century. Further, there were specimens of fifth­century mythological burlesque, as evidenced in the remains of several playwrights (e. g. Kratinos and Hermippos). Middle Comedy is the true heir of that generic variety.39 It takes up several kinds of composition originating in the times of Old Comedy, although it may allot them a different share of attention and develop them in novel directions. During the Middle Comedy period, the multifarious panorama of diverse play­types coexistent and competing with each other will have matched the experience that the Old Comedy playgoer would have formerly garnered from the comic drama of his own age. On the contrary, the transition from Middle to New Comedy is accompanied by a marked narrowing of the comic world. As far as we can see, New Comedy renounces the thematic variety of the preceding comic tradition and focuses predominantly on a single kind of composition, the private drama of love and character portrayal. 3. A repertoire of comic strategies Apart from macroscopic diversity, Middle Comedy also displays what might be styled “micro­variety”: an extensive repertoire of particular techniques and motifs within each type of play, with regard to the details of comic composition. This kind of variety is harder to detect due to the fragmentary nature of the comic remains from this period. Not having at our disposal a number of fully preserved comedies belonging to one or the other genre (e. g. mythological burlesques, or domestic love­dramas, or character plays), it is impossible to assess how the playwrights created thematic variations, mutating plot patterns, stock characters or motifs, in order to produce divergent dramatic constructions. Still, some elementary remarks are possible to make, even on the basis of the limited material. For instance, the genre of domestic love­comedy, which was cultivated all the more intensely as the fourth century progressed, evidently comprised 37 38

39

See e. g. Krates’ Theria; Pherekrates’ Metalles and Persai; cf. Baldry (1953: 49–60). See Henry (1985: 16, 30); Henderson (2002: 81–82); Konstantakos (2002: 151–152) with more bibliography; Auhagen (2009: 49–52). Cf. the remarks of Csapo (2000: 118–119).

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a variety of plot patterns. In some plays the lover was in pursuit of a citizen maiden. Τhis is attested for Anaxandrides by the Suda (α 1982: παρθένων φθοράς) and also occurred in Euboulos’ Pamphilos, where the object of the love interest was again a parthenos (fr. 80). Other comedies depicted affairs with hetairai: see for instance Lykophron’s anecdote about Antiphanes (in Ath. 13.555a) or Philetairos’ Korinthiastes and Kynagis, already discussed above. Similarly, in Anaxilas’ Neottis one of the characters was in love with a hetaira and conversed with another personage about her, praising her simple and gentle manners (fr. 21). A third kind of plot may have concerned the hetaira that is finally recognized by her true family and restored to citizen status, so that she can legitimately marry her lover (the type sometimes called “false hetaira” or “pseudo­hetaira”).40 A passage from the prologue of Antiphanes’ Hydria (fr. 210) describes a hetaira of virtuous character and emphasizes that she is of citizen birth (ἀστή), although she lacks kinsmen and guardian. This detail, together with the high praise for the girl’s morals, makes us guess that in the course of the play she would find again her family, regain her respectable status and finally get married to her lover.41 The obstacles encountered by the lovers were also of various kinds. In Euboulos’ Pamphilos there was a nurse guarding the girl (fr. 80.3 ff.). In Antiphanes’ scenarios the lover had to exchange blows for the sake of his beloved hetaira (Ath. 13.555a), presumably fighting with the avaricious leno or with a fervent rival in love. The foreigner (ξένος) in Alexis’ Agonis, whom the enamoured young hero tries to impress or delude with a display of silverware (fr. 2, cf. Ath. 6.230b), may also have been the young man’s rival (e. g. a soldier from abroad) or a greedy leno.42 Other comedies, such as Anaxilas’ Neottis (fr. 22), Philetairos’ Kynagis (fr. 9), and Theophilos’ Philaulos (fr. 11), feature a personage delivering a fierce speech against hetairai, their vices, or their wiles for capturing and financially exploiting lovers. The speaker of those tirades may have been a “blocking figure” (e. g. a stern father or pedagogue) warning the young hero or opposing his desire for women of that class.43 This kind of personage would obviously attempt to obstruct the pursuit of the love 40

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On this not altogether felicitous term see Henry (1985: 3–4, 47–48); Auhagen (2009: 36, 105–106, 121); cf. Brown (1990: 251–255). See Webster (1970: 7, 77); Henry (1985: 38); Hunter (1987: 289); Konstantakos (2002: 147); Auhagen (2009: 74–75). See Webster (1970: 73); Arnott (1996: 51–57); Arnott (2010: 328–329). Cf. e. g. Plaut. Bacch. 143–169, 368 ff. (the pedagogue Lydus). Note especially Theophilos fr. 11: τοῦ μή ποτ’ αὐτὸν ἐμπεσεῖν εἰς Λαΐδα / φερόμενον Μηκωνίδ’ Σισύμβριον /  Βάραθρον Θάλλουσαν τούτων τινὰ / ὧν ἐμπλέκουσι τοῖς λίνοις αἱ μαστροποί, / † ναυσιον Μαλθάκην. This seems to be spoken by an

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affair. Alternatively, the wrathful denunciation may belong to a disappointed lover, disillusioned by the faithlessness, indifference or greed of the hetaira he was enamoured of.44 Such a situation also entails trouble and tribulations for the man in love. The schemes implemented by the hero for the promotion of his amatory cause also ranged over a spectrum of activities. In Euboulos’ Pamphilos a ruse was contrived, in order to entice the girl’s nurse to a wine­shop and intoxicate her with large quantities of wine (fr. 80). The objective was presumably to slacken the woman’s vigilance for some purpose (e. g. in order to extract information about her ward or abduct the girl). The heroes of Antiphanes fought with blows against the obstructing personages (Ath. 13.555a); those of Anaxandrides resorted to rape of the desired maiden (Suda α 1982). All these variations indicate that an extensive repertoire of plot situations had been developed within the genre of domestic love-drama.45 The remains of mythological burlesques also reveal a range of comic strategies for the exploitation of mythical narratives. This can be especially perceived with regard to the supernatural elements of myth, the various magical acts, fabulous objects or beings, miraculous incidents and supernatural powers, which formed intrinsic part of the Hellenic mythical heritage. A variety of methods were employed in order to turn these elements into facetious stuff for the stage.46 Sometimes the dramatist adopted comic euhemerism and rationalization. The miraculous motifs were reduced to natural, realistic happenings, and their wondrous parameters were explained away as metaphors or figures of speech.47 For example, Anaxandrides’ Tereus humorously secularized the

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authority figure wishing to keep a young male away from the clutches of manipulative prostitutes. Cf. e. g. Timokles fr. 25; Men. Dis exapaton 91–102, Sam. 325 ff.; Plaut. Asin. 127– 152, Truc. 22 ff. On the possible speakers of such tirades see Webster (1970: 63); Nesselrath (1990: 322–323); Konstantakos (2002: 146, 150); Papachrysostomou (2008: 229, 272–273); Auhagen (2009: 66–67, 71). Philetairos’ two hetaira­comedies point perhaps to other types of obstacles or blocking personages. The enamoured old man in the Kynagis (fr. 6, see above, n. 15) might have been a rival of the young hero. The hetaira’s lover in the Korinthiastes (fr. 5) was perhaps married or facing an unwanted marriage (see above, n. 14), which would place strain on his amorous pursuits. Cf. the remarks of Brown (1990: 241–246) on the variety of love plots in New Comedy. I have fully explored this topic in Konstantakos (2014b). See Nesselrath (1990: 216–218, 220–221, 229–236, 240); Casolari (2003: 23–24, 273–275, 288, 298–299). They are wrong, however, to assume that this strategy

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transformation of the eponymous Thracian king and his family members into birds. Fr. 46 must stem from a parody of a deus ex machina type of scene, where the hero (presumably Tereus or his son Itys) is rather anticlimactically informed about his destiny: (A.) You will be called Bird (Cock). (B.) For god’s sake, why? Is it because I ate up my father’s property, like that handsome fellow, Polyeuktos? (A.) No, of course not. It is because you, a male, were cut to pieces by females.48 The protagonist is not actually transformed into a bird, as in the old mythical narrative. Instead, he acquires the appellation ὄρνις as a derisive nickname. In Greek ὄρνις may mean both generally “bird” (a link with the traditional myth) and more specifically “cock”, and it is this second sense that justifies the hero’s sobriquet: he will be henceforward known as ὄρνις / cock because he received rough treatment from the women of his household – just as a cock may be physically beaten by a hen in combat, a fact well­known to the observant Greeks.49 The miraculous metamorphosis is thus reduced to a mere pun. If the hero addressed here is Itys, the passage is capped with an additional wordplay. In the myth Itys was literally cut to pieces (the primary meaning of the verb κατακόπτειν) by the two vengeful sisters, Procne and Philomela. In the comic scene, however, this verb is used in a metaphorical sense (“overwhelm”, “give rough treatment to someone”). The primeval ferocity of the myth sheds its place to an amusing and fully domesticated metaphor.50 In other plays the wondrous motif is retained intact but placed within an ordinary urban environment, assimilated to the society of the dramatist’s own age. It thus discords with its prosaic surroundings, producing hilarious incongruity. Fr. 15 from Euboulos’ Bellerophontes is clearly spoken by the eponymous hero of the play: “Is there anyone to catch hold of my leg from down below? See, I am lifted up like a kottabos rod!”51 Whether on the back

48

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51

was the only available comic procedure, emblematic of Middle Comedy practice. The fragments reveal a more variegated picture; see below. (Α.) ὄρνις κεκλήσῃ. (Β.) διὰ τί, πρὸς τῆς Ἑστίας; / πότερον καταφαγὼν τὴν πα­ τρῴαν οὐσίαν, / ὥσπερ Πολύευκτος ὁ καλός; (Α.) οὐ δῆτ’, ἀλλ’ ὅτι / ἄρρην ὑπὸ θηλειῶν κατεκόπης. For analysis and interpretation see Nesselrath (1990: 216– 218); Millis (2001: 225–230). See Arist. HA 631b 8–18; Ael. NA 5.5. Another striking example of the same kind is Comic Adespoton fr. 1062. See Nesselrath (1990: 229–233); Nesselrath (1995: 22–27); Olson (2007: 125–126); Konstantakos (2012: 142–146); Konstantakos (2014b). τίς ἂν λάβοιτο τοῦ σκέλους κάτωθέ μοι; / ἄνω γὰρ ὥσπερ κοττάβειον αἴρομαι. See Hunter (1983: 108–109); Nesselrath (1990: 234, 241).

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of Pegasus (as in the myth) or by some other unusual means, the comic Bellerophontes is rising up in the air. The mythic miracle has been essentially preserved in the comic scenario, but it is mingled with habits from fourth­ century everyday life. At the moment of his flight, the hero remembers the game of kottabos, a favourite sympotic pastime of classical Athens. Thus, the fantastic component of myth clashes with the familiarized milieu.52 This is combined with another comic mechanism: the reversal of the traditional mythical situation. Bellerophontes is not flying of his own accord, but reacts to his ascent with terror; he shouts for help and calls for someone to hold him down. It is not he that takes the initiative to tame Pegasus and travel in the sky; rather, the winged creature drags him up against his will. Such inversion of mythical facts was a distinct comic artifice in Attic mythological burlesques.53 In Euboulos’ play it contributes to the undermining of the wondrous motif. The latter is stripped from the parameters regularly accompanying it in the mythical narrative and introduced into an unfamiliar scenario: within the new script all the ingredients of the miraculous incident (the hero’s role and character, the manner and purpose of his flight) are upturned and perverted, as though projected on a deforming mirror. A different kind of strategy is traceable in another group of myth travesties, which mostly deal with magical transformations. The fabulous event is pushed to its extreme logical and practical consequences, and these become the object of comic exploitation. Amphis’ fr. 46, cited in the scholia on Aratus and other late sources, reads very much like a plot summary of a comic play.54 52

53 54

A visual example of this technique is offered by an Apulian bell krater (ca. 380– 370 B.C.) illustrating a comic play on the birth of Helen: PhV2 18 (Trendall 1967: 27); Catteruccia (1951: 38–39); Bieber (1961: 135); Trendall / Webster (1971: 138); Taplin (1993: 82–83, 115, pl. 19.20); Storey (2011: III 444). In accordance with the mythical tale, young Helen is emerging from a huge egg, as a fully­formed little girl. However, this magical event is incorporated within a mundane milieu reproducing the stock bourgeois setting of Attic comedy: see Konstantakos (2014a: 169–171) and Konstantakos (2014b: 86–87). It should not be taken for granted that this picture illustrates Kratinos’ Nemesis (thus Rusten 2011: 435; cf. Taplin 1993: 89). Fourth­century plays, such as Alexis’ Helen and Tyndareos, Euboulos’ Lakones or Leda and Sophilos’ Tyndareos or Leda, are equally strong candidates and temporally closer to the vase­painting. See Arist. Po. 1453a 30–39; Webster (1970: 57); Konstantakos (2014a: 175–176). Sch. Arat. 37–44 (p. 90 Martin): Ἄμφις ὁ τῶν κωμῳδιῶν ποιητὴς περὶ τῆς {τοῦ} μείζονος Ἄρκτου φησὶν ὅτι τὸν Δία ὁμοιωθέντα Ἀρτέμιδι καὶ κυνηγετοῦντα εἰς τὸ ὄρος φθεῖραι αὐτήν. ὕστερον δὲ ἐταζομένην εἰπεῖν μηδένα ἕτερον αἴτιον εἶναι τοῦ συμπτώματος πλὴν Ἄρτεμιν. ἐφ’ ᾧ ὀργισθεῖσ ἐκθηριῶσαι αὐτήν. A similar synopsis is given in Latin paraphrases of Aratus’ Phaenomena and the

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The subject of this play was the story of Kallisto, Artemis’ hunting companion, who was raped by Zeus and left pregnant. According to Amphis’ version, the great god assumed Artemis’ guise in order to approach Kallisto and have intercourse with her. The same metamorphosis is later mentioned in the accounts of Ovid, Apollodorus and other sources;55 it is a saucy addition to the long and variegated list of Zeus’ changes of form for the purposes of his erotic exploits. This wondrous transfiguration was coupled with another one later in the comic action: Artemis, angered against Kallisto, punished her by turning her into a bear.56 Amphis appears to have pursued Zeus’ metamorphosis to its ultimate practical effects, which produced amusing complications and misunderstandings. As the synopsis indicates, Artemis discovered the rape of Kallisto (perhaps by noticing the visible signs of the girl’s pregnancy, as in other mythographic accounts) and questioned her young companion about her plight. Kallisto, duped by the trick of her rapist, put the blame on none other than Artemis herself. It is hilarious to imagine the ensuing comedy of errors, with Kallisto’s outrageous naïveté and the escalating indignation of the virgin goddess. Thus, Zeus’ supernatural feat, an action transgressing natural causality, is nevertheless inserted into a regular causal sequence of events. Although it stands outside physical law and logic, it is woven into a

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scholia on them, as well as in Hyg. Astr. 2.1. The ultimate source must have been a Hellenistic collection of constellation myths (Catasterismi), composed by a well­ read Alexandrian scholar, who had presumably consulted Amphis’ script. This kind of mythographic compilation, when drawing from dramatic texts, is much more likely to offer the outline of a play’s plot or a summary of scenes from it, than to paraphrase e. g. a character’s tirade or another reported passage. See in general Henrichs (1987a: 254–262); Nesselrath (1990: 234–235). See Ov. Met. 2.425–440; Apollod. Bibl. 3.8.2; Sch. Call. Jov. 41 (II p. 43 Pfeiffer); Nonn. D. 2.122–123, 33.289–292; Henrichs (1987a: 275–276). This is the natural interpretation of ἐκθηριῶσαι αὐτήν in the plot synopsis. I see no reason to follow Nesselrath (1990: 235) in assuming that Kallisto’s metamorphosis in this comedy was simply a figure of speech, as happened e. g. with the sobriquet ὄρνις in Anaxandrides’ Tereus. Amphis’ play already included one transformation, that of Zeus into Artemis. Why should it avoid or rationalize the second one? Theriomorphic or mixed (half­animal, half­human) figures were a favourite spectacle of fifth­century theatre. An echo of this old comic phantasmagoria might have survived in fourth­century myth burlesques. After her punishment, Kallisto would appear as a ludicrous crossbreed of woman and bear, donning a specially made costume; cf. the human protagonists provided with avian feathers in Birds 801 ff., as well as the Chorus­men of the Wasps, endowed with stings and other waspish features.

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nexus of chain reactions and effects which follow the rational and physical order. In other words, the dramatist ironically exploits the logical, natural and fully human results of an irrational, extra­natural and superhuman event. It is exactly this discordance between incompatible levels of existence that produces the comic effect. In essence, the supernatural is unleashed into the world of ordinary experience, drawing the characters into a labyrinth of mutual incomprehension. The same technique underlies Plautus’ Amphitruo, usually considered as an adaptation of a Greek fourth­century mythological burlesque. The wondrous component of the myth, viz. Zeus’ metamorphosis into Amphitryon, is retained – indeed, it is duplicated and reflected in Mercury’s parallel transformation into the comic servus Sosia. The playwright sets these miraculous transmutations at the heart of his plotline and unfolds their ludicrous consequences on the practical experience of the human personages. Mistaking Jupiter for the real Amphitruo and Mercury for Sosia, the characters are entangled in a net of successive confusions, and their ordinary world is turned into a farce of madness. An earlier comedy on the Amphitryon theme seems to have applied the same technique to another wondrous motif of the tradition. The title of Platon’s Nyx Makra presumably alludes to the long night par excellence of ancient myth: the tripled night during which Zeus enjoyed Alkmene’s love and begot Heracles.57 Two fragments of this play (90, 91) describe personages carrying oil lamps or lanterns.58 The characters probably needed such artificial lights because of the divinely prolonged night, so as to go about in the dark. If so, the audience would have observed the mythical miracle from the perspective of everyday routine, facing its prosaic effects on reality. The gods’ magical games with time caused mundane difficulties to the humans. Viewed

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See Webster (1970: 91, 95); Rosen (1995: 124); Casolari (2003: 32–33); Pirrotta (2009: 196–199); cf. Konstantakos (2002: 158) for refutation of other scenarios. Platon’s myth burlesques present notable similarities to those produced by the authors of Middle Comedy proper. They may conceivably belong to the later part of Platon’s career, around or after ca. 400 B.C., when the mythological genre started enjoying its greatest vogue. The same argument can be made for the mythical travesties of other dramatists of the same period (Alkaios, Diokles, Nikochares, Nikophon, Philyllios, Strattis, Theopompos, all active at the end of the fifth and in the early fourth century). See Nesselrath (1990: 202–204); Rosen (1995: 119–137). Fr. 90: ἐνταῦθ’ ἐπ’ ἄκρων τῶν κροτάφων ἕξει λύχνον / δίμυξον (“there, high above his temples, he will have a two­wicked oil lamp”). Fr. 91: ἕξουσιν οἱ πομπεῖς λυχνούχους δηλαδή (“the escorts will be carrying lanterns, of course”).

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from this angle, the fabulous element is comically tainted by the banality of common life. Anaxilas’ Kirke and Kalypso, a diptych of comedies about Odysseus’ travel adventures, entailed related strategies. In Kirke fr. 13 one of Odysseus’ companions (or perhaps all of them together, as a singing Chorus) is contemplating his transformation into a pig: “A terrible thing, to have the snout of a swine and suffer from an itch, my dear fellow”. In Kalypso fr. 11 another such personage is looking back on the same experience: “Then I became aware that I was bearing a pig’s snout”.59 The consequences of the magical metamorphosis are here comically considered from the viewpoint of the transformed men themselves. One or the other of Odysseus’ sailors describes what he experienced when he was turned into a pig, how he saw the swine’s snout springing out from his face. The wonder is again pursued to its most prosaic empirical repercussions: suddenly the fellow in pig’s form feels an itch but is unable to scratch himself and find relief. The mythical miracle is brought down to the level of the common people obliged to endure it and filtered through their humble concerns. Whether working in the mythical or in the erotic / domestic mode, the writers of Middle Comedy developed a wide repertoire of stage situations and comic techniques. Ultimately, this was a matter of authorial survival: if the poets had monotonously imitated the same plot pattern or strategy in all their creations, they would have soon exhausted the potential of the corresponding comic forms and their capacity to entertain audiences. Poets, of course, always know better. Thus, the “micro­variety” of motifs and artifices within each comic genre enabled e. g. the mythological burlesque to thrive for the best part of the fourth century, and the love play to survive even longer, taken up in virtual exclusivity by the succeeding generations of Hellenistic comedy. 4. Games with stock material, I: The comic fishmonger To achieve variety of dramatic detail, the playwrights of the Middle era also exploited another seminal method: the innovative and playful handling of stock comic elements, the self­conscious games with the comic tradition. Fourth­century comedy relied to a considerable extent on standardized ingredients, which recurred again and again in its repertoire: stereotyped char59

Fr. 11: ῥύγχος φορῶν ὕειον ᾐσθόμην τότε. Fr. 13: δεινὸν μὲν γὰρ ἔχονθ’ ὑὸς / ῥύγχος, ὦ φίλε, κνησιᾶν. For detailed discussion of these fragments and their possible contexts see Konstantakos (2014b: 94–96).

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acters and plot patterns, commonplace motifs exploited in play after play. Sometimes, a dramatist might humorously toy with such stock components, upturning their usual structure, reversing their standard conventions, or giving them an original amusing twist. He thus created novel variations and infused new life into elements that were possibly wearing out from use. This literary practice is predominantly connected with Menander, in the subsequent period of New Comedy. It was Menander, for example, that treated the stock comic soldier in such a manner: in a series of plays (Perikeiromene, Misoumenos, Sikyonioi) he turned the traditional braggart captain into a true human figure with genuine feelings, deep sensitivity and sincere passion. The same poet also repeatedly upturned the stereotype of the wily slave organizing the intrigue: his purportedly cunning slave­figures (e. g. Onesimos in the Epitrepontes or Getas in the Dyskolos) are soon proved ineffectual or incompetent, and the scheming is shifted to other characters, such as the clever hetaira Habrotonon (Epitrepontes) or the friendly rustic Gorgias (Dyskolos). Menander even reversed the commonplace exclusus amator motif in his Misoumenos, making the desperate lover shut himself out of his own door!60 Impressive though these artifices may be, Menander was not the first to indulge in such effects. The playwrights of Middle Comedy were also in the habit of innovating or ironically subverting stock patterns of tradition. Once again, this is hard to observe on the level of character portrayal or plot construction, because we do not possess extensive portions of Middle Comedy plays, so as to assess the evolvement of the storyline and the full development of a personage. Nonetheless, the process is perceptible with regard to specific motifs, and these indicate that the earlier fourth­century dramatists were no less inventive than their illustrious New Comedy epigone. A favourite target of Middle Comedy was the fishmonger, vehemently attacked in numerous comic passages. The standard scenic context for such lampoons is a character’s return from the fish­market. A slave, cook or other personage, who had been sent shopping, comes back from the agora and delivers a lengthy tirade, expressing his indignation against the fishmongers he encountered there. Among other things, he taunts and castigates them for their exorbitant prices, arrogant stance and dishonest market tactics. Overall, there are more than fifteen such speeches among the fragments of fourth­ century comedy, enough to establish the invective against fishmongers as a

60

For these innovative aspects of Menander’s art see the classic studies of Handley (1970: 3–26) and Zagagi (1994: 15–45).

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stock comic topos.61 In all those passages the fish­seller is only portrayed in narrative, however vividly; he does not appear in person on stage. With this recurring motif in mind, we may now turn to Antiphanes fr. 27 from a comedy entitled Halieuomene, “The woman that goes fishing”:62 τὰς σηπίας δὸς πρῶτον. ράκλεις ἄναξ, ἅπαντα τεθολώκασιν. οὐ βαλεῖς πάλιν εἰς τὴν θάλατταν καὶ πλυνεῖς; μὴ φῶσί σε, Δωριάς, ἀλούτους σηπίας εἰληφέναι. τὸν κάραβον δὲ τόνδε πρὸς τὰς μαινίδας 5 ἀπόδος· παχύς γε νὴ Δί’. ὦ Ζεῦ, τίς ποτε, ὦ Καλλιμέδων, σὲ κατέδετ’ ἄρτι τῶν φίλων; οὐδεὶς ὃς ἂν μὴ κατατιθῇ τὰς συμβολάς. ὑμᾶς δ’ ἔταξα δεῦρο πρὸς τὰ δεξιά, τρίγλας, ἔδεσμα τοῦ καλοῦ Καλλισθένους· 10 κατεσθίει γοῦν ἐπὶ μιᾷ τὴν οὐσίαν. καὶ τὸν Σινώπης γόγγρον δη παχυτέρας ἔχοντ’ ἀκάνθας τουτονὶ τίς λήψεται πρῶτος προσελθών; Μισγόλας γὰρ οὐ πάνυ τούτων ἐδεστής. ἀλλὰ κίθαρος οὑτοσί, 15 ὃν ἂν ἴδῃ τὰς χεῖρας οὐκ ἀφέξεται. καὶ μὴν ἀληθῶς τοῖς κιθαρῳδοῖς ὡς σφόδρα ἅπασιν οὗτος ἐπιπεφυκὼς λανθάνει. 61

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See Antiphanes fr. 123, 145, 159, 164, 204, 217; Amphis fr. 30; Xenarchos fr. 7; Alexis fr. 16, 57, 76, 130, 131, 204; Diphilos fr. 32, 67. Cf. the brief mention in Antiphanes fr. 157.9–10, where fishmongers are reckoned in the long list of evil groups deprecated by the misanthrope. There are antecedents in fifth­century productions: see Ar. Vesp. 493–495, fr. 402.8–10; Archippos fr. 23. In these early cases the description of the fishmonger is shorter (a few lines, instead of the long tirades of Middle Comedy) and sometimes only adduced in passing, as an illustrative example within a different context, not related to a character shopping at the fish­market (thus in the two Aristophanic passages). Nonetheless, certain characteristic details already prefigure standard components of the Middle Comedy examples: such are the abusive adjectives (Ar. fr. 402.10, Archippos fr. 23.1; cf. e. g. Antiphanes fr. 159.5, 204.5, Amphis fr. 30.4, 8, Xenarchos fr. 7.5, Alexis fr. 16.5, Diphilos fr. 67.2–4); the denounced staleness, low quality and exaggerated price of the fishes (Ar. fr. 402); and the lively depiction of a scene at the market (Vesp. 493 ff., see below). Generally on this popular comic topos see Webster (1970: 38– 39); Nesselrath (1990: 291–296); Arnott (1996: 98–99); Nesselrath (1997: 277–278, 286). For detailed analysis and commentary on this fragment see Konstantakos (2000: 63–93); cf. also Nesselrath (1997: 279–281, 286–287).

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ἀνδρῶν δ’ ἄριστον Κωβιὸν πηδῶντ’ ἔτι πρὸς Πυθιονίκην τὴν καλὴν πέμψαι με δεῖ· ἁδρὸς γάρ ἐστιν. ἀλλ’ ὅμως οὐ γεύσεται· ἐπὶ τὸ τάριχός ἐστιν ὡρμηκυῖα γάρ. ἀφύας δὲ λεπτὰς τάσδε καὶ τὴν τρυγόνα χωρὶς Θεανοῖ δεῦρ’ ἔθηκ’ ἀντιρρόπους

20

Give me first the cuttlefishes. Oh my lord Heracles! They have squirted and made everything turbid. Quickly, throw them back into the sea and wash them clean. Oh Dorias, let them not say that you have taken unwashed cuttlefishes. As for this langouste here, put it to its proper place, next to the sprats. Why, it is a fat one, I swear! By Jove, my dear Kallimedon, which one of your friends is presently going to eat you up? Nobody who does not pay his contribution to the dinner. As for you, the red mullets, I have laid you down here on the right; you are the handsome Kallisthenes’ favourite dish. At any rate, he is gobbling up all his property for one of you. Now, what about this conger­eel of Sinope, whose bones are so thick? Who will be the first to approach and buy it? Certainly not Misgolas; he is no great connoisseur of this kind of food. No, for him is rather this harp­turbot. If he takes a look at this one, he will not keep his hands off. For in truth, he is so passionately attached to all the harp­ players, and no one has noticed it. Further, this excellent fellow, Mr Goby, I must dispatch him to the fair Pythionike while he is still jumping; for he is a lusty one. Still, she will not taste him. You see, she has developed an appetite for salted fish. Now, these tiny small fry and the sting ray I place them separately over here for Theano. They weigh as much as she does. The speaker of this long piece does not seem to be the heroine of the title.63 The exclamation ράκλεις (v. 1) suggests that he is a man: in extant Greek comedy oaths and invocations of Heracles are exclusively used by male characters, whenever the speaker’s identity can be established.64 If the 63

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Pace Meineke and Kassel / Austin ad loc., Nesselrath (1997: 280–281) and Auhagen (2009: 78). This is always the case in the extant plays of Aristophanes (23 examples) and the papyrus portions of Menander (24 examples). In comic fragments also, whenever the text offers gender indications for the personage invoking Heracles, this personage is male: see Diphilos fr. 31.11; Adesp. Com. fr. 1017.15, 1063.26, 1093.163. Cf. Werres (1936: 44); Gomme / Sandbach (1973: 394); Feneron (1974: 89). Hipparchos fr. 3 (from Thais) would seem to be the sole exception: (Α.) ὁ λαβρώνιος δ’ ἔσθ’ οὗτος ὄρνις; (Β.) ράκλεις· / ποτήριον χρυσοῦς διακοσίους ἄγον. / (Α.) ὢ περιβοήτου, φιλτάτη, λαβρωνίου. But the context of this dialogue is uncertain.

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Halieuomene staged a fantastic scenario, with a woman inverting traditional gender roles and undertaking a standard male activity (such as fishing), then the female protagonist might use typically male oaths, but only on condition that she would also disguise herself as a man. Compare the same situation in Ar. Eccl. 160, where a woman in male disguise swears a manly oath by Apollo.65 However, in such a case we would have expected an accumulation of several male linguistic markers running through the speech: the masquerading lady would purposefully fill her discourse with such elements, in order to build up a verbal “disguise” as well. Or else, the playwright would make her comically betray her female identity by means of some blunder or inconsistency (cf. Eccl. 155 ff., where the woman posing as a man utters a distinctively female oath). Yet, neither of these effects is traceable in the rest of fr. 27, although an extensive portion of the speech is preserved. Whatever his identity, the speaker’s actions are clearly discernible through his discourse. He has in front of him a number of fishes and shellfish, belonging to various species. These are visible on stage, presumably represented by dummies: note the repeated demonstratives (5 τόνδε, 13 τουτονί, 15 οὑτοσί, 23 τάσδε) and the speaker’s direct addresses to certain items (7, 9–10). While speaking, the character is arranging the fishes on some kind of table or stall, assigning particular items to distinct places: this is clearly indicated by phrases such as “you, the red mullets, I have laid down here on the right” (9–10) and “these tiny small fry and the sting­ray I place them separately over here” (23–24).66 Another person is helping the speaker in his task, handing him over some of the fishes (1) or placing others on a prescribed spot (5–6, “put this langouste to its proper place, next to the sprats”). This assistant is most probably a slave or employee of the main figure. As becomes clear, the speaker is putting up his fishes for sale. He humorously comments on

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φιλτάτη (v. 3) need not be addressed to character B, making him female. Speaker A may be apostrophizing some other personage with these words. For instance, B might be enumerating the presents he is sending to his girlfriend (possibly the title­heroine Thais, cf. the scenario proposed by Meineke and Kassel / Austin ad loc.), including this curiously named λαβρώνιος. Speaker A would then apostrophize Thais (whether she was present on stage or not): ὢ περιβοήτου, φιλτάτη, λαβρωνίου etc. The reverse occurs in Ar. Thesm. 225, 254, 517, 569: Euripides’ Kinsman is dressed up as a woman and swears female oaths by Demeter, Aphrodite and Artemis. ἀντιρρόπους (24, “of equal weight”, “counterpoising”) might suggest that there is also a pair of scales on the table, to weigh the fishes. The items are certainly not being placed in a basket or other container for conveyance to the market. In such a case, it would be absurd to assign them to particular places, since they would inevitably become mixed up during transportation.

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each particular species he takes in hand, speculating on the customers likely to buy it (6–8, 12–14) or actually reserving it for a particular buyer (9–11, 15–16, 19–20). The goby will be dispatched to the hetaira Pythionike (20); this is presumably meant as a special service to a famous or favourite customer. But people are also expected to “come” to the speaker’s stall and buy of his wares (13–14, λήψεται ... προσελθών). The entire speech is full of amusing wordplay and fanciful metaphors: almost every fish mockingly alludes to a contemporary celebrity of Athens and the circumstances of his or her life. The density of comic imagery recalls the extensive metaphorical constructions of Aristophanes or Rabelais.67 In short, the speaker is unmistakably behaving like a fishmonger. Whether he is a regular, professional salesman or not, in this scene he is clearly acting out the fishmonger’s part: he arranges his fish­wares on his bench, expects potential customers to come and buy them, or reserves particular pieces for regular clients with special tastes.68 In this way, Antiphanes brings the comic fish­seller live on stage. This must have been a novelty. Fourth­century audiences were used to hearing tirades and descriptions about fishmongers; Antiphanes himself composed a large number of such speeches. This time, however, the poet wished to produce an original variation, so as to instil new power into this well­known and perhaps already trite topos. Therefore, instead of narrating about a fishmonger, he showed one in action as a dramatic personage. With an impressive coup de théâtre, the celebrated ichthyopoles appears incarnate before the spectators’ eyes, advertising his merchandise and gossiping about his customers. Indeed, certain passages of this long monologue reproduce or playfully allude to standard components of the usual comic fish­market narratives. The double-edged statement that Kallisthenes is “eating up his entire property” for a red mullet (10–11) recalls a commonplace of such tirades: the complaint that fishmongers sell their merchandise at exorbitant prices (Ar. fr. 402.9, Antiphanes fr. 145, 164, Alexis fr. 16, Diphilos fr. 32). In some fragments the buyer is indeed described, with comic exaggeration, as spending his entire property in order to acquire the extravagantly priced fishes (Alexis fr. 76, 204), exactly like Kallisthenes.69 The jokes about the “unwashed” cuttlefishes 67

68 69

Cf. e. g. Ar. Pax 242–254 (a series of cities metaphorically presented as foodstuffs); Av. 760–767 (a list of contemporary Athenians symbolically associated to corresponding bird species). For a full analysis of the comic metaphors and puns see Nesselrath (1997: 280–281, 286–287) and Konstantakos (2000: 70–93). Cf. Webster (1970: 39); Nesselrath (1990: 292). Note the similarity in phrasing: Antiphanes fr. 27.11, κατεσθίει ... τὴν οὐσίαν ~ Alexis fr. 76.7, τῆς οὐσίας γάρ εἰσιν μῖν ὤνιοι; fr. 204.4–6, δεκατεύουσι ... τὰς

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(1–4) and the unsaleable conger­eel with its thick bones (12–13) may point to another recurrent comic blame against fish­sellers: the low quality of their wares. Their fishes are regularly described as stale and putrid (Antiphanes fr. 123, 159, 217, Ar. fr. 402.9) or small and poor (Ar. fr. 402.8, Antiphanes fr. 164.6–7).70 The thick bones of the conger­eel are probably bound up with an allusion to the advanced age of the corresponding hetaira, Sinope: the latter was indeed mocked in comedy as an old woman inappropriately persevering in her erotic profession.71 Perhaps there is an implication that this conger is old and worthless, like the long­dead and stale merchandise of the typical comic fish­stall. Further, the theatrical fishmonger is occasionally depicted as fond of wordplay and verbal jokes, just like his live counterpart in Antiphanes’ scene. The salesman in Antiphanes fr. 204 humorously attributes the high price of his gobies to their provenance from Phaleron (a pun on the renowned Φαληρικαὶ ἀφύαι, “small fry of Phaleron”, which were indeed highly esteemed). The fish­sellers of Alexis fr. 57 resolve to honour Kallimedon, a celebrated Athenian gourmand of the time, for his huge expenses in the fish­market. Kallimedon was popularly known by the nickname κάραβος, “langouste”,

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οὐσίας ... ὅλας δ’ ἀφαιροῦνται. The joke about Kallisthenes rests on the double meaning of τρίγλη: the red mullet, but also apparently the nickname of a hetaira, with whom Kallisthenes was amorously involved. Cf. also Ar. Vesp. 493–495, Antiphanes fr. 123 and 204, where the fishmonger is selling cheap and despised species of small fishes (sprats or gobies). See Anaxilas fr. 22.12–14; Ath. 13.586a. For an interpretation of these lines see Konstantakos (2000: 81–83). Σινώπης is to be taken with τὸν ... γόγγρον as “appositive genitive” (“this conger­eel, i. e. Sinope”), while παχυτέρας is absolute (“quite thick”). The conger / Sinope is the only item of this long enumeration that finds no buyer. Since fish­buying also functions here as an allegory for love affairs, this means that no­one wishes to be erotically involved with Sinope, presumably because she is advanced in years and unattractive. ἀκάνθας signifies the bones of the conger­eel, which are plentiful in the lower half of its body (cf. Arist. HA 616a 32; Ath. 7.312 f). The word also punningly refers to Sinope: just as the conger has thick bones, so Sinope has grown “a thick backbone”, i. e. she has become hunchback from old age (cf. E. El. 492, διπλῆν ἄκανθαν for a stooping old man; further Hdt. 4.72.5, Arist. HA 511b 33, Hp. Oss. 12–18). Additionally, the lower half of the conger’s body is generally deemed worthless and inedible, because it is full of spiny bones; fishmongers usually throw it away, selling only the upper parts (cf. Archedikos fr. 3.2; Antiphanes fr. 130.4; Archestratos fr. 19 Olson / Sens). It is thus implied that the ageing Sinope is as undesirable as the bony lower portions of this fish.

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because of his conspicuous squint;72 therefore, the fishmongers will erect a statue of him bearing a langouste in his right hand, as his personal emblem. The speaker of fr. 27 exploits the same jesting metonymy, carrying it one stage further: now Kallimedon himself becomes the langouste, merging with his fishy mascot (5–8). The langouste is visibly materialized as a dummy in the fishmonger’s hands, while the text of Alexis fr. 57 only calls us to imagine its effigy in the hand of Kallimedon. In all these cases, Antiphanes implants the commonplace motifs into a new context: he makes them come alive in the fishmonger’s mouth and deeds, transposing them from plain narrative into real theatrical action. The dramatist’s originality was probably not exhausted with the tirade of fr. 27. The preserved text may have been followed by further scenes, in which the same fish­seller played a part. The setting of the fragment involves an elaborate scenic arrangement, with dummy­fishes exhibited on a bench or stall. Such a stage effect is unlikely to have been designed for the sake of a single monologue. The comic narratives about fishmongers usually develop into a lively report of some incident in the fish­market, with the fish­seller and a customer conversing and bargaining with each other.73 Such a scene, again in dramatized form, is the most plausible sequel for fr. 27. Since the speaker of this passage is vividly envisaging his customers and expecting them to come, the following episodes must have fulfilled his expectations in some way: a potential client would appear and engage in repartee with the salesman. In that case, Antiphanes would be continuing his innovative theatrical effect, animating again on stage a kind of scene that was habitually reported only in speeches.74

72

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On the politician Kallimedon, his nickname, and the comic passages mocking him see handily Arnott (1996: 178–179); Nesselrath (1997: 276–277, 286). See Ar. Vesp. 493–495; Antiphanes fr. 204; Amphis fr. 30; Alexis fr. 16; Xenarchos fr. 7; Diphilos fr. 67. In another comedy (Misoponeros fr. 157) Antiphanes offers a different variation of the tirade against fishmongers, once again renewing the commonplace motif, although in a less impressive manner. Speeches about fish­sellers usually developed at great length, with detailed illustration of their arrogant attitude and cunning tricks, description of their wares and prices, and lively reports of fish­market episodes. Instead, the misanthrope delivering fr. 157 only grants fishmongers a brief mention (vv. 9–10), enumerating them among many other categories of people whom he condemns as evil (nurses, pedagogues, midwives, itinerant priests of Cybele, and bankers). The comic fish­seller, who was regularly the focus of attention in long tirades, now becomes merely a name in a list of villains, vaguely abused, without the slightest illustration of his attitude or eccentricities.

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5. Games with stock material, II: Heracles and his meal A second example of such artful toying with the comic tradition is provided by a theme that can be traced back to the primetime of Old Comedy. A passage from Aristophanes’ Wasps (57–60) mentions “Heracles being cheated of his dinner” ( ρακλῆς τὸ δεῖπνον ἐξαπατώμενος) as a well­known comic routine, typical of “Megarian” laughter (γέλωτα Μεγαρόθεν κεκλεμμένον). This latter phrase presumably refers to a genre of popular comic performance which flourished at Megara during the fifth century and is often denounced by Athenian playwrights as low and vulgar.75 Nonetheless, the same routine was also exploited by Attic comic poets of the time. A line of the Lysistrata (928) indicates that the formula “to be entertained like Heracles” ( ρακλῆς ξενίζεται) had become proverbial in the sense “to be cheated of an expected pleasure”, “to be feasted on empty promises”. Aristophanes himself, despite his avowed repudiation of this trite motif in the Wasps, staged a version of it a few years later. Towards the end of the Birds, Heracles arrives at Cloudcuckooland as a member of the embassy sent by the famished Olympian gods to Peisetairos, the comic protagonist. The latter is purposefully roasting some delicious birds on stage (1579 ff.), naturally arousing the starved Heracles’ appetite (1585 ff.). Thus, as soon as the negotiations are concluded and the divine embassy makes ready to depart, the hungry son of Alkmene volunteers to stay back and take himself care of the birds’ cooking (1689–1690). His intention is doubtless to gulp down these dainties on his own, while the others will be absent. Poseidon, however, takes a different view: he scolds Heracles for his gluttony and drags him away (1691–1692). In this way, the great mythical gobbler misses the meal he was eager for.76 75 76

See Konstantakos (2012) with further references. The Frogs contains yet another variation. Xanthias is disguised as Heracles and hence mistaken for the great hero by Persephone’s maid. She invites him to enter her mistress’ palace and enjoy a lavish meal, which Persephone has been preparing for Heracles (503 ff.). The ingredients of this meal are described at length in all their abundance and variety (505–518). Xanthias is repeatedly exhorted to come in and partake of the feast (503, 507–509, 512–513, 517). But as soon as he makes ready to enter, he is prevented by his master Dionysus, who takes back the costume of Heracles, so as to savour the banquet himself; Xanthias is relegated to the slave’s position (522–548). Nonetheless, Dionysus is not destined to enjoy the feast either. Before he has time to step inside, a couple of innkeepers appear, mistaking him for Heracles and showering abuse on him for the vast damages that Heracles had caused to their supplies on his earlier visit (549–578). Immediately afterwards, Aeacus, the gatekeeper of Hades, rushes out of the palace, intent on punishing Heracles for the abduction of Cerberus (605 ff.). Thus, the prospect of

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This old burlesque routine was taken over by Middle Comedy. It was repeatedly exploited, for example, in Ephippos’ Geryones, a travesty of the famous myth about Heracles’ struggle with the monster Geryon. In a scene of this play (fr. 3) a character has arrived at a household where the festival of the Amphidromia is supposed to be celebrated. This was a domestic Athenian festival, observed by the family on the occasion of a child’s birth; among other rituals, it included a lavish meal, to be shared with the family’s relatives and friends. This is the part that the speaker of fr. 3 is envisaging with obvious zest. His entire discourse is a lengthy enumeration of foodstuffs, described in a high­flown rhetorical style, with stilted poetic images and rhythmical parallelismus membrorum.77 It is easy to guess that this figure is Heracles, the protagonist of the comedy. Such poetic enthusiasm for food fully befits the heroic glutton of ancient comic theatre. The household involved must have represented one of the hero’s stops either on his way to Geryon or in his homecoming journey. However, much to his disappointment, Heracles finds out that no cooking preparations are actually being made for the traditional banquet; no savoury cooking smell is reaching his nostrils (v. 3). He was looking forward to a rich repast upon his arrival at that house, but his expectations are thwarted by the meagre reality. The same comic idea may have underlain more of the plot concept in Ephippos’ play. In another long declamation (fr. 5) a gigantic fish is described, supposedly cooked by King Geryon in a correspondingly oversized casserole.

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the banquet is forgotten. These repeated postponements of the promised feast recall the routine of “Heracles cheated of his meal”. Aristophanes offers here a metatheatrical version of this motif: Xanthias and Dionysus, having assumed Heracles’ attire and role, are also obliged to undergo Heracles’ usual experience in comedy. Fr. 3: ἔπειτα πῶς / οὐ στέφανος οὐδείς ἐστι πρόσθε τῶν θυρῶν, / οὐ κνῖσα κρούει ῥινὸς ὑπεροχὰς ἄκρας / Ἀμφιδρομίων ὄντων; ἐν οἷς νομίζεται / ὀπτᾶν τε τυροῦ Χερρονησίτου τόμους / ἕψειν τ’ ἐλαίῳ ῥάφανον γλαϊσμένην / πνίγειν τε παχέων ἀρνίων στηθύνια / τίλλειν τε φάττας καὶ κίχλας ὁμοῦ σπίνοις / κοινῇ τε χναύειν τευθίσιν σηπίδια / πιλεῖν τε πολλὰς πλεκτάνας ἐπιστρόφως / πίνειν τε πολλὰς κύλικας εὐζωρεστέρας. “How is it, then, that there is no wreath before the doors, nor any savour strikes the projecting tips of my nose, although it is the feast of the Amphidromia? For on this occasion it is the custom to toast slices of cheese from the Chersonese, and boil a cabbage made resplendent with oil, and stew chops from the breast of fat lambs, and pluck ringdoves and thrushes along with chaffinches, and gobble down little cuttlefishes together with squids, and vigorously pound the tentacles of many octopuses, and drink many cups of rather strong wine”. For a detailed discussion of Ephippos’ play see Konstantakos (2011b: 223–246).

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If this yarn was addressed to Heracles, it would doubtless incite his enormous appetite and motivate him to visit Geryon’s land, in order to partake of the giant foodstuff. In the end, however, Heracles might discover that the report was only an exaggerated lie (like many such accounts about oversized creatures in literature and folktales). Thus, he would once again be cheated of the gargantuan guzzling he expected. If so, “Heracles losing his meal” would function as a kind of Leitmotiv running through Ephippos’ script.78 Another example of this theme is illustrated on an Apulian bell krater (ca. 370 B.C.), which depicts a snapshot from a comedy. One character, with his left arm draped in an animal skin and menacingly raising a club in his right hand, is chasing another figure; the latter runs away holding a flat cake in each hand, while looking back over his shoulder at his pursuer. The club and animal skin clearly point to Heracles, although the chasing personage does not wear the type of mask regularly borne by Heracles in such comic illustrations; his mask is rather that of a slave. He is possibly disguised and pretending to be Heracles, like Dionysus and Xanthias in the Frogs. The fleeing character must have stolen his two cakes from the pretended “Heracles”, tricking him out of his food; this is why he is being pursued by his victim.79 As in the Frogs, the scene offers a parodic and metatheatrical version of the old comic topos. The personage playing Heracles’ part is also subjected to the comic Heracles’ regular mishap: to be cheated of his meal. If he dons Heracles’ attire and performs his role, as though in a play within the play, then he also has to suffer this hero’s standard fate in comic drama. More complex and playful variations are offered by two other South Italian vases depicting comic episodes. Since the 1990s, groundbreaking research has proved that such vase­paintings are associated with Attic comedy. They do not represent some local Italiot genre of popular farce (the so­called “Phlyakes”) but rather scenes from Athenian fifth­ and fourth­century comic plays. Many of them may have been inspired by actual performances of Athenian comedies (or adaptations of them) in Magna Graecia, given by native 78 79

On all this see Konstantakos (2011b: 238–244). See Trendall (1995: 125–130); Storey (2003b: 282–290), Green (2003b: 49–50), Maffre (2000: 300–301) and Walsh (2009: 230, 308, 373) with illustrations; further Green (2008: 198); Storey (2011: III 449–450). Storey suggests that this painting illustrates an episode from Leukon’s Presbeis, performed at the Lenaia of 422 B. C. in competition with Aristophanes’ Wasps (where “Heracles tricked out of his dinner” is denounced as a vulgar comic trick, see above). However, as transpires from our discussion, “cheating Heracles of his meal” was a popular comic routine both in the fifth and in the fourth century. Many plays of late Old or early Middle Comedy might have accommodated such a situation.

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or itinerant troupes.80 This phenomenon should cause no surprise. There are indications that already from the beginning of the fourth century Attic comedies were exported outside Athens and performed in various places of the Hellenic world, gradually leading to the “pan­Hellenization” of comic theatre.81 The South Italian illustrations have been particularly connected with Old Comedy, mostly with specimens from its later years, near the end of the fifth century (e. g. Aristophanes’ Thesmophoriazusae and Frogs, Eupolis’ Demoi). A relation to fourth­century, Middle Comedy has not been conclusively proven. But this may be merely due to the fact that no full scripts of Middle Comedy have been preserved, and therefore it is impossible to make definitive connections between the vase­paintings and specific plays of the Middle era. It is natural to suppose that as the fourth century progressed, more or less contemporary comedies, which had proved successful in Athenian festivals, would also be exported from Athens, taken up by travelling troupes, revived or imitated in theatre­loving South Italy.82 Significantly, the two vase-paintings discussed below illustrate mythological burlesques, a genre that flourished precisely in the Middle period (ca. 400 to 340/330 B.C.). The vases themselves are dated well into the fourth century (from around 370 to the 350s), during the acme of Middle Comedy in Athens. If Middle Comedy is defined in the broad manner advocated above (section 1), i. e. as starting

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See the classic studies of Csapo (1986: 379–392); Taplin (1993: especially 30–99); Green (1994: 46–47, 65–67, 70–71); and Green (1995: 143–149). From among later contributions, see most notably Dearden (1999: 222, 241–246); Maffre (2000: 295–310); Green (2001: 37–64); Imperio (2005: 278–293); Piqueux (2005: 55–66); Piqueux (2006: 27–43); Green (2008: 98–99, 198, 200, 205–206, 208–215) with detailed bibliography; Walsh (2009: especially 13–14, 19–20, 74–79, 333–335, 346– 347); Green (2010: 75–90); Csapo (2010a: 38–67, 74–82); Storey (2011: III 425–427, 429–436, 438–450); Rusten (2011: 434–454). Cf. Taplin (1993: 1–6, 89–99); Green (1994: 67–69, 106–108); Slater (1995: 31–34); Dearden (1999: 222–246); Konstantakos (2005–2006: 47–67); Green (2008: 97–99); Csapo (2010a: 38–41, 47–51, 85–87, 95–103); Konstantakos (2011a: 153–183). Already Webster (1948: 19–27) related the South Italian vases to their contemporary fourth­century Attic comedy, pointing out abundant parallels between the images of the former and the fragments of the latter. For other such correlations see Slater (1995: 32–33); Maffre (2000: 296–298); Green (2001: 49); Konstantakos (2002: 159–165); Green (2003a: 120–123, 128–129); Konstantakos (2005–2006: 50, 72, 76); Green (2008: 200, 205–206, 208–209); Green (2010: 81–86); Konstantakos (2014a: 169–175) and Konstantakos (2014b: 86–87). Cf. also Piqueux (2005: 66); Piqueux (2006: 27–29); Csapo (2010a: 65, 67, 81); Arnott (2010: 317); Storey (2011: III 426, 440–442); Rusten (2011: 434).

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already around 400 B.C., then the plays pictured in these images are likely to have fallen within its limits. The first vase, an Apulian bell krater of ca. 370–360 B.C., pictures Heracles in Zeus’ temple (Figure 1).83 Zeus himself is portrayed on the left as a small, almost dwarfish figure, seated on a high throne. In one hand he is brandishing a thunderbolt; in the other one he is holding his sceptre with a miniature eagle perched on it. Heracles (recognizable from the lion­skin cap on his head and his comic mask) is standing in front of Zeus and ostentatiously eating the last morsel from a large plate or shallow bowl, which he is holding in his left hand, away from his divine father. On the right an old man is pouring from a jug on to a pillar­altar, with his back turned to the other figures. He is presumably offering a pious libation in the temple. This elderly character is sometimes identified as Iolaos, Heracles’ regular companion in mythical adventures. According to tradition, Iolaos was a youthful hero, but the comic dramatist might have changed his age for comic purposes, turning him into Heracles’ elderly attendant or pedagogue (compare e. g. Lydus in Menander’s Dis exapaton and Plautus’ Bacchides, the old prudish pedagogue of a reckless young man). An alternative possible identity for the old fellow would be Amphitryon, Heracles’ mortal father, fondly accompanying his son in his visit to the temple. In this case, Heracles would be shown standing between his divine and his human parent, in a notable iconographic symmetry.84 83

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On this vase­painting (PhV2 31, Trendall 1967: 33) see Heydemann (1886: 267–268, 300–301); Romagnoli (1918: 22); Wüst (1941: 293); Catteruccia (1951: 19–20); Bieber (1961: 132); Gigante (1967: 94); Trendall / Webster (1971: 134, 136); Murphy (1972: 179); Vollkommer (1988: 73, 76); Boardman (1990: 168–169); De Martino (1998: 55); Green (2003a: 126); Piqueux (2006: 40); Walsh (2009: 89–90, 99, 255, 327, 349); Rusten (2011: 438–439); Storey (2011: III 447–448); Hughes (2012: 148, 151). Storey ingeniously suggests that it may illustrate a scene from Platon’s Zeus kakoumenos. This comedy featured Heracles as a profligate, lured into a kottabos game with a hetaira and perhaps losing some precious belongings in it (fr. 46–49); see Casolari (2003: 267–269); Pirrotta (2009: 124–140); Storey (2011: III 108–113). The date of Zeus kakoumenos is unknown, but the play presents strong similarities to the mythological burlesques of Middle Comedy; see Rosen (1995: 124–126); Konstantakos (2014a: 167–168). The episode illustrated on the vase would explain the title of Platon’s play (“Zeus badly treated”). Nevertheless, Heracles was a popular character in mythological burlesque, and numerous comedies portrayed him as a glutton; see in general Vollkommer (1988: 72–78); Wilkins (2000: 90–97); Casolari (2003: 249–295); Bruzzese (2004: 144–147, 150, 155); Konstantakos (2011b: 237, 241–244). Iolaos: see Heydemann (1886: 300); Catteruccia (1951: 19); Bieber (1961: 132); Trendall (1967: 33); Gigante (1967: 94); Trendall / Webster (1971: 136); Vollkommer

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Fig. 1: Apulian bell krater, ca. 370–360 B.C. (PhV2 31). Heracles and Zeus. The State Hermitage Museum, St. Petersburg, Inv. no. GR­2129 (B.299). Photograph © The State Hermitage Museum. Photo by Svetlana Suetova. Reproduced by kind permission of The State Hermitage Museum, St. Petersburg.

The plate of edible goodies in Heracles’ hands was doubtless destined for Zeus as a holy offering. In the Greek world, cakes and sweetmeats were customarily proffered as bloodless sacrifice to various divinities. This particular dish was perhaps brought to the temple by Heracles himself or by the devout old fellow; or it may have been lying there when Heracles entered. However, the gluttonous hero gulps down these foodstuffs himself, instead of leaving them for the great god. This is why Zeus is gesticulating so frantically, rais(1988: 73, 76); De Martino (1998: 55); Walsh (2009: 90, 327). Radermacher (1924: 18) and Boardman (1990: 168) object that he cannot be Iolaos because of his old age; but the comic dramatist was free to funnily distort such mythical data for amusement. The assimilation of mythical heroes to stock types of the comic stage (in this case an elderly pedagogue or a comic senex) is a regular creative procedure in Attic mythological burlesque; see Konstantakos (2014a: 171–175). It is also conceivable that the old man is not related to Heracles but simply a devout fellow, who happened to be making offerings in the temple at the moment the hero rushed in. In that case, Heracles probably stole from him the plate with the cakes. See Romagnoli (1918: 22); Radermacher (1924: 17–19); Wüst (1941: 293); Catteruccia (1951: 19). But the mythological setting makes it irresistible to assume that the elderly personage is also a figure of myth.

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ing his tiny hands and kicking the air with his little feet, so as to manifest his indignation. However, he is unable to achieve any practical result. The all­powerful king of the gods is here comically portrayed as a tiny weakling, ridiculously set on a high throne and unable to reach the ground with his feet.85 Heracles, on his part, has taken precautions, prudently standing at some distance from the throne and keeping the tray out of Zeus’ range. Thus, he can provocatively devour the food under Zeus’ own eyes, filling the god with jealous rage, perhaps even mocking him for his weakness. The scene offers an excellent example of a pivotal comic technique in Attic mythological burlesque: the degradation of mythical figures to the level of the lowest and most ludicrous human flaws. Zeus’ caricatured smallness and comic anger is matched by the portrayal of Heracles: the latter appears not only as a guzzler but also as a sacrilegious rake, irreverently gobbling the holy offerings in the supreme deity’s temple. As for the old man, if he is indeed Heracles’ pedagogue or human father, he is pictured more or less as a senile dotard, unable to restrain his reckless and omnivorous ward. This episode reverses the standard comic topos about Heracles and his dinner. Here Heracles is not “tricked out of his food”. On the contrary, he himself steals another character’s edibles; he upturns the commonplace motif and cheats someone else (Zeus) of his rightful meal. He is not τὸ δεῖπνον ἐξαπατώμενος but τὸ δεῖπνον ἐξαπατῶν. In this way, Heracles takes his revenge on the previous comic tradition, performing himself on another personage what he was condemned to suffer in so many comedies. The second vase (Figure 2), a Paestan bell krater from about 360–350 B.C., presents a slightly more complicated innovation. Heracles, identifiable again by his club and cap of lion­skin, is paying a visit to the sanctuary of Apollo.86 The latter, holding in his hands his characteristic emblems, the bow and the laurel branch, is sitting on top of a kind of scaffolding or similar structure: a horizontal beam projecting from the upper edge of a high column or stand and supported by a strut. This construction is usually taken to repre85

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On the caricature of Zeus cf. Bieber (1961: 132); Walsh (2009: 89–90, 99, 255); Hughes (2012: 148). Note that everything on the great god is comically undersized: not only his body, but also his thunderbolt and, most amusingly, his miniature eagle. On this vase­painting (PhV2 32, Trendall 1967: 33) see Heydemann (1886: 268, 301); Körte (1893: 87–88); Romagnoli (1918: 23–24); Wüst (1941: 294); Catteruccia (1951: 25–26); Webster (1956: 107–108, 114); Bieber (1961: 131); Gigante (1967: 94); Vollkommer (1988: 72, 75–76); Woodford / Boardman (1990: 141, 143); Dearden (1999: 243–244); Walsh (2009: 90–92, 294, 349); Rusten (2011: 439); Hughes (2012: 154).

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Fig. 2: Paestan bell krater, ca. 360–350 B.C. (PhV2 32). Heracles and Apollo. The State Hermitage Museum, St. Petersburg, Inv. no. GR­4594 (B.1660). Photograph © The State Hermitage Museum. Photo by Svetlana Suetova. Reproduced by kind permission of The State Hermitage Museum, St. Petersburg.

sent Apollo’s temple: the god has climbed on the roof of his sacred building, presumably because he was frightened by Heracles and his sizeable threatening club.87 It is the same kind of fearful reaction that the raving Heracles is described to provoke in the Frogs 565–566: the two inn­keepers, terrified by the hero’s furious roars and antics, climbed on a kind of storey or mezzanine (κατήλιφα), in order to save themselves. Apollo’s “temple” may have been a freestanding, portable structure, specially fabricated for use in this comedy and erected somewhere in the performance area. Compare e. g. Thetis’ shrine in Euripides’ Andromache, Proteus’ tomb in the Helen, Agamemnon’s tomb 87

Thus Heydemann (1886: 301); Körte (1893: 88); Furtwängler / Reichhold / Hauser (1909: 261); Wüst (1941: 294); Catteruccia (1951: 25); Webster (1956: 107–108, 114); Bieber (1961: 131); Gigante (1967: 94); Murphy (1972: 179); Walsh (2009: 91); Hughes (2012: 154).

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in Aeschylus’ Choephoroi, as well as the movable altars used as elements of scenery in various ancient plays. Alternatively, as suggested already by Heydemann, the construction may have been a porch over a stage door: porch­ equipped doors surmounted with similar horizontal beams are illustrated (likewise in profile) on a number of South Italian vases with comic scenes. The flat top of the porch will then represent the temple roof.88 From the middle of the stand, another large protrusion sticks out, shaped like a basin or a large shallow bowl and supported by a curved pillar. This is most probably a basin of holy water, an appropriate piece of equipment for the Apollonian temple.89 In order to approach closer to the Delphic god, Heracles has to stand on a three­legged stool. This object, in conjunction with Apollo and his temple surroundings, immediately brings to mind the Delphic tripod. If so, the comic effect is hilariously irreverent: the holy mantic tripod is used exactly like a common household footstool, on which one would mount in order to reach something placed higher up.90 The comic debasement of the mythical figures extends to their traditional cult emblems. Further, the use of this holy item possibly indicates parody of the well­known myth about the conflict of Heracles and Apollo over the Delphic tripod. According to mythical tradition, Heracles was afflicted with a dire disease after murdering Iphitos; he thus went to Delphi to enquire how he could expiate his crime. The Pythia, however, refused to answer, upon which the hero began plundering the temple and its treasures; he even carried away the mantic tripod, proposing to use it in order to set up his own oracle. At that point Apollo himself intervened 88

89

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See Heydemann (1886: 277, 287–288, 293–294, 301) with parallels; also Furtwängler / Reichhold / Hauser (1909: 260–261); Trendall (1967: 13); Webster (1956: 107– 108). For such porches cf. e. g. PhV2 37, 83 (Trendall 1967: 35, 53); Bieber (1961: fig. 491, 500, 507); Taplin (1993: fig. 12.6, 15.13); Green (2001: fig. 2, 3); Rusten (2011: 441, 449). See Heydemann (1886: 301); Furtwängler / Reichhold / Hauser (1909: 261); Bieber (1961: 131); Vollkommer (1988: 75); Walsh (2009: 91) alternatively suggests that the bowl may contain wine. This striking humorous point is grasped by Catteruccia (1951: 25); Bieber (1961: 131); Vollkommer (1988: 75); Walsh (2009: 91); cf. Dearden (1999: 243–244). Others interpret this three­legged piece of furniture differently, e. g. as a small table for sacrificial offerings (Heydemann 1886: 301; Körte 1893: 88; Wüst 1941: 294; cf. Walsh 2009: 91) or as a plain stool (Furtwängler / Reichhold / Hauser 1909: 261; Romagnoli 1918: 23; Woodford / Boardman 1990: 141). With the first of these interpretations the same comic effect is achieved, since a holy temple object is again ludicrously usurped for low­brow purposes. But why should an offering table have only three legs and so thick a board?

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and struggled with Heracles, until Zeus separated them with a thunderbolt. In the end, the two opponents were reconciled, and Apollo gave Heracles the information he was seeking.91 The illustrated comedy seems to have turned this story into a boisterous comic brawl, full of tricks and horseplay. Apollo, instead of bravely standing up to the violent invader, has climbed on the roof like a coward, to escape Heracles’ blows. Heracles then stands on the tripod and extends towards Apollo a tray or basket full of goodies (fruit or cakes). He apparently aims to entice the god into descending again or at least into approaching closer. However, Heracles is still holding his stout club in the other hand: he presumably plans to give Apollo a hard blow, as soon as the latter comes within range. The Delphic god seems indeed tempted by the tray of dainties, since he is turning his head back and giving a greedy look at them. Nonetheless, he is also able to see the menacing club in the hero’s hands and must be suspecting his intentions. This is why he is visibly shirking away and pushing his body towards the opposite direction, close to the edge of the roof­beam. On the other side of the temple construction, below Apollo, stands a man wearing a slave’s mask. This might be Iolaos, here turned into a comic slave in Heracles’ service.92 But Heracles might equally well be attended by an ordinary slave, a stock comic figure not corresponding to any mythical character – just as Dionysus in the Frogs is accompanied by Xanthias (a typical comic slave-name) and the Centaur Cheiron is assisted by another Xanthias on an Apulian vase-painting.93 The slave is raising his hand, most probably in order to catch the bow and the laurel, as soon as Apollo falls or lets them out of his grasp.94 Other scholars prefer instead to interpret his gesture as a 91

92

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For the standard ancient account of this myth see Apollod. Bibl. 2.6.2. For an overview of the literary and artistic sources, see Woodford / Boardman (1990: 133–143); Gantz (1993: 437–439); cf. Walsh (2009: 90–91, 349). Variant versions may change one or the other peripheral detail: e. g. in Hyg. Fab. 32 Heracles seeks purification from the slaughter of his wife and children, not of Iphitos. See Furtwängler / Reichhold / Hauser (1909: 262); Romagnoli (1918: 23); Wüst (1941: 294); Catteruccia (1951: 25); Murphy (1972: 179); Vollkommer (1988: 72, 75); Walsh (2009: 91, 294). See PhV2 37 (Trendall 1967: 35), ca. 380–370 B.C.; Bieber (1961: 135); Trendall / Webster (1971: 142–143); Taplin (1993: 61–62, 112, pl. 12.6); Green (2001: 45, 51, 62, and fig. 3); Walsh (2009: 216, 297); Storey (2011: III 433–434); Rusten (2011: 441). This is the most frequent and in my view the likeliest interpretation: see Catteruccia (1951: 25–26); Bieber (1961: 131); Murphy (1972: 179); Vollkommer (1988: 75–76). Cf. the similar suggestion of Körte (1893: 88), Romagnoli (1918: 23–24) and Wüst (1941: 294): the slave is preparing to jump upwards and steal the bow and laurel from Apollo’s hands, as long as the god remains distracted by Hera-

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warning to Apollo. In that case, the slave must belong to the Delphic god: he is trying to caution his master, either against Heracles’ hostile intentions or against the possibility of falling down from the roof.95 The same gesture, with the hand raised palm upwards, is indeed intended as a warning on another vase, the Apulian bell krater illustrating Helen’s comic birth from the egg. While an old man (possibly Tyndareos) is preparing to hit the egg with a huge axe, a slave opposite him holds up his hand exactly in this manner, presumably in order to stop the old fellow: for at that very moment the egg hatches and young Helen appears from inside.96 Nonetheless, in my view it is not obligatory to interpret this gesture identically in every one of its occurrences. The same type of movement might carry divergent meanings in different performance contexts.97 In any case, it is not difficult to guess the sequel of this scene. If Apollo overcomes his suspicions and is lured into approaching closer to the tray, in the hope of snatching something to eat, then Heracles will strike him with his club. On the other hand, if the god succumbs rather to his fear and keeps pushing his body further and further towards the edge of the roof, he will inadvertently throw himself into the void in the end. In either case, the Delphic god will fall from the roof, probably splashing into the basin of holy water

95

96 97

cles’ tempting dainties. Heydemann (1886: 301) thought that the third figure is a faithful man, who came to Apollo’s temple to place a basket of offerings on the sacrificial table; but Heracles grabbed the basket, sprung on the table, and started devouring the goodies by himself; for this reason the pious fellow is now raising his arm to complain to the god (cf. similarly Gigante 1967: 94). Such a reading is contradicted by the details of the picture. The third personage wears a slave’s mask; hence, he cannot be an ordinary faithful man. Further, Heracles is not eating any of the dainties (contrast e. g. fig. 1, where the hero is clearly depicted doing so). On the contrary, he extends the basket towards Apollo, implying that its contents are meant for him. There is also no reason why Heracles should mount on the “sacrificial table”, if his intention was merely to gulp the edibles down; he could perfectly well eat them while standing on the ground. Heydemann’s interpretation is clearly influenced by the vase­painting of Heracles in Zeus’ temple (fig. 1), which illustrates, however, a different situation and arrangement of characters. See Rusten (2011: 439); Hughes (2012: 154). With this reading, evidently, the slave cannot be Iolaos, as suggested by Furtwängler / Reichhold / Hauser (1909: 262) and Walsh (2009: 91). Heracles’ devoted attendant would not try to warn Apollo, his master’s adversary. Walsh suggests alternatively that Iolaos is shouting to Apollo in order to distract and unbalance him. This makes scenic sense. On this vase­painting, see above, n. 52. Thus, I am not convinced by Hughes’ argument (2012: 154) that this gesture has only one meaning (“stop”) and always signifies the same thing.

Tendencies and Variety in Middle Comedy

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underneath and getting a thorough drenching. The lurking slave, if he belongs indeed to Heracles, will then presumably grab the bow and the laurel.98 In this way, the mythical conflict of the two deities is reduced to the lowest kind of slapstick, complete with an exchange of blows, a fall from the roof and a splash into the water­pool, like a gag from a Charlie Chaplin movie. The metamorphosis of the traditional topos concerning Heracles and his meal is also noteworthy. In this comic scene food is not the object that Heracles is cheated of, but a means he uses to cheat with. The hero is not tricked out of his meal; rather, he deceives someone else (to wit, Apollo) by means of a meal. He is not τὸ δεῖπνον ἐξαπατώμενος, therefore, but τῷ δείπνῳ ἐξαπατῶν. There are many more examples of this kind of tactics in Middle Comedy. Several stock comic motifs or scene types were subjected to such unconventional treatment. In my dissertation on Antiphanes I have commented on a number of cases;99 there are many more in the fragments of other poets. A full collection and analysis of all instances would furnish material for a useful book­length thesis. Such a study would reveal the innovative side of Middle Comedy playwrights. We would see them at their most original moments, constantly trying to revise and renew the traditional ingredients of their craft. Of course, these same writers were equally eager to employ all the conventional stereotyped components of the comic repertoire, repeating them over and over in their plays, to their hearts’ content. Nonetheless, they also knew how to occasionally upturn such topoi or furnish them with a new twist, and by this practice they achieved variety in comic detail.

98

99

See Catteruccia (1951: 25–26); Bieber (1961: 131); Vollkommer (1988: 75–76); Walsh (2009: 91–92); cf. Furtwängler / Reichhold / Hauser (1909: 261–262). An old theory of Dierks (1885: 39) was reiterated in the discussion at the Freiburg workshop: namely, that the painting depicts two slaves competing in coaxing ministrations towards their master Apollo, like e. g. the Sausage­Seller and Paphlagon, who make such an agon before Demos in the Knights. I find no indication to support this reading. First and foremost, the two figures flanking Apollo are not of equal standing: only one of them is a slave; the other one is unmistakably Heracles, identifiable by his attributes and comic mask. Secondly, the slave’s hands are empty: he is not offering anything to Apollo, so as to “antagonize” Heracles and his goodies. See Konstantakos (2000: 6, 32–33, 75, 116–117, 138, 147–148, 196–198, 200–202, 210, 217, 231–233); Konstantakos (2004a: 27–29).

Ioannis M. Konstantakos

198

6. Epilogue As transpires from the foregoing survey, there was nothing monotonous about Middle Comedy and its theatrical productions. Their remains, even though fragmented and mutilated, reveal a panorama of great variety in form and composition, at all levels of dramatic writing. The dramatists cultivated many different types of play, developed a rich repertoire of plot patterns and motifs, employed an extensive range of comic strategies. In the beginning of this essay, the students of Middle Comedy were compared to the poor Lazarus of the Biblical parable, feeding on crumbs that fall down from the rich tables of the other scholarly magnates. However, as we recall, there are two characters named Lazarus in the Bible. One of them is this pauper; the other one is a man that was raised from the dead. Perhaps Middle Comedy may also resemble this second Lazarus and become alive again, resurrected from the realm of oblivion, if we read its texts with proper care. It can be Lazarus, come from the dead, come back to tell us all, if only we prick up our ears to listen.100

100

I express my warmest thanks to Professor Bernhard Zimmermann for his invitation to Freiburg, to Dr Stelios Chronopoulos for his indefatigable help, and to the participants of the Freiburg workshop­conference for their comments. I am especially obliged to Professors Eric Csapo, Jeffrey Henderson and S. Douglas Olson, whose valuable remarks helped me reconsider and clarify many points.

Menander und die Komödie seiner Zeit: Einige Überlegungen Carlo Scardino / Giada Sorrentino

1. Die Stellung Menanders in der Gattung Komödie gemäß den antiken Testimonien Die Geschichte der griechischen Komödie ist seit jeher auf die beiden gegensätzlichen Pole Aristophanes und Menander fixiert: Schon in den kaiserzeitlichen bzw. spätantiken Traktaten wird Menanders Drama – in der Regel stellvertretend für die gesamte Neue Komödie – als Gegenpol zu Aristophanes’ politischer Komödie und als Abschluß einer schon im 4. Jh. einsetzenden Entwicklung des Genres betrachtet, die entweder auf veränderten politischen Rahmenbedingungen (einem oligarchischen statt eines demokratischen Regimes, z. B. bei Platonios)1 beruhte oder das Ergebnis eines gattungsinternen

1

Platonios erklärt in seinem Traktat Περὶ διαφορᾶς κωμῳδιῶν die Entwicklung von der Alten Komödie, in der dank der Demokratie die Komödiendichter ohne Furcht spotten durften, zur Mittleren und Neuen Komödie im 4. Jh. mit der wachsenden Furcht vor einem tyrannischen bzw. oligarchischen Regime und mit dem von den Makedonen ausgeübten außenpolitischen Druck. Diese Faktoren hätten auch zu einem Wechsel der Masken geführt, die bei Menander, der namentlich genannt wird, unnatürlich und lächerlich geworden seien (5,59–65 Koster). Zu den Schwierigkeiten, Platonios’ Angaben, die reichlich oberflächlich und z. T. anachronistisch wirken, mit den uns bekannten Fakten zu harmonisieren, vgl. Perusino (1989: 61 f.) und Nesselrath (1990: 32 ff.). Eine ähnliche Entwicklung von freizügigem Spott (ἐλέγχειν) in der Alten Komödie über eine verschleierte Kritik (αἰνιγματωδῶς) in der Mese zum gänzlichen Fehlen in der Nea ( δὲ νέα μηδ᾽ ὅλως τοῦτο ποιοῦσα) nennt auch der Scholiast zu Dionysios Thrax (XVIII p. 71, 38 f. Koster, vgl. auch Prolegomena IV Koster), während Tzetzes in seiner Aristophanesbiographie (p. 27,103 f. Koster) meint, daß der Spott in der Mese symbolisch, dann in der Nea nur gegen Sklaven und Fremde (ἐψηφίσαντο συμβολικῶς μὲν γίνεσθαι κωμῳδίας πλὴν κατὰ μόνων δούλων καὶ ξένων· κἀντεῦθεν καὶ τρίτη κωμῳδία ἐφάνη, ς ν Φιλήμων καὶ Μένανδρος) gerichtet gewesen sei. Von Einschränkungen der Gestaltungsfreiheit der Komödiendichter als Ursache für den Wandel der Gattung sprechen auch Horaz AP 281–284 und die anonyme Vita Aristophanis (28, p. 135,51 Koster).

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Wandels (z. B. Prolegomena de Comoedia V Koster)2 war. Diese simplifizierten Entwicklungsmodelle, denen oft nur die (wohl partielle) Kenntnis der Werke des Aristophanes und des Menander zugrunde liegt, wurden mit Recht immer wieder von der modernen Forschung infrage gestellt.3 Daß die Transformationen innerhalb der Gattung nicht geradlinig verlaufen sind, sondern man im Spannungsfeld zwischen politischen und gesellschaftlichen Faktoren bzw. zwischen den individuellen Vorlieben eines einzelnen Dichters und der durch die Vorgänger der Gattung geschaffenen Tradition mit gleitenden Übergängen und gegenläufigen Entwicklungen rechnen muß, stellt die von der Mehrheit der heutigen Forscher geteilte Meinung dar.4 Einige moderne Gelehrte gehen sogar soweit, die traditionelle, wohl auf hellenistische Modelle5 zurückgehende Einteilung der Gattung in Epochen infrage zu stellen und sowohl Aristophanes als auch Menander

2

3

4 5

Die Prolegomena V Koster enthalten einen Vergleich von Alter und Neuer Komödie bezüglich der Sprache, der Metrik und des Handlungsverlaufs, vgl. dazu Nesselrath (1990: 52). Dazu etwa Zimmermann (2011) 671. Nesselrath (1990) bestimmt nach einer genauen Untersuchung der Titel und Fragmente der Autoren, die der Mittleren Komödie zugerechnet werden, „ein Entwicklungsbild, in dem mehrere Perioden von jeweils mehreren Jahrzehnten Dauer sich abzeichnen: Um eine ‚Kernphase‘ zwischen 380 und 350, die nach dem uns zugänglichen Material offenbar am meisten Anspruch darauf hat, ‚Mittlere Komödie‘ genannt zu werden, weil sie Merkmalkombinationen zeigt, die sich weder in der Hochphase der Archaia noch der Nea finden, lagern sich Übergangsperioden von ungefähr zwanzig bis dreißig Jahren an, die zu dieser Mittleren Komödie hin und wieder von ihr weg führen.“ (S. 336). Extrem kritisch gegenüber einer starren Dreiteilung der Gattung ist Csapo (2000), gemäß dem bereits seit dem 5. Jh. die Komödie nicht ausschließlich politisch war, sondern unterschiedliche Inhalte und Formen umfassen konnte: Die verschiedenen Komödientypologien stünden auch in den nachfolgenden Epochen nebeneinander, wobei je nach Autor und Zeitumständen die eine oder die andere dominierte. Seiner Meinung nach ist die Theorie der Entwicklung der komischen Gattung von Aristophanes zu Menander peripatetischen Ursprungs und „not so much based on the evidence of extant texts as itself the criterion for the selection of the texts“ (S. 117). Da diese Theorie den „political style“ der Komödie mit der Archaia identifizierte, hätte sie Aristophanes, Eupolis und Kratinos in den Kanon der Alten Komödie eingeschlossen, da sie die am meisten politischen Autoren der Komödie des 5. Jh. gewesen seien; auf der anderen Seite hätten Menander, Philemon und Diphilos den Kanon der Neuen Komödie nur deshalb gebildet, weil sie die am wenigsten politischen Vertreter der Komödie ihrer Zeit gewesen seien. Dazu etwa Zimmermann (2011: 671). Dazu Nesselrath in diesem Band, S. 16–34.

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innerhalb der Gattung zu isolieren und als vornehmlich individuelle Phänomene zu deuten.6 Im folgenden soll an Hand einiger exemplarisch ausgewählter Aspekte der Frage nachgegangen werden, ob bzw. inwiefern sich Menanders Œuvre von demjenigen der Dichter, die wie er zwischen dem Ende des 4. und dem 3. Jh. tätig waren, unterscheidet. 2. Probleme der Überlieferung Da die Dichter dieser Epoche und Gattung nur fragmentarisch erhalten sind und unsere Kenntnis der einzelnen Autoren sehr unterschiedlich ist, scheint es nützlich zu sein, zunächst den Stand der Überlieferung der bedeutendsten Vertreter der Nea kurz zu umreißen, um die Relevanz der einzelnen Argumente besser abwägen und beurteilen zu können. Im Gegensatz zu allen anderen Komikern des 4. und 3. Jh. besitzen wir bei Menander zusätzlich zur Nebenüberlieferung dank den seit dem 19. Jh. vor allem in Ägypten gemachten Papyrusfunden eine umfangreiche direkte Überlieferung: Dazu gehören Fragmente von circa zwanzig Komödien, deren Titel wir mit Ausnahme der Fabula incerta des Codex Cairensis kennen und die von ganz wenig Versen (etwa das Encheiridion oder die Leukadia) über große Fragmente mit einigen 100 Versen (etwa die Epitrepontes oder die Samia) bis zu einer nahezu vollständig erhaltenen Komödie (dem Dyskolos) reichen;7 hinzu kommen ein Dutzend Papyrusfragmente von Komödien in6

7

So z. B. Nesselrath (1990: 332): „Erst seit den großen Menanderfunden auf Papyri wissen wir, wie verschieden und eigenständig sich Menander in vieler Hinsicht gegenüber den meisten Dichterkollegen seiner eigenen Zeit und der Zeit unmittelbar davor ausgenommen hat. Das läßt sich heute, da wir von diesen anderen Dichtern nunmehr Fragmente und römische Bearbeitungen haben, gerade noch in Umrissen erkennen; könnten wir aber noch ganze Komödien von Antiphanes und Alexis, Philemon und Diphilos lesen, würde sich wahrscheinlich zeigen, daß diese vier sich untereinander in vielem ähnlicher sind als jeder von ihnen dem Menander.“ Auch Csapo (2000: 116 ff.) beklagt die „Aristophanocentricity“ und „Menandrocentricity“. Hier und im folgenden wird bei der Berechnung nicht zwischen ganzen Versen und Teilen eines Verses unterschieden. Glossen von Grammatikern zu einzelnen Wörtern, aus denen in PCG keine metrische Struktur rekonstruiert worden ist, werden hingegen nicht mitgezählt. Natürlich sind die unten angeführten Zahlen approximativ, da in PCG VI,2 z. T. auch einige Papyrus­Fragmente, die eigentlich zur direkten Überlieferung gehören, enthalten sind; ebenso werden laufend neue Fragmente gefunden, weshalb die OCT­Ausgabe von Sandbach überholt ist. Wenn mehrere Autoren ein Fragment oder Teile davon anführen, wird jeweils nur die

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certi auctoris, die gewöhnlich Menander zugeschrieben werden und zwischen 20 und 100 Versen umfassen. Insgesamt macht die direkte Überlieferung etwa 5000 Verse aus, wobei die am besten erhaltenen Komödien Dyskolos, Epitrepontes und Samia zusammen etwa 50% und die ebenso ziemlich gut erhaltenen Komödien Aspis, Misumenos, Perikeiromene und Sikyonioi weitere 35% ausmachen, während die restlichen 13 Komödien zusammen nur etwa 15% ergeben. Dank diesen großen Fragmenten ist es möglich, die dramatische Struktur, den Inhalt und die Zeichnung der Charaktere in der jeweiligen Komödie über weite Strecken zu verfolgen, was auf der alleinigen Grundlage der Nebenüberlieferung unmöglich wäre: Im Band VI,2 der PCG weisen Kassel und Austin Menander 894 Fragmente zu, von denen die allermeisten aus der indirekten Überlieferung stammen, wobei 419 Fragmente bestimmten Stücken zugeordnet werden können. Insgesamt machen diese etwa 1500 Verse aus, aber nur 50 Fragmente umfassen mehr als 6 Verse (die längsten kommen auf 15 bzw. 18 Verse); diese stammen mehrheitlich, aber nicht ausschließlich (vgl. etwa die drei von Gellius überlieferten Fragmente aus dem Plokion) aus Athenaios und Stobaios. Dazu kommen aus den Komödien, die mehrheitlich durch Papyrus­Fragmente überliefert sind, noch etwa weitere 182 nicht in PCG VI,2 angeführte und im ganzen etwa 353 Verse umfassende Fragmente aus Komödien, die direkt überliefert sind, wobei aber nur 57 Fragmente oder 129 Verse sowohl direkt als auch indirekt überliefert sind (mit Ausnahme eines Stobaios­Zitats aus dem Dyskolos [V. 797–812] handelt es sich aber meist um sehr kurze Stücke). Insgesamt macht die Nebenüberlieferung 1076 Fragmente und 1862 Verse aus, was etwa 25% des Menandrischen Corpus entspricht, wobei 601 Zitate einem Stück zugewiesen werden können; viele der Fragmente sind kürzer als ein Vers und enthalten nur die Erklärung eines Begriffs oder einer Form. Wir kennen 106 Titel, wobei einige als Zweittitel wohl ausscheiden (wie Ἄγροικος, Θρασωνίδης, Κηδεία, Κρής, Μισάνθρωπος oder Πελοποννήσιοι) oder unsicher sind (wie Ἀνεχόμενος, Γλυκέρα, Μηλία oder Χρηστή).8 Nur wenigen Titeln läßt sich kein Fragment zuweisen (so den meisten unsicheren sowie den Λοκροί und der Νέμεσις).9 Die wichtigsten Quellen der indirekten Transmission sind Stobaios (über 300 Fragmente und 800 Verse) und Athenaios (über 60 Fragmente und 200 Verse); über 30% der Fragmente stammen aus kaiserzeitlichen Grammatikern

8 9

älteste bzw. die vollständigste Quelle berücksichtigt. Aus diesen Gründen können andere Zählungen etwas abweichende Ergebnisse liefern. Dazu jetzt Blanchard (2013: xvii­xxii). Nicht eingerechnet sind dabei die weder von den Editionen noch PCG Menander zugewiesenen fragmenta adespota, von denen einige nach der Meinung der Gelehrten aus Menander stammen könnten.

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und Lexikographen wie Pollux (40 Fragmente und 25 Verse), Erotianos, Harpokration, dem Antiattikistes, Zenobios, Orion oder Stephanos von Byzanz und aus byzantinischen Autoren wie Photios (140 Fragmente und 100 Verse) und Choiroboskos; dazu kommen noch Scholien und Kommentare (wie der Terenzkommentar Donats). Gerade bei Autoren wie Stobaios oder Athenaios kann man davon ausgehen, daß diese nicht selbst das ihrem jeweiligen Werk zugrundeliegende Corpus von literarischen Texten exzerpiert haben, sondern sich weitgehend auf Zwischenquellen stützten, und daß daher etwa Athenaios’ Werk „in seinem Informationsgehalt völlig (und teilweise auch in seiner formalen Gestaltung) von Vorgängern abhängig ist.“10 Für alle anderen Komiker der Nea sind wir mit Ausnahme ganz weniger kurzer Papyrusfragmente vollständig auf die indirekte Überlieferung angewiesen, wobei im Vergleich zu Menander das jeweils erhaltene Textcorpus viel geringer ist. Philemon Diphilos

Philippides Poseidippos

Apollodoros11

Fragmente 1076

198

137

41

45

61

Verszahl

1862

533

380

73

109

152

Fr. > 6 V. Max. Länge

50, max. 18

22, max. 24

13, max. 41

3, max. 10

4, max. 24

5, max. 27

Titelzahl

Menander

106

62

63

16

18

26

Fr. Titel 601 zugeordnet

90

85

24

28

48

Athenaios Fr. | Verse

60 | 200 5%| 11%

27 | 99 14% | 27%

50 | 259 36% | 68%

9 | 30 21% | 41%

13 | 70 28% | 65%

8 | 57 13 % | 38%

Stobaios

300 | 800 25% | 43%

87 | 324 45% | 60%

27 | 50 20% | 13%

7 | 19 16% | 26 %

7 | 13 15% | 12%

18 | 61 30% | 40%

Grammat., Lexikogr.12

ca. 13%

ca. 20%

ca. 18 %

ca. 13%

ca. 10%

ca. 8%

Plutarch

55 V. (3%)

Donat Fr. | Verse

15 | 11 1,3% |0,6%

8 V. (11%) 20 | 12 32% | 8%

Betrachtet man diese Zahlen, so fällt auf, daß von Menander indirekt zwar bei weitem mehr Fragmente und Verse als von seinen Zeitgenossen erhalten sind, daß aber grundsätzlich dieselben Quellen Komödienfragmente überlie10

So Nesselrath (1990: 68). Ebenso Olson (2006: xv f.).

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fern. Während Stobaios für Menander, Philemon und wohl auch für Apollodor der Autor ist, der am meisten Fragmente und Verse überliefert hat, fällt bei Diphilos, Philippides und Poseidippos diese Rolle Athenaios zu, wobei zu beachten ist, daß Athenaios insgesamt mehr Diphilos­ als Menanderverse zitiert. Da bei der indirekten Überlieferung in der Regel nicht die dramatische Qualität des Stücks, sondern das Interesse für Gnomen, Kulinarisches, seltene oder ungewöhnliche Wörter und grammatikalische Konstruktionen bei der Auswahl der Zitate im Vordergrund stand, kann man sich fragen, ob die durch die indirekte Überlieferung bewahrten Fragmente eines Autors für das ganze Œuvre repräsentativ sind oder ob der spätantiken Selektion der Erfolg der Stücke beim Publikum oder eine bestimmte damals im Umlauf befindliche Vorstellung zugrunde liegt. Wir wissen nämlich nicht, ob das sich auf der Grundlage der Überlieferung ergebende Bild einer gewissen Sentenzen­ haftigkeit Menanders und Philemons sowie einer Dominanz kulinarischer Themen bei Diphilos und den anderen Dichtern insgesamt den Charakter dieser Autoren getreu wiedergibt oder ob im Laufe der Rezeption auf Grund der individuellen Kenntnisse bzw. der Interessen der Rezipienten und Exzerptoren oder durch Zufall Verzerrungen stattgefunden haben. In dieser Beziehung fällt auf, daß gerade Quellen, die normalerweise kaum Komödienzitate überliefern (etwa Historiker oder Biographen), Fragmente unterschiedlichen und ungewöhnlichen Inhalts geben. Ohne Plutarchs Zeugnis und Überlieferung einiger Verse würde sich etwa das Bild, das wir uns auf der Grundlage der restlichen Zeugnisse (vornehmlich aus Athenaios) von Philippides’ Komödie machen können, ziemlich unterscheiden.11 Auf der Grundlage der indirekten Überlieferung läßt sich für Menander keine Differenz in Bezug auf die Frequenz der Zitierung von Komödien wie den direkt überlieferten Dyskolos, Samia oder Epitrepontes gegenüber Komödien, die wir nur aus der indirekten Überlieferung kennen, ausmachen und somit keine Präferenz für die in der direkten Überlieferung tradierten Komödien erkennen. Offenbar erfolgte die Selektion der uns direkt erhaltenen Komödienreste in einer Phase, die gegenüber den Sammelwerken der indirekten Überlieferung bzw. ihren Quellen später ist.12 Interessant ist auch, daß die Originale der im republikanischen Rom adaptierten Menanderstücke nicht 11 12

S. dazu unten, S. 215 f. Vgl. dazu Del Corno (1964) und (1984), für den die Gesamtausgabe, die der indirekten Überlieferung (etwa Athenaios) zugrunde lag, noch bis ins 3. Jh. im Umlauf war. Später wurde nach moralischen und didaktischen Kriterien eine Auswahl der beliebtesten Komödien getroffen (vielleicht insgesamt 24 Komödien, vgl. Test. 162), wie die beiden Papyrus­Codices (Cairensis und Bodmer) zeigen, in denen die Stücke weder alphabetisch noch chronologisch geordnet sind.

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zu den uns direkt überlieferten Stücken bzw. Fragmenten gehören, was, wie Del Corno mit Recht bemerkt hat, ein Indiz dafür ist, daß der Geschmack der Römer von dem späterer Epochen abwich.13 Leider kann man auf der Grundlage der lateinischen Adaptationen griechischer Komödien die Originale nicht rekonstruieren. Der Fund einiger Verse des Dis Exapaton auf Papyrus ermöglicht es, diese mit Plautus’ Bacchides (494–562) zu vergleichen: Dabei zeigt sich, daß Plautus mit seiner Vorlage ziemlich frei umgegangen ist und seine Stücke wohl auch mit anderen griechischen Komödien kontaminiert hat.14 Da es mangels sicherer Kriterien unmöglich ist, durch die – letztlich immer subjektive – Subtraktion sogenannter ‚römischer Elemente‘ aus Plautus eine menandrische bzw. philemonische Komödie zu erhalten,15 können diese nicht zur Rekonstruktion der genauen Struktur und des Verlaufs verlorener Werke der Nea herangezogen werden, sondern höchstens über den Inhalt der griechischen Vorlagen in groben Zügen Auskunft geben. Dasselbe gilt grundsätzlich auch für Terenz, der sich zwar viel enger an die Originale angeschlossen und z. T. die Vorlagen übersetzt hat, aber im Unterschied zu diesen die Prologe getilgt, die Zahl der Monologe reduziert, die Anagnorisis­Szenen vermieden und viele für das römische Publikum unverständliche Details ausgelassen hat.16

13 14 15

16

Dazu Del Corno (1964) und (1984). Vgl. dazu Handley (1968), Blume (1998: 169 ff.) und Lefèvre (2001: 142–167). Ältere Forscher wie etwa Marx (1928: 268), Körte (1938a: 2142 f.) oder Friedrich (1953: 190) meinten, daß Plautus die griechischen Vorlagen aus Menander, Philemon und Diphilos getreu und ohne wesentliche Abweichungen vom Original übersetzt habe. Dagegen glaubt Lefèvre (1995: 36.68), daß bei Plautus „sowohl die Struktur als auch das Menschenbild stark durch die Tradition des römischen Stegreifspiels geprägt sind“ und sich stark von den Vorbildern unterscheiden. Während er meint, analytisch durch die Subtraktion plautinischer Elemente den Kern der griechischen Originale rekonstruieren zu können, kommt Danese (2002: 153) zum richtigen methodischen Schluß: „Conviene ... lavorare con chiarezza sui dati certi e concreti che si hanno a disposizione, rinunciando definitivamente alla ricostruzione degli originali greci quando essa richieda un impiego troppo massiccio della fantasia e rivalutando invece ... l’apporto di modelli eterogenei giunti spesso alle pièces plautine anche indirettamente, attraverso la mediazione di diversi canali culturali, non ultima, ovviamente, la commedia greca.“ So schon Del Corno (1966: 80 f.) und Arnott (1975: 31–56). So Gomme / Sandbach (1973: 8 f.). Vgl. auch Arnott (1970: 55–57) und Blume (1998: 177–179). Zur Wiederaufnahme Menanders durch die lateinischen Komödiendichter vgl. auch Test. 62–69 und die von PCG zu den jeweils genannten Komödien angeführten Testimonien.

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3. Struktur der Komödien Wie oben dargelegt, hängt unsere Kenntnis der Struktur der Stücke der Neuen Komödie fast ausschließlich von den großen auf Papyrus überlieferten Komödienfragmenten Menanders ab. Dies gilt vor allem für die Rolle des Chors, von dem auf den durch Papyri überlieferten Menanderfragmenten regelmäßig an vier Stellen anstelle eines Chorlieds lediglich die Sigle ΧΟΡΟΥ erscheint, woraus man schließen kann, daß die Komödie in fünf Teile gegliedert war. Dieser ist meistens aus einer Gruppe von betrunkenen und festenden Zechern gebildet, wobei seine durch kurze, mehr oder weniger fixe Formeln am Ende des ersten Akts17 angekündigte und aus Reigentanz und Gesang bestehende Performance nur in einer sehr losen Beziehung zum Plot des jeweils aufgeführten Stücks gestanden zu haben scheint und daher nicht überliefert worden ist.18 Dafür, daß in anderen Stücken Menanders oder bei anderen Autoren der Nea Chorlieder für den Plot eine Rolle spielten, bieten weder die erhaltenen Fragmente noch die Testimonien Indizien.19 Von den weiteren strukturellen Elementen können wir auf Grund der Überlieferung nur den besonders durch Euripides’ Götterprologe beeinflußten Menandrischen Expositionsprolog20 mit Überresten aus anderen Dichtern vergleichen.21 Diesen hält bei Menander ganz zu Beginn der Komödie oder 17

18

19

20

21

Der erste Auftritt des Chors wurde von der Figur, die den ersten Akt abschloß, in wenigen Versen eingeführt, aus denen man erfahren konnte, wer die Choreuten in der Fiktion waren (üblicherweise betrunkene Jünglinge, aber im Dyskolos Anhänger Pans, vgl. v. 230; vielleicht im Heros Jäger, die im Fr. 1 genannt werden). Diese den Auftritt des Chors ankündigenden, formelhaften Verse konnten jedoch wenigstens bei Menander gemäß den dramatischen Bedürfnissen leicht variiert werden, wie Zagagi (1994: 72–76) bemerkt hat. Zum Chor Sifakis (1967: 114); Handley (1970: 13); Zagagi (1994: 72–82). Ein Zeugnis aus einem spätantiken Hippokrateskommentar wird von Burkert (2000: 23–24) besprochen. Komödientitel im Plural wie z. B. Ἀχαιοὶ Πελοποννήσιοι, Δίδυμαι, Ἴμβριοι, Πωλούμενοι bei Menander können aber, wie das Beispiel der Epitrepontes, in denen der Chor keine Rolle im Plot spielt, zeigt, alleine nicht als Indiz für das Fortbestehen des Chors mit dramatischer Funktion in der Handlung dienen. Zu möglichen Spuren des Chores in den Stücken der Nea vgl. Hunter (1979: 23–38). Zum Prolog Holzberg (1974: 39) und Sisti (1987: 303–313). Zu den Prologen und ihrer Funktion in der Archaia vgl. Zimmermann (2011: 686 f.). Fr. 6 des Poseidippos, an dessen Ende man dieselbe Schlußformel wie in verschiedenen Komödien Menanders (z. B. Dyskolos 968 f., Samia 736 f., fr. *903 und fr. 908) in variierter Form erkennen kann, bietet eine insgesamt zu geringe Übereinstimmung mit diesen, um daraus bezüglich der Struktur der Komödie weitergehende

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unmittelbar nach einer oder zwei Anfangsszenen eine allwissende Gottheit (wie Pan im Dyskolos), Personifikationen vergöttlichter abstrakter Wesen wie die Agnoia oder die Tyche (in der Perikeiromene bzw. in der Aspis) oder eine am Geschehen beteiligte Figur (wie Moschion in der Samia), erzählt darin die Vorgeschichte, stellt die Hauptfiguren vor und kündigt, sofern ein allwissendes übernatürliches Wesen spricht, den Ausgang des Stücks im voraus an. Vergleichbar mit Menanders Samia ist der Prolog eines Vaters in der Haarschneiderin (Κουρίς) des Alexis (Fr. 113).22 Interessant ist auch das wahrscheinlich aus einem Prolog stammende Fr. 95 Philemons, in dem sich die Luft (Ἀήρ) als allwissende Gottheit in einer 10 Verse langen, rhetorisch ausgearbeiteten Rede selbst charakterisiert,23 während sich bei Menander die Prologgottheit in der Regel nur kurz vorstellt (im Prolog der Aspis beansprucht die Tyche nach einer ausführlichen, fast 50 Verse umfassenden Schilderung der Ausgangslage und der Figuren am Ende nur wenige Verse, um sich selbst vorzustellen [146–148]). Über den Verlauf der Stücke und die Struktur des Plots (z. B. das Vorkommen von Anagnorisis­Szenen) läßt sich bei den anderen Vertretern der Nea aus Mangel an aussagekräftigem Material nicht viel aussagen. Titel bei Philemon und Menander wie z. B. Ring (Δακτύλιος), Dolch (Ἐγχειρίδιον), die Gnorismata bezeichnen, lassen in diesen Stücken an die Wiedererkennung denken.24 Darüber hinaus kann man in Bezug auf die Struktur Menander nur mit dem Testimonium zu Philemon aus Apuleius’ Florida (16 p. 24,4 H.

22

23

24

Schlußfolgerungen ziehen zu können, als daß in der Nea stereotype Komödienschlüsse mit dem Schlußappell an die Zuschauer, in dem der Wunsch zu siegen geäußert wurde, häufig waren. Darin stellt dieser dem Publikum die entgegengesetzten Charaktere und Lebensstile seiner beiden Söhne vor. Arnott (1996: 21 und 299) vergleicht diesen Passus mit Menanders Prologen. Gemäß Konstantakos (2004b: 11–53) besteht eine Gemeinsamkeit der Prologe der Mese und der Nea darin, daß sie bisweilen auch literarische Reflexionen enthalten, in denen komische Praktiken und Konventionen oder andere dramatische Gattungen kritisiert werden, so etwa im Fr. 189 des Antiphanes, in Ades. Comic. 1008 und im Fr. 29 des Diphilos, sofern es sich wirklich um Prologe handelt. So Bruzzese (2011: 115). Da wir jedoch nur diese Verse besitzen, können wir nicht abschätzen, in welchem Verhältnis die Selbstcharakterisierung der Luft mit der Exposition der Handlung der Komödie stand. Des weiteren bezeugt Clemens von Alexandria strom. VI 26,6, daß Philemon für seinen Ὑποβολιμαῖος den Kokalos des Aristophanes (in dem vielleicht eine Wiedererkennungsszene vorkam) als Vorlage verwendet habe, vgl. dazu Bruzzese (2011: 132–136). Ebenso erwähnt Donat in seinem Kommentar zu Terenzens Hecyra (p. 337,19), daß die in der lateinischen Fassung (820–832) nur erzählte Wieder-

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= Test. 7 PCG) vergleichen, auch wenn in der Forschung umstritten ist, ob Apuleius Philemons Komödie wirklich kannte oder diese bei der Charakterisierung konventionell mit Merkmalen der Nea versah.25 Apuleius erwähnt, daß Philemon neben vielen Witzen (multos sales) geistreich geflochtene Plots (argumenta lepide implexa) und klar entfaltete Wiedererkennungsszenen (adgnitus lucide explicatos) bot.26 In der Regel wurden gemäß dem Testimonium im Verlauf des dritten Akts angenehmere Gemütsbewegungen erzeugt (iam in tertio actu … iucundiores adfectus moveret), was gemäß der plausibelsten Interpretation bedeutet, daß in diesem Akt der höchste Grad der dramatischen Spannung erreicht wurde. Dies stimmt im allgemeinen mit Menander überein, auch wenn man bei ihm keine fixe Regel aufstellen kann, da man manchmal erst im vierten Akt zum Höhepunkt der Spannung gelangt.27

25

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27

erkennung in der griechischen Vorlage (gemäß Donat Apollodoros von Karystos) auf der Bühne inszeniert worden ist. Zweifel an der Zuverlässigkeit von Apuleius’ Testimonium äußert zuletzt Ner­ vegna (2013: 108 f.). Dagegen Bruzzese (2011: 106), gemäß dem zwar „è impossibile, date la natura e la scarsità dei frammenti di Filemone conservati, sia confermare la notizia apuleiana sia stabilire su questo piano un confronto tra i due poeti della νέα“, der aber gegen die Möglichkeit, daß Apuleius nicht so sehr die Merkmale von Philemons Produktion beschreibt, sondern diese in einen konventionellen Rahmen faßt, bemerkt, daß das Testimonium Figuren (wie die mater indulgens oder den patruus obiurgator) hervorhebt, von denen im Theater der Zeit kaum etwas bekannt ist. Dazu kommen eine kohärente und zum Plot passende Charakterisierung der Figuren (personas rebus competentes) und eine realistische Sprache (sententias vitae congruentes); schließlich gehe weder das Heitere noch das Ernste über das hinaus, was für die Komödie angemessen sei (ioca non infra soccum, seria non usque ad coturnum). Eine zentrale und privilegierte Stellung des dritten Akts innerhalb des Plots wird von verschiedenen Gelehrten wie Blanchard (1983: 57–64; 411) und Holzberg (1974: 117) anerkannt, der zwar zugibt, daß im dritten und noch mehr im vierten Akt „die Verwicklungen ihren Höhepunkt erreichen“, aber in der Folge bemerkt: „Ein solcher Spielzug ist zwar ... ‘aktspezifisch’, er bewirkt aber keineswegs ... die Einheit des Aktes, in dem er vorkommt.“

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4. Themen, Motive und komische Techniken Menanders und der Neuen Komödie Neben den gemeinsamen Titeln, die Menander mit den anderen Vertretern der Nea teilt,28 und der thematischen Vergleichbarkeit zwischen den Stücken Menanders und denjenigen in den römischen Adaptationen von Komödien Philemons und Diphilos’ bei Plautus und des Apollodoros von Karystos bei Terenz kann man, wie oben erwähnt, auf der Grundlage der Titel und der erhaltenen Fragmente vermuten, daß auch die übrigen Vertreter der Nea grundsätzlich Plots bevorzugten, in deren Mittelpunkt Liebesintrigen und zwischenmenschliche Konflikte im familiären Milieu stehen.29 Andere in früheren Epochen häufige Arten von Plots erleben dagegen einen Rückgang ihrer Bedeutung.30 So fehlt wahrscheinlich die Mythentravestie in der Komödie dieser Epoche nicht ganz, da wir z. B. zwei Titel bei Philemon (Myrmidones, Palamedes), fünf bei Diphilos (Danaiden, Hekate, Herakles, Peliades, Theseus) und einen bei Philippides (Amphiaraos) kennen,31 die nicht nur mythische Figuren und Geschichten, sondern z. T. auch gleichnamige Tragödien evozieren, und Fragmente, die ganz klar den Stil und die Metrik der Tragödie wiederaufnehmen (wie das Fr. 60 aus Philemons Palamedes), besitzen.32 Für Menander kann die Behandlung des Mythos nur in einigen von der indirekten Tradition überlieferten Titeln, wie z. B. dem Dardanos erahnt werden.33 28

29

30 31

32

33

So etwa Ἀδελφοί und Θησαυρός bei Menander, Philemon und Diphilos, Δακτύλιος bei Menander, und Philemon (aber auch Timokles), Ἐγχειρίδιον, Κόλαξ und Ὑποβολιμαῖος bei Menander und Philemon, Ἐπίκληρος, Εὐνοῦχος und Λευκαδία bei Menander und Diphilos, Ἱέρεια bei Menander und Apollodoros, Παιδίον bei Menander, Apollodoros und Poseidippos, Φιλάδελφοι bei Menander und Philippides, Αὑτὸν πενθῶν bei Menander und Damoxenos. Bekanntlich sind diese der Gattung in früherer Zeit zwar nicht fremd, werden aber nun merklich bedeutsamer und erfahren in ihrer Funktion und Gestaltung z. T. tiefgreifende Veränderungen, vgl. dazu Sorrentino (2014a: 979 ff.). Vgl. Nesselrath (1990: 202). Titel, die mythischen Figuren gewidmet sind, kommen auch in späteren Autoren vor. So verfaßte Lynkeus einen Kentauros, Timostratos einen Pan und Alexandros eine Helena und einen Dionysos. Vgl. Bruzzese (2011: 41–58) zur Mythentravestie in der Nea. Er meint, daß Titel wie Palamedes oder Myrmidones auf Parodien gleichnamiger Tragödien verweisen, was aber angesichts der überlieferten Fragmente nicht bewiesen werden kann. Nesselrath (1990: 202) erwägt, den Dardanos, die Nemesis, den Trophonios, die Chalkis sowie den Pseudherakles als mythische Stücke zu identifizieren, räumt aber die Möglichkeit ein, daß keines davon eine Mythentravestie ist. Casolari (2003: 183–185) vermutet im Pseudherakles und im Trophonios einen Rückgriff

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Weder für Menander noch für seine Zeitgenossen läßt sich aber etwas über die Struktur und den Verlauf solcher Komödien aussagen, ob etwa wie (vermutlich) in der Mese in einem Herakles oder Palamedes der ganze Plot zum Zweck der Parodie um die mythische Figur kreiste bzw. eine gleichnamige Tragödie parodierte, zumal die Titel allein keine zuverlässige Beweisquelle sind. Solche Titel können sich nämlich auch nur auf die mythischen Prologsprecher (so wahrscheinlich in Menanders Heros) beziehen, ohne daß die Handlung in einem mythischen Milieu spielt.34 Aber auch die Fragmente selbst können wegen ihrer geringen Anzahl und Kürze darüber keinen Aufschluß geben. So ist etwa nicht klar, ob im Fr. 45 von Diphilos’ Herakles, in dem ein Vielfraß spricht, der mythische Held selbst, der in der Komödie oft als Schlemmer dargestellt wird, oder eine andere Figur Sprecher ist.35 Auch Komödien, die weder eine mythologische Thematik behandeln noch im Mythos verortet sind, können die Sprache und die Themen der Tragödie in der sogenannten Paratragodia wiederaufnehmen. Zahlreiche Untersuchungen über die Beziehung zwischen Menander und der Tragödie haben gezeigt, wie umfassend und mannigfaltig die Wiederaufnahme der tragischen Dichtung durch ihn ist. Diese enthält neben Zitaten und dem Einsatz tragischer Sprache und Metren auch die Wiederaufnahme von Situationen und Ereignissen, die allgemein für die Tragödie typisch sind oder sich auf ein bestimmtes Stück beziehen.36 Die verschiedenen Spielarten

34

35

36

Menanders auf das mythologische Repertoire, wobei im ersten Fall der Mythos nur dazu diene, einen prahlerischen Soldaten, der sich als Herakles ausgibt, zu parodieren, während in der zweiten wohl der Mythos die passende Kulisse für die Liebesgeschichte biete. Nach Breitenbach (1908: 100) könnte mit Dardanos aber auch auf einen Sklaven angespielt werden. Umgekehrt könnten aber auch scheinbar neutrale Titel auf eine Mythentravestie hinweisen, so z. B. Die Nacht von Philemon (vielleicht eine Episode aus dem Alkmene­Amphitryon­Mythos, vgl. Webster [1970: 127]). Athenaios 10, 421e, die Quelle des Fragments, sagt nicht, wer der Sprecher ist, sondern merkt lediglich an, daß von einem Vielfraß (πολυφάγος) die Rede ist. Zur Figur des Herakles als Vielfraß in der Komödie vgl. etwa Aristoph. Vesp. 60; Av. 1565 ff. und Alexis Fr. 140. Dazu Arnott (1996: 404–415) und Konstantakos in diesem Band S. 159–198. Vgl. dazu vor allem die Beiträge von Katsouris (1975), Hunter (1985: 114–136), Hurst (1990: 93–122), der nach einem Forschungsüberblick eine summa der bisherigen Überlegungen darstellt, und, darauf aufbauend, Cusset (2003), der die Beziehungen zu den Tragikern mit der Terminologie der Intertextualität zu erklären versucht. Zuletzt Petrides (2010: 79–124), für den S. 101 „New Comedy and tragedy lie in constant interchange, on the levels of text performance and reception of performance.“

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des Tragischen wechseln sich nicht nur in Bezug auf die Tiefgründigkeit, sondern auch auf die Funktionen ab, wobei sie bald das Lachen der Zuschauer erregen, bald eine Atmosphäre schaffen, die starke Emotionen weckt. Häufig fallen die Passagen im tragischen Stil und Metrum mit Absicht in die typisch komische Diktion und den komischen Rhythmus zurück, und zwar in Kontexten, von denen das Publikum weiß, daß sie für das Tragische ganz ungeeignet sind. Oft sind es nämlich niedere Figuren, die es wagen, tragische Verse so zu zitieren, daß sie den Sinn verdrehen, oder diese Verse erscheinen in ‚ernsten‘ Szenen, in denen auch Figuren auftreten, die die emotionale Spannung mit der Situation gänzlich unpassenden und lächerlichen Redebeiträgen erleichtern. Eine besonders lustige Parodie einer tragischen Situation erscheint etwa im 4. Akt der Samia (492–520), in dem Nikeratos, um Moschions mutmaßliche Affäre mit Chrysis zu tadeln, reichlich Beispiele aus dem Mythos verwendet und diese zwar mit tragischer Diktion und Kolorit versieht, aber in einen für die Tragödie fremden Kontext situiert und mit so banalen und primitiven Bemerkungen vermengt, daß sie grotesk erscheinen.37 Komplexer ist der Gebrauch der Tragödie in der berühmten Szene des Schiedsgerichts der Epitrepontes, in der Syriskos, um die Bedeutung von γνωρίσματα bei der Wiedererkennung zu unterstreichen, explizit auf die aus der Tragödie bekannte Geschichte von Neleus und Pelias, den Söhnen von Tyro und Poseidon, verweist (325–337).38 Dabei richtet der Sklave seine Rede am gehobenen Register der Tragödie aus in Versen, die den metrischen und prosodischen Gepflogenheiten dieser entsprechen. Zwar dient diese Passage gewiß der Verspottung des Anspruchs einer niederen Figur, sich auf gehobene Weise auszudrücken, doch kann man die Richtigkeit und Wirksamkeit ihrer Argumentation in einer Handlung, die als Ganzes das in der Tragödie verbreitete Motiv des ausgesetzten und wiedergefundenen Kindes nachbildet, nicht leugnen. Da bei den anderen Dichtern längere Fragmente fehlen, ist es auch in diesem Bereich nicht möglich, einen umfassenden Vergleich mit Menander anzustellen. In Diphilos’ Parasit und Synoris kommen Zitate aus Euripides, der namentlich genannt wird, vor, und zwar in Passagen (Fr. 60 und 74), die an die groteske Komik des oben erwähnten Passus der Samia und noch mehr an diejenige der vom Sklaven Daos verwendeten Zitate in 37

38

Vgl. dazu Cusset (2003: 116), der bemerkt, daß „l’usage paratragique prend ici un tour assez proche des pratiques d’Aristophane et participe ... d’un comique du grotesque.“ Der Mythos stand wohl im Mittelpunkt von Sophokles’ Tragödie Tyro, vgl. dazu etwa Cusset (2003: 183–187). Darauf können vielleicht auch die gleichnamigen Stücke von Astydamas II und Karkinos II zurückgeführt werden. Zur Sprache dieses Passus vgl. schon Sandbach (1970: 125 f.).

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der Aspis (407–432) erinnern, da in beiden Fällen eine Figur niederen Rangs (ein Parasit) spricht und vor allem in der Synoris durch Modifikationen und Zusätze der Sinn der tragischen Verse zum Zweck der Komik gänzlich verdreht wird. Das Fr. 102 Philemons gibt dagegen eine Reflexion des Sprechers über den Niobe­Mythos wieder und enthält, wie es scheint, keine unmittelbar parodischen Elemente. Daher kann man annehmen, daß in diesen Versen der Hinweis auf den Mythos bzw. die Tragödie mehr dem Gebrauch dieses Mittels in der Passage der Epitrepontes gleicht, aber aus Mangel am weiteren Kontext kann man bezüglich ihrer Funktion zu keinen sicheren Ergebnissen gelangen.39 Die schon in der Archaia vorgefundene Philosophenparodie nimmt bei zahlreichen Autoren offenbar einen breiten Raum ein, so etwa bei Philemon und Poseidippos, von denen Titel wie Philosophen bzw. Herumziehende (Μεταφερόμενοι) bekannt sind. In den Fragmenten entfaltet sich die Parodie in der Regel auf der Grundlage der volkstümlichen Kritik an den Philosophen als eine Verspottung der von einer bestimmten Schule vorgeschriebenen Lebensweise oder der Haltung der Philosophen im allgemeinen, die durch oberflächliche Karikaturen illustriert werden. Nicht selten ist auch die Erwähnung von Eigenschaften, die für bestimmte Philosophen sprichwörtlich geworden waren: So etwa Zenons ἐγκράτεια im Fr. 88 von Philemons Philosophen und im Fr. 16 von Poseidippos’ Herumziehenden; eine ähnliche Behandlung erfahren die Philosophen auch bei späteren Dichtern wie Baton (etwa Fr. 2; 3; 5).40 Auch für Menander kommen in der indirekten Tradition, wenn auch in geringerer Zahl, Passagen dieser Art vor: Im Fr. 114 werden die Extravaganzen des kynischen Philosophen Krates von Theben genannt,41 während im Fr. 193 die Unsauberkeit und die Maximen des Kynikers Monimos von Syrakus hervorgehoben werden. Die Epitrepontes  bieten dagegen in den Versen 1084–1099, in denen Onesimos eine Gardinenpredigt hält, eine andere Art von Parodie, die weder direkt noch explizit ist und die sich dadurch auszeichnet, daß sie keine Attacken gegen bestimmte Philosophen oder Schulen enthält, sondern philosophische Vorstellungen, die damals beliebt waren, von einer einzelnen Person aus dem Sklavenstand ohne Berücksichtigung der inneren Logik miteinander

39 40

41

Vgl. zu diesem Fragment Bruzzese (2011: 50–58). Zur Philosophenparodie bei Philemon und in der Nea vgl. Bruzzese (2011: 58 f.). Vor allem mit den parodischen Elementen bei Baton und Damoxenos hat sich Gallo (1981: 15–140) beschäftigt. Krates wird gemäß Diogenes Laertios’ Zeugnis auch von Philemon im Fr. 134 erwähnt.

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vermischen und Teile eines unwahrscheinlichen und deshalb lächerlichen ‚Systems‘ werden läßt.42 Die Philosophenparodie erfährt auch bei anderen Autoren originelle Entwicklungen. Besondere Erwähnung verdient dabei das lange Fragment 2 des Damoxenos, in dem sich ein Koch mit der epikureischen Philosophie auseinandersetzt, wobei diese nicht oberflächlich und allgemein, sondern mit einigen spezifischen Aspekten (etwa der Theorie der Kondensation der Lust ([καταπύκνωσις]) dargestellt wird.43 Wie bei den Mythentravestien wissen wir jedoch nicht, wie die Plots von Komödien, die auf Philosophen verweisen, gestaltet waren, und vor allem, ob die Philosophenparodie der zentrale Motor der Handlung war (mit Philosophen als Figuren auf der Bühne?) oder ob diese nur episodischen Charakter hatte. Jedenfalls gibt es bei Menander oder z. B. bei Diphilos und Apollodoros (im Gegensatz etwa zu Philemons Philosophen oder Poseidippos’ Herumziehenden) keinen Hinweis auf einen Plot, in dessen Mittelpunkt die Verspottung von Philosophen gestanden haben könnte.44 Ein weiteres Thema, das für das Verhältnis zwischen Menander und den zeitgenössischen Komödienschreibern für entscheidend gehalten wird, ist die Politik. Wie oben erwähnt, wird die Nea schon in den antiken Quellen der Archaia als unpolitisch entgegengestellt.45 In der Tat findet man in der Komödie nach dem 5. Jh. nur gelegentlich Attacken gegen einzelne Figuren des öffentlichen Lebens, auch wenn die Anzahl und die Dichte der Bezüge zur Politik je nach Dichter sowohl in der Mese als auch in der Nea variiert.46 42

43 44 45 46

Vgl. Gomme/Sandbach (1973: 377–380) und Furley (2009: 246–250) zu den philosophischen Gedanken. Eine subtile Analyse der Passage gibt auch Vogt­Spira (1992: 179–183). Vgl. dazu Gallo (1981: 84–130 und 134–140) und Belardinelli (2008). Vgl. dazu Bruzzese (2011: 58 ff.). Zur Stellung der Mese in dieser Hinsicht vgl. oben S. 199–200, Anm. 1 und 3. Timokles, dessen Schaffensphase bis in die Zeit Menanders reicht, ist unter den zur Mese gezählten Dichtern derjenige mit den meisten politischen Bezügen. Er hat verschiedene Politiker wie Demosthenes (Fr. 4 und 12), Hypereides (Fr. 4), Aristomedes (Fr. 14 und 19) oder Kallimedon (Fr. 29) (z. T. scharf) angegriffen. Dennoch beschränkte sich sein ὀνομαστὶ κωμῳδεῖν nicht auf Politiker, sondern zielte auch auf mehr oder weniger stadtbekannte Parasiten (wie in Fr. 10 auf Tithymallos, Kormos, Korydos und Neilos oder in Fr. 9 auf den auch von Menander genannten Chairephon) oder Hetären (wie Pythionike in Fr. 15, 16, 27 und Phryne in Fr. 25 und 27). Darüber hinaus suggerieren die Titel die typische Themenvielfalt der damaligen Komödie: Einige erinnern an Mythentravestien, andere an Stücke mit Hetären und an Plots mit Anagnorisis (etwa Der Ring), während einige wie Die Demo-Satyrn einen politischen Inhalt vermuten lassen (so Meineke FCG II.1 396,

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Diese Auffassung wird heute immer häufiger von mehreren Seiten infrage gestellt. Einige Gelehrte behaupten nämlich, daß auch nach dem 5. Jh. bis in die Zeit Menanders immer noch eine politische Komödie aufgeführt worden sei.47 Einige davon haben jüngst vermutet, politische Komödien auf der Grundlage von Hinweisen auf die damalige politische Aktualität, die in Titeln und Fragmenten von Dichtern dieser Epoche enthalten sind, rekonstruieren zu können. Als Beispiel eines politischen Dichters in der Nea wird oft Philippides genannt, der selbst als Politiker auf der Seite der Makedonen stand und 287/6 v. Chr. von der Stadt Athen wegen seiner Verdienste geehrt wurde (IG II2 657 = Test. 3).48 Von seiner Produktion ist indessen nur wenig Politisches

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48

der an Demagogen denkt und auf die Bezeichnung von Politikern als δημοπίθηκοι in Aristophanes’ Fröschen 1085 verweist). Noch interessanter ist die Tatsache, daß im Fr. 34 des Φιλοδικαστής auf die von Demetrios von Phaleron geschaffenen γυναικονόμοι und die Luxusgesetze hingewiesen wird, ohne jedoch Demetrios beim Namen zu nennen; ähnlich ist das von Athenaios 6, 245 a–b unmittelbar danach angeführte Fr. 208 Menanders aus dem Kekryphalos, das ebenso, ohne Demetrios zu nennen, auf denselben νόμος καινός hinweist. Daß Timokles in den letzten Jahren des 4. Jh. aktive politische Persönlichkeiten mit derselben Schärfe wie etwa Demosthenes angegriffen habe, geht aus den erhaltenen Fragmenten nicht hervor. Vielleicht hat also Timokles das ohnehin nie ausschließlich gegen Politiker gerichtete ὀνομαστὶ κωμῳδεῖν im Einklang mit den anderen zeitgenössischen Dichtern immer weniger eingesetzt. Eine ähnliche Veränderung kann man nach Bruzzese (2011: 78) auch bei Philemon beobachten. Major (1997: 47), Csapo (2000: 120) und Nervegna (2013: 31 f.) betrachten Timokles uneingeschränkt als Vertreter der ‚politischen‘ Komödie. So Major (1997: 46–49) und jüngst mit Nachdruck Nervegna (2013: 32–42), die meint, daß die politische Komödie unter den athenischen Komödiendichtern verbreitet gewesen sei, während Nicht­Athenern nur die Behandlung unpolitischer Themen gestattet gewesen sei. Doch wissen wir von den meisten Dichtern nicht, woher sie stammen (Nervegna zählt S. 33 für das 3. Jh. 47 Dichter, von denen wir nur von 12 die Abstammung kennen, wobei 6 oder 7 Athener und 5 oder 6 Nicht­ Athener sind). Daß auch Nicht­Athener politische Themen behandelten, ist etwa bei dem aus Thurioi stammenden Alexis deutlich, der mehrmals den Politiker Kallimedon verspottet hat (z. B. Fr. 57; 102; 117; 173; 249), sich daneben aber auch über Philosophen und Parasiten lustig gemacht hat; woher Mnesimachos stammte, dessen Philippos über den Makedonenkönig ging, wissen wir nicht. Vielleicht war beim aus Makedonien stammenden Poseidippos Arsinoe, die Schwester des Königs Ptolemaios Philadelphos, Titelheldin der gleichnamigen Komödie. Nervegna (2013: 29) bezeichnet ihn sogar als „best­known representative“ der politischen Komödie in der Nea. Vgl. schon Major (1997: 47 f.).

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erhalten. Es beschränkt sich weitgehend auf das Fr. 25 und auf das Zeugnis der Quelle, die Fr. 26 überliefert. So wird nach Plutarchs Testimonium zu Fr.  25 (Vita Demetr. 12,26,1–3) scharfe Kritik an Stratokles’ Ehrendekreten für Demetrios Poliorketes und an der unwürdigen Schmeichelei, mit der viele Athener dem Herrscher begegneten, geübt. Im Fragment selbst wird rhetorisch wirkungsvoll und mit einem für die Komödie seltenen strengen Metrum das frevelhafte Benehmen des Mannes (offenbar Stratokles) gerügt, das Unglück über die Stadt gebracht habe. Im letzten Vers wird behauptet, daß dieses Verhalten und nicht die Komödie die Volksherrschaft zerstöre (ταῦτα καταλύει δῆμον, οὐ κωμῳδία, V. 7). In der Tat scheinen diese Verse einen echten Angriff politischen Charakters und eine Verteidigung der Komödie auszudrücken, die an gewisse Passagen der Archaia erinnern.49 Da wir aber weder den Sprecher dieses Fragments kennen noch wissen, ob in dem Stück, dessen Titel und Datierung (als Stratokles mächtig war oder erst nach seinem Sturz bzw. Tod?) ebenso unbekannt sind,50 Stratokles selbst als Figur aufgetreten ist, oder ob die ganze Komödie bzw. nur einzelne Passagen dem politischen Angriff auf den Gegner dienten, ist es unmöglich, weiterreichende Schlüsse zu ziehen.51 49

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Diese poetologische Reflexion wird mit Antiphanes Fr. 189 von Konstantakos (2004b: 34) veglichen, der vermutet, daß Philippides’ Verteidigung der Komödie Teil einer Debatte über die Meinungsfreiheit gewesen sein könnte. Er vergleicht das Fragment mit Aristophanes’ Verteidigung der Komödie gegen Kleon (Ach. 496–503 und 628–45), wobei im Gegensatz zu Aristophanes „Philippides confines himself to a repulsion of the charges, without maintaining a claim of positive benefit.“ Da wir aber weder wissen, ob das Fragment in sich geschlossen (Plutarch zitiert drei Passagen aus der Komödie, die Meineke und die späteren Herausgeber wie Kassel und Austin zu einem Fragment vereint haben, vgl. PCG 7, 347) oder Teil einer längeren Reflexion war, noch den weiteren Komödienkontext kennen, läßt sich diese Behauptung weder beweisen noch widerlegen. Vgl. dazu Gallo (1992: 164–166) und Montana (2009: 306, besonders Anm. 10), welche die verschiedenen bisher geäußerten Hypothesen besprechen und ein Datum zwischen 301–298 v. Chr. vorschlagen, als Stratokles nach der Niederlage des Antigonos bei Ipsos 301 v. Chr. in Ungnade gefallen war. Während Philipp (1973: 504 ff.) meint, Philippides habe analog zu Aristophanes’ Angriff auf Kleon den demokratischen Strategen Stratokles direkt angegriffen und in dem Stück „den offenen politischen Spott der Archaia“ (S. 509) wiederbelebt, mahnt Gallo (1992: 159 ff.) angesichts der Tatsache, daß nur wenige Zeilen erhalten sind, zur Vorsicht, da wir weder die Datierung des Stücks kennen noch wissen, ob Stratokles Zielscheibe des Spotts im ganzen Stück war oder ob „invece si inseriva occasionalmente e marginalmente (come viene naturale supporre negli altri casi a noi noti), in una vicenda di altro tipo, di quelle che appaiono caratteristiche della nea“ (S. 162). Für Olson (2007: 224 f.) ist Demetrios die eigentliche Zielschei-

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In einem weiteren Passus aus Plutarch (Amat. 4 p. 750 E) wird erwähnt, daß sich Philippides in einer Komödie über Stratokles’ Liebesleben lustig gemacht habe. Dabei zitiert er aber nur einen Vers, wobei auch in diesem Fall der Kontext des Spotts unbekannt ist.52 Die übrigen von Philippides überlieferten Fragmente fallen nahezu vollständig unter das für die Nea typische Repertoire. Dazu gehören die Beschreibungen von Speisen (Fr. 9 und 10), die Erwähnung einer Hetäre wie Gnathaina (Fr. 5) oder eines Hurenwirts, der Titelheld im Μαστροπός ist; in der Wieder Verjüngenden (Ἀνανεοῦσα) tritt wahrscheinlich ein Parasit (Fr. 8) auf. Auf das für die Nea charakteristische Motiv der Vergewaltigung in Folge der Trunkenheit deutet Fr. 27 hin. Da der Kontext eines Dialogs aus der Komödie Verschwinden des Gelds (Ἀργυρίου ἀφανισμός) fehlt, in dem sich ein Sprecher über die ungerechte Verteilung des Geldes und über den Reichtum der Neureichen beklagt (Fr. 9), bleibt unklar, ob dies Teil eines sozialkritischen Stücks oder bloß eine moralische Tirade einer Figur war.53 Soweit es bei der Überlieferungslage möglich ist, scheinen die politische Schelte und der politische Stoff bei Philippides zwar nicht gänzlich aufgegeben worden zu sein, doch können wir auf Grundlage unserer Kenntnisse nicht mit Sicherheit behaupten, daß ganze Plots solchen Themen gewidmet waren. Überhaupt steht wahrscheinlich das Politische nicht im Mittelpunkt seiner uns bekannten Produktion, auch weil die persönlichen Angriffe eher selten sind. Dasselbe gilt auch für Archedikos, der vielleicht selbst ein Politiker gewesen ist und der gemäß Polybios (12,13,7) die sexuelle Ausschweifung von Demosthenes’ Neffen Demochares scharf angegriffen hat (Test. 2 und Fr. 4). Unsere Kenntnis seines Werks – die wenigen bekannten Titel (Διαμαρτάνων und Θησαυρός) und erhaltenen Fragmente behandeln typische Themen der Nea (Hetären und Kulinarisches) – reicht aber nicht aus, um sie zu charak-

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be seines Spottes. Montana (2009: 306–308) betont, daß das Fragment politischen Gehalt habe, „inserendosi a pieno titolo, in modo inequivoco e apparentemente consapevole, nel solco dell’antica idea civile, impegnata e costruttiva del teatro comico“ (S. 307). Daß Stratokles tatsächlich im Stück aufgetreten ist, wie Meineke (FCG IV 475) auf Grund der Tatsache, daß im Fragment der Adressat in der 2. Sg. angesprochen wird, als Vermutung geäußert hat, kann aber auf der Basis nur eines überlieferten Verses und mangels des weiteren Kontextes nicht bewiesen werden. Auch bei diesem Fragment läßt sich angesichts des mangelnden Kontexts nicht bestimmen, ob nur dieser Passus (so Gallo 1992: 166) oder die ganze Komödie sozialkritisch war (so Philipp 1973: 500, für den der Dichter patriotische Gefühle gegen Demetrios wecken wollte).

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terisieren und ihre Rolle in der politischen Auseinandersetzung zu bestimmen.54 Einige Gelehrte führen auch Demetrios II als Vertreter der politischen Komödie an:55 Im Fr. 1 aus dem Areopagites wird zusammen mit Seleukos und Agathokles der athenische Tyrann Lachares erwähnt. Falls es sich um eine Verspottung des Tyrannen handeln sollte, so umfaßt diese nur wenige Verse und wird in einen typischen Kontext der Nea eingebettet (in die Rede eines prahlerischen Kochs). Wegen der Erwähnung der Hungersnot von 295/4 v. Chr. wird im übrigen das Stück selbst nach dem Sturz von Lachares’ Tyrannis datiert, was die Verwendung von Vergangenheitstempora bestätigt.56 Bei Menander scheinen persönliche Attacken auf Politiker viel seltener als bei seinen Zeitgenossen und Nachfolgern zu sein, auch wenn etwa in der Methe dem Politiker Kallimedon, der schon in der Mese Zielscheibe des Spotts war, der Tod gewünscht wird (Fr. 224, 14).57 Wenn man Athenaios’ Zeugnis zum Halieus bzw. Halieis glauben darf (Athen. 549 a–c), hat Menander bisweilen in einer Komödie dem Spott an einem Herrscher freien Lauf gelassen, so gegen Dionysios, den Tyrannen von Herakleia. Dabei habe Menander, sonst laut Athenaios am wenigsten ein Lästerer ( κιστά γ᾽ ὢν λοίδορος), die Geschichte über (bzw. für) einige Flüchtlinge aus Herakleia konstruiert (τὸν μῦθον ὑποστησάμενος ὑπέρ τινων φυγάδων ἐξ ρακλείας).58 Dabei zitiert Athenaios sechs Verse, von de54

55 56

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Habicht (1993: 255), der den Dichter mit dem ἀναγραφεύς des Jahres 320/19 v. Chr. identifiziert, meint hingegen, „that the poet was just as politically engaged as Philippides and that he focused on Demochares as the political foe“ (S. 254) und daß er dabei die Komödie als Instrument in der politischen Auseinandersetzung benutzt habe. Könnte also bei Archedikos und Philippides die Tatsache, daß die beiden auch prominente Politiker gewesen sind, bewirkt haben, daß sie bisweilen in ihren Komödien persönliche politische Gegner angegriffen haben? Vgl. Csapo (2000: 120 f.) und Nervegna (2013: 31 f.). Daß es sich bei dem von Athenaios 9, 405 e im Anschluß daran überlieferten Hinweis auf die Entkleidung der Athenastatue durch Lachares um ein weiteres Zitat aus Demetrios handelt, wie Kock meinte, ist schwer nachzuweisen, zumal man nur durch Umstellung und Ergänzung des Textes zwei iambische Trimeter erhält. Kassel und Austin führen die möglichen von Kock gemachten Verse lediglich im Apparat an (dazu PCG V, S. 12). Die meisten Gelehrten gehen davon aus, daß die Komödie vor Kallimedons Sturz 318 zu datieren ist, vgl. etwa Gomme/Sandbach (1973: 698). Wir haben aber keine sicheren Nachrichten, um die Komödie zu datieren. Nicht ganz klar ist die Bedeutung des Ausdrucks τὸν μῦθον ὑποστησάμενος ὑπέρ τινων φυγάδων ἐξ ρακλείας, den Canfora (2001: 1375) „dopo aver introdotto il

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nen wir allerdings nicht wissen, ob sie aus einer zusammenhängenden Rede stammen oder, was ebenso wahrscheinlich ist, aus verschiedenen Abschnitten entnommen worden sind. Darin werden die Prasserei und die daraus folgende Dickleibigkeit des Tyrannen aufs Korn genommen (Fr. 25).59 Unklar ist ebenso, wann die Komödie aufgeführt worden ist. Aufgrund des Hinweises auf den möglichen Tod wird ein Datum nach 305 v. Chr., dem Todesdatum des Dionysios, angenommen. Ebenso wird z. B. im Fr. 2 Sandbach des Kolax, das auch von Athenaios (10, 434 b­c) überliefert wird, kurz auf die Trunksucht des bereits toten Alexander hingewiesen.60 Andere, meist vage Andeutungen auf politische Ereignisse und Debatten kann man bei Menander eher selten und en passant finden: So wird etwa im Fr. 51 auf den Lamischen Krieg und in der Perikeiromene 124 ff. auf die Wirren um Korinth hingewiesen,61 während in den Sikyonioi 150–167 der Gegensatz zwischen einem Oligarchen und einem Demokraten unter Verwendung einiger typischer ideologischer Argumente dargestellt wird. Aus diesen Gründen galt Menander in der älteren Forschung als unpolitisch.62 Heute kann man neben dieser Auffassung zwei neue Positionen beobachten. Einige Gelehrte haben jenseits der direkten Hinweise in der familiären Verortung und in den privaten Angelegenheiten, welche die Grundlage

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discorso su alcuni fuoriusciti di Eraclea“ und Olson (2010: 191) „offering the story on behalf of some exiles from Heracleia“ übersetzen. Dagegen meint Nervegna (2013: 43) daraus deuten zu können, daß „the two refugees from Heracleia who populate Fisherman or Fishermen“ die Sprecher dieses Fragments sind, was aber (auch in Bezug auf die Zahl der Flüchtlinge) nicht aus dem Text des Athenaios hervorgeht. Daß, wie Major (1997: 51) meint, „Athenaeus downplays the force of these insults when he states that Dionysius’ reputation for decadence did not impair his successful rule as a tyrant, so there is no reason to relate these jokes to a tradition of hostile invective“ und daß „these are occasional witticisms about a renowned figure“, gilt auch für andere Komödienschreiber der Nea. Im ersten Vers wird er mit einem Schwein verglichen, in V. 2 wird gesagt, daß er auf diese Weise nicht lange schlemmen konnte. In den V. 3–6 scheint der Tyrann selbst zu sprechen oder als „speech in speech“ von einer anderen Figur zitiert zu werden und sich dabei den Tod durch Prasserei zu wünschen. Für weitere Fragmente, in denen das ὀνομαστὶ κωμῳδεῖν vorkommt, vgl. jüngst Nervegna (2013: 42). Ebenso erwähnenswert sind die V. 601–8 der Samia, in denen Chairephon und ein gewisser Androkles verspottet werden. Da Korinth zwischen 315 und 303 Gegenstand des Streites unter den Diadochen gewesen ist, könnte im Vers 125 mit τῶν Κορινθιακῶν κακῶν darauf verwiesen werden, vgl. Gomme/Sandbach (1973: 470). Daß Menander weitgehend unpolitisch sei, wird etwa von Gomme/Sandbach (1973: 24) postuliert.

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der Plots bilden, eine Technik zur Maskierung von brisanten Themen und heiklen Problemen der politischen Aktualität zu erkennen versucht. So meint etwa Lape, daß Menanders Komödie als ideologisches Instrument „contributed to democratic continuity as well as to the cultural survival of the Greek polis during the transition to the Hellenistic age.“63 Ihrer Meinung nach verfolgte Menander durch die Plots seiner Stücke ein politisches Programm zur Verewigung der demokratischen Poliskultur. Da gemäß dem perikleischen Bürgerrechtsgesetz von 451/0 die Ehen unter Bürgern ein zentraler Faktor für die demokratische Identität Athens waren, dienten die auf die Bühne gebrachten Darstellungen von Hochzeiten und Wiederherstellungen von Ehen der Inszenierung einer Erneuerung der demokratischen Institutionen. Daß ebenso Sklaven, Hetären und Soldaten positiv erscheinen, deutet Lape als einen Vorschlag Menanders zur Erweiterung der Rechte der Minderheiten innerhalb der athenischen Demokratie. Zwar mögen diese Argumente in einem (post­)modernen politischen Diskurs eine Rolle spielen, doch haben wir in den politischen Diskussionen jener Zeit keine Hinweise dafür, daß sich die demokratische Poliskultur damit identifizierte. Schwerer wiegt in der Nea im Gegensatz etwa zur Alten Komödie das nahezu vollständige Fehlen von Hinweisen auf die Außenpolitik, auf die Rolle des Individuums als Polisbürger und auf die demokratischen Institutionen der Polis.64 Im Gegensatz zu Lape, für die Menander demokratisch gesinnt ist, meint Blanchard, ein politisches Engagement auf Seiten des gemäßigten Oligarchen Demetrios von Phaleron ausmachen zu können. Mit dem Dyskolos plädiere Menander für ein auf dem Zensus fußendes System der Partizipation, wobei die Grenze des Zensus nicht zu weit zu senken sei, weil sonst Leute wie Knemon politische Akteure würden; allerdings fehlen im Text konkrete Anhaltspunkte für eine solche Intention des Stücks.65 Ebenso vermutet er, daß Menander durch die Verspottung der oligarchischen Smikrines und Moschion in den Sikyonioi das oligarchische Regime seines Freundes Demetrios von Phaleron bei den Demokraten beliebt machen wollte, was sich aber angesichts der Tatsache, daß die Datierung des Stücks völlig offen ist, nicht beweisen läßt.66 63 64

65 66

Lape (2004: 243). So mit Recht etwa die Kritik von Major (2004). Zum οἶκος, der ein ideales System des sozialen Lebens als Alternative zu der in die Krise geratenen Bürger­Polis geboten habe, und seiner Rolle in Menanders Komödien vgl. allgemein Patterson (1998: 211). Blanchard (2007: 31–42). Blanchard (2009: xxxvii–xlii und ciii–cv). Ebenso spekulativ ist die These von Montana (2009: 334), der im Kolax 85–119 in der Rede des Sklaven gegen die

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Andere Interpreten haben Menanders Wahl, nicht über politische Themen zu sprechen, als politisch gedeutet.67 Auf der Basis des bekannten Testimoniums der Freundschaft Menanders mit Demetrios von Phaleron (Diog. Laert. 5,79 = Test. 9) glaubt Major, daß der Dichter zu dessen Kreis gehörte und daß entsprechend Theophrasts Definition der Komödie als ἰδιωτικῶν πραγμάτων ἀκίνδυνος περιοχή (Fr. 708)68 seine Produktion im Gegensatz zu derjenigen einiger seiner Zeitgenossen wie Philippides und Archedikos unpolitisch gewesen sei, um den Interessen der nunmehr in Athen etablierten makedonischen Herrschaft zu dienen.69 Auf dieser Vorarbeit aufbauend, hat jüngst auch Nervegna mit Entschiedenheit die These vertreten, daß Menander anders als viele athenische Komödiendichter seiner Zeit, die durchaus eine politische Komödie weitergeführt hätten, deswegen unpolitisch gewesen sei, weil er dem Peripatos angehört habe.70 Den Vorschriften des Aristoteles und der übrigen Peripatetiker in Bezug auf die Komik Folge leistend, habe Menander die Gattung dadurch erneuert, daß er die Politik aus seinen Stücken verbannt habe, und damit das Ziel verfolgt, die bestehende Ordnung nicht infrage zu stellen.71 Auch wenn die

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κολακεία Anspielungen an die athenische demokratische Propaganda erkennt und vermutet, daß die Figur des miles gloriosus in diesem Stück als Parodie des Demetrios Poliorketes vorkam und somit Menander ähnlich wie andere Schriftsteller (z. B. der oben genannte Philippides) gegen diesen Stellung bezog. Bodei Giglioni (1984: 27 f.) hat darin eine bewußte Wahl Menanders gesehen, die im Einklang mit Theophrasts Komödientheorie steht: „La scelta di non parlare di politica potrebbe già essere una scelta politica.“ Zu dieser Definition vgl. Fortenbaugh (1981: 258). Major (1997: 59 f.): „Menander pursues a narrowly focused brand of New Comedy, which steadfastly avoids the topical and political content found in contemporary comic poets. In view of Menander’s attested associations with the Macedonian elite and with the Macedonian­backed Peripatos, and given the views of Theophrastus, the rigidly domestic world of Menander’s comedies presupposes the stability of the Macedonian establishment.“ So etwa Nervegna (2013: 17): „A student of Theophrastus and a friend of Demetrius of Phaleron, Menander was an oligarchic, pro­Macedonian intellectual who invariably staged the kind of comedy promoted by Aristotle, Theophrastus and Plato before them. His comedy appealed to oligarchic regimes and responded well to Peripatetic theories on comedy and the comic. Scholarship on Menander started within the Peripatetic circle and with Menander’s contemporaries, and it went on to find favour among the luminaries working in Alexandria, who were greatly indebted to their Peripatetic predecessors.“ Für Nervegna (2013: 45–60) hat der Peripatos im Hellenismus dafür gesorgt, daß seine Komödie in der Rezeption großen Erfolg hatte. Doch wissen wir über die Rolle des Peripatos im Hellenismus zu wenig, um darin einen Träger für die Ver-

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soziale und demzufolge politische Tragweite gewisser moralischer Werte, die Menander innerhalb seiner Komödien vermittelt und von denen viele gewiß den Anschauungen des Peripatos, der innerhalb der Führungsschicht damals am besten etabliert war, entsprachen, scheint der Versuch, die Besonderheiten von Menanders Komödie ausschließlich als Ergebnis einer politischen Gesinnung bzw. der Zugehörigkeit zu einer philosophischen Schule deuten zu wollen, der Tiefgründigkeit und Komplexität seiner Stücke nicht gerecht zu werden.72 Gleichermaßen erscheint es auf Grund unserer Kenntnisse als nicht angebracht, von den athenischen Komödiendichtern im Zeitalter Menanders die nicht­politische Komödie auf diesen beschränken zu wollen. Wie oben schon deutlich gezeigt worden ist, gibt es zahlreiche Indizien dafür, daß auch andere (athenische und nicht-athenische) Komödiendichter private Themen in den Mittelpunkt ihrer Komödien gerückt haben.73 Darüber hinaus wird oft nicht zur Genüge berücksichtigt, daß viele Beobachtungen über die Komödie, die in Aristoteles’ Werken und in denen seiner Anhänger enthalten sind, innerhalb der Gattung schon im Gang befindliche Tendenzen dokumentieren, die vor Menanders Bühnendebüt liegen. Dies gilt z. B. für die oben schon erwähnte Theophrastische Definition der Komödie und für die aristotelische Unterscheidung zwischen den alten und den zeitgenössischen Komödien in Bezug auf den Gebrauch des γελοῖον (Aristot. EN 1128 a 22–25). 5. Der Koch bei Menander und seinen Zeitgenossen In der Forschung glaubt man oft, einen weiteren Unterschied zwischen Menander und seinen Zeitgenossen in der Behandlung von Figuren, die ab dem

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breitung von Menanders Komödien ausmachen zu können, zumal etwa gerade im Museion zu Alexandria der peripatetische Einfluß, soweit wir wissen, insgesamt gering war. Zum Peripatos im Hellenismus vgl. etwa Wöhrle/Hellmann (2011: 405–409). Dazu Sorrentino (2014b: 1079) mit weiteren Angaben. In der Diskussion über die Rolle des Peripatos bei Menander wurde der Dichter von Barigazzi (1965: 230) als „poeta del Peripato“ bezeichnet. Gigante (1971) hat jedoch dessen Ergebnisse als zu radikal kritisiert und verworfen. Mit Recht weist Arnott (1975: 14–16) darauf hin, daß „the parallels are ... numerous“, warnt aber vor der Annahme, daß diese immer direkte Beziehungen zwischen Menanders Komödien und dem Peripatos bezeugen. Er unterstreicht, daß „Menander’s comedies are not philosophical exegeses“, da auch an den Stellen, an denen die Hinweise auf die Ideen und die Sprache der Philosophie klar sind, „dramatic values take precedence over all others“. Vgl. ebenso Hunter (1985: 148–151). Vgl. oben S. 214, Anm. 47.

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4.  Jh. in der Gattung typisch werden,74 ausmachen zu können. Besser als andere Figuren läßt sich der Koch wegen der Bedeutung des Athenaios als Quelle für alle Dichter der Nea vergleichen. Diese schon vorher in der Gattung vorkommende Figur hat ohne Zweifel ab dem 4. Jh. eine signifikante Aufwertung erfahren.75 Nach der Mese scheinen Menander und die meisten anderen Dichter der Nea das komische Potential dieser Figur weitgehend ausgenutzt zu haben. In einer der ersten Untersuchungen über diese Komödienfigur glaubte Dohm verschiedene Entwicklungstypologien der Kochrolle in der Komödie des 4. und 3. Jh. bestimmen zu können. Menander unterscheide sich von vielen seiner Zeitgenossen darin, daß er die sogenannte „integrierte Kochrolle“ geschaffen habe, d. h. der Koch werde dazu gebraucht, um bedeutende dramatische Funktionen innerhalb des Plots zu erfüllen.76 Vor Menander und bei der Mehrheit seiner Dichterkollegen habe dieser eine ‚episodische‘ Rolle innegehabt und sei vor allem an bestimmten Stellen eines Stücks aufgetreten, die von seiner Tätigkeit als Koch abhängig und kaum mit der dramatischen Haupthandlung verbunden gewesen seien. Die von Dohm gemachte Unterscheidung zwischen diesen beiden Kochrollen ist mit Recht als zu starr kritisiert worden. Insbesondere hat man bezüglich der Funktion des Kochs bei Menander bemerkt, daß diese weiterhin vornehmlich episodisch ist, zumal diese Figur innerhalb des Plots immer eine untergeordnete Rolle spielt.77 Nesselrath glaubt hingegen, daß, wenn man überhaupt eine Entwicklung bei der Darstellung des Kochs annehmen will, Alexis dabei eine entscheidende Rolle gespielt habe, während die drei großen Dichter der Nea (Menander, Philemon und Diphilos) keine großen Neuerungen eingeführt hätten.78 In einer ausführlichen Untersuchung über diese Figur bei Philemon stellt Bruzzese diesen nach einer ausgewogenen Diskussion des Forschungsstandes in eine mittlere Position zwischen Dichtern, in denen der Koch kaum 74

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76 77

78

Zu diesen (z. B. Parasiten, Hetären und Soldaten) vgl. Nesselrath (1990: 318–329) und für die neueste Bibliographie Sorrentino (2014a: 985–989). Es wird allgemein vermutet, daß schon in Aristophanes’ Aiolosikon ein Koch aufgetreten sei, vgl. Zimmermann (2011: 780). Dohm (1964). So die Kritik von Nesselrath (1990: 308, Anm. 61). Schon davor ist Dohms Entwicklungshypothese bezüglich der Erscheinungstypologien des Kochs in der Geschichte der Komödie (vom einfachen Monolog zum Dialog mit dem Auftraggeber und dessen Sklaven über die Zwischenstufe des Dialogs mit anderen Köchen) vor allem wegen der mangelnden chronologischen Konsistenz von Austin (1964: 748–751), Arnott (1965: 182–184), Griffith (1965: 273–276) kritisiert worden. Nesselrath (1990: 297–309).

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oder gar nicht in Erscheinung tritt (wie Apollodor), und anderen Komödienschreibern, von denen lange Fragmente erhalten sind, in denen der Koch scheinbar losgelöst von der dramatischen Handlung im Zentrum der Szene steht. Die dem Koch gewidmeten Fragmente Philemons sind nämlich gering an Zahl und mit Ausnahme des 26 Verse umfassenden Fr. 82 alle kurz.79 In diesem Fragment werden viele traditionelle Elemente der Kochrolle evoziert (wie seine Prahlerei). Es scheint ohne Verbindung zum Plot zu stehen und als variatio einer traditionellen farcenhaften Episode zu dienen.80 Bestenfalls könnten darin die Nachrichten über den Ablauf des Banketts das Publikum darüber informieren, was vorher außerhalb der Bühne passiert ist. Bei Diphilos spielt der Koch in mehreren Fragmenten (z. B. Fr. 17; 42; 90) eine Rolle. Im 41 Verse umfassenden Fr. 42 prahlt ein μάγειρος damit, zu wissen, mit welcher Kundschaft er am besten Geschäfte machen kann. Auch wenn sich dieses Fragment wie ein langer Lehrvortrag für einen τραπεζοποιός entwickelt, enthält es ab V. 38 eine Information bezüglich des Ortes, wo der Koch das Bankett ausrichten wird (im Haus einer Hetäre zum Fest der Adonien). Man kann daher vermuten, daß die Szene so gegliedert war, daß sie einerseits das Publikum unterhielt, anderseits aber einige Figuren und Situationen der Handlung ankündigte. Bei Menander kann man in den verschiedenen Komödien unterschiedliche Gebräuche dieser Figur feststellen. Im Dyskolos, der Komödie, die von den uns bekannten Stücken dem Koch am meisten Raum gewährt, tritt der Koch Sikon mehrmals auf die Bühne: Seine Auftritte zeigen, daß in der Figur viele der traditionellen Charakteristika des Kochs vorhanden sind – von den Wortspielen, die seine Tätigkeit betreffen (wie dasjenige mit dem Verb κόπτειν81), zu wesentlichen Elementen der Persönlichkeit dieses ‚stock­character‘ (allen voran der ἀλαζονεία) – , die aber oft modifiziert erscheinen, vor allem, um den jeweiligen dramatischen Erfordernissen gerecht zu werden (so etwa die Neugier, die sich nicht auf Dinge beschränkt, welche die Ausrichtung des Banketts betreffen, und daher dazu dient, das Publikum über

79

80 81

Nach Bruzzese (2011: 192) sind die dem Koch gewidmeten Fragmente 12; 42; 63; 64; 71; 83; 114 und vielleicht 176. Unsicher bleibt die Länge des Fr. 114, das bei Athenaios ein zweites Mal als Anfang eines längeren Straton zugeschriebenen Koch­Fragments erscheint und ab Vers 4 in einer etwas abweichenden Form und ohne Nennung des Autors auf Papyrus erhalten ist, vgl. dazu Scardino (2014: 1089, Anm. 585). So Bruzzese (2011: 207–221). Das Wortspiel kommt z. B. schon bei Alexis Fr. 177 und bei Menander Sam. 285 und 293 f. vor.

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Ereignisse, die außerhalb der Bühne stattgefunden haben, zu informieren82). Die für den Koch zu beobachtenden Veränderungen stehen im Einklang mit der auch in Bezug auf andere Aspekte bemerkbaren, typisch menandrischen Technik, traditionelle Motive aufzunehmen und umzuwandeln: So werden Eigenschaften, die typisch für die Figur des Kochs sind, bisweilen mit solchen vermengt, die anderen ‚stock­characters‘ eigen sind, oder von diesen ersetzt (so führt Sikon in den Versen 487–499 das Motiv der εὕρεσις ein, das dem Koch eigentümlich ist, und verbindet es auf originelle Weise mit der traditionellerweise mit Schmeichlern und Schmarotzern assoziierten κολακεία83). Die indirekte Tradition neigt dazu, Fragmente zu überliefern, welche die bekanntesten Motive der Tradition behandeln und kaum mit der Haupthandlung verbunden zu sein scheinen.84 Eines der wichtigsten Beispiele in dieser Hinsicht ist das 11 Verse umfassende Fr. 351 des Trophonios, das Athenaios 4, 132e nach Diphilos Fr. 17 ähnlichen Inhalts anführt, wo ein Koch wohl in einem Monolog spricht.85 Das darin behandelte Thema, die Speisen der Herkunft der Gäste anzupassen, findet man schon in der Mese etwa bei Dionysios Fr. 2 und im oben angeführten Fragment des Diphilos.86 Auch im aus dem Pseudherakles stammenden und 16 Verse umfassenden Fr. 409, in dem vielleicht nicht der Koch, sondern sein Auftraggeber spricht87, ist es schwierig, eine dramatische Funktion der Verse auszumachen, zumal an dieser Stelle offenbar die Aktivität des Kochs und der diesem entgegengesetzten δημιουργοί detailliert geschildert wird. Wie in vielen Fragmenten der Mese und Nea wird

82

83

84

85

86

87

Diese Eigenschaft kommt ebenfalls beim Koch der Epitrepontes Karion (Fr. 1 und 2 Sandbach) zum Tragen. Vgl. zu dieser Technik Zagagi (1994: 29–33). Vgl. zum Koch im Dyskolos auch Wilkins (2000: 412–414). Vielleicht lohnt es sich zu erwähnen, daß auch in der direkten Tradition ähnliche Passagen erscheinen können, man denke etwa an Sam. 283–295, wo der Dialog zwischen Parmenon und dem Koch sich gemäß den traditionellen Vorgaben entwickelt und keine große dramatische Funktion besitzt – außer derjenigen, die Spannung momentan abzubauen. Gemäß Gomme/Sandbach (1973: 706 f.) könnte jedoch der erste Vers einem Gesprächspartner zugewiesen werden. Bei Anaxippos Fr. 1 werden passende Rezepte für die Bedürfnisse von Verliebten, Philosophen und Steuereintreibern genannt, also soziale und nicht ethnische Kriterien angegeben. Während bei PCG das Fragment als Monolog erscheint, treten gemäß Gomme/ Sandbach (1973: 712 f.) zwei Sprecher auf, und der Koch beginnt Vers 5 damit, seine neuen Methoden zu preisen, wobei die langen Wörter der letzten Verse die schwülstige Wirkung des Vortrags noch verstärken.

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der Koch auf Grund seiner Geschwätzigkeit als unangenehm bezeichnet und seine Tätigkeit mit derjenigen des übrigen Küchenpersonals verglichen.88 Betrachtet man das uns erhaltene Material, kann man bei Menander Besonderheiten beim Gebrauch dieser Figur beobachten, die jedoch vor allem aus der direkten Tradition hervorgehen. Dazu kann man eine außergewöhnliche Fähigkeit Menanders feststellen, den Auftritten des Kochs präzise dramatische Funktionen zuzuweisen, wobei er ihm lange Tiraden, in denen seine Kunst beschrieben wird, wegnimmt. Die indirekte Tradition neigt hingegen dazu, ein traditionelleres Bild von Menanders Kunst zu liefern. Der auffälligste Unterschied zwischen Menander und den anderen Dichtern besteht in der Zahl und der Länge der Fragmente, die beim ersten geringer sind. In den gleichzeitig mit Menander tätigen und bei ihm nachfolgenden Dichtern bemerkt man andere Modalitäten, die den Koch betreffende Tradition zu variieren und mit neuen und aktuellen Inhalten zu füllen; man denke etwa an das bereits zitierte Fr. 2 des Damoxenos, in dem sich ein Koch in einer langen Rede als Universalgelehrter vorstellt und sich seiner philosophischen, astronomischen, medizinischen und musikalischen Kenntnisse rühmt.89 6. Ergebnis 1) Die indirekte Tradition neigt dazu, Menanders Bild dem früherer oder zeitgenössischer Dichter anzugleichen, da sie neben Sentenzen (etwa Stobaios) vor allem Passagen von ihm überliefert, die kulinarische Themen behandeln (so Athenaios) oder in denen die Technik des ὀνομαστὶ κωμῳδεῖν zur Anwendung kommt, und deshalb auf diese Weise die Namen historischer Persönlichkeiten erwähnt werden (z. B. Diogenes Laertios für die Philosophen und Athenaios für berühmte Parasiten). Eine eingehende Untersuchung der indirekt überlieferten Fragmente und Titel zeigt, daß Menander auf Elemente traditioneller Komik nicht verzichtet, sondern diese eher spärlich verwendet hat. So sind etwa kulinarische Passagen seltener und weniger lang als bei verschiedenen anderen Dichtern, ebenso scheint die kritische Erwähnung oder Verspottung von Politikern in den meisten Fällen kursorisch und nicht auf ihre politische Aktivität, sondern auf Makel anderer Art abzuzielen. 2) Nur aus den direkt überlieferten Komödien gehen hingegen die Modalitäten hervor, gemäß denen Menander die traditionellen komischen patterns 88

89

Vgl. zur Geschwätzigkeit des Kochs Dohm (1964: 201–203) und Nesselrath (1990: 303 f.), die viele Beispiele anführen. Zu den Vergleichen des Kochs mit dem übrigen Küchenpersonal vgl. z. B. Philemon Fr. 64, dazu Bruzzese (2011: 199–201). Zu diesem und ähnlichen Fragmenten des Sosipatros (Fr. 1) und des Nikomachos (Fr. 1) vgl. die oben erwähnten Gallo (1981) und Belardinelli (2008).

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(z. B. ‚stock­characters‘, komische Techniken und Themen) gebraucht hat. In den meisten Stücken erscheinen diese Elemente anders als in Passagen anderer Autoren und werden gewöhnlicherweise wesentlichen dramatischen Erfordernissen (wie z. B. demjenigen, die Handlung weiterzubringen) untergeordnet. 3) Daß aber die Kunst, durch die anscheinend ungebräuchliche Verwendung dieser Elemente die Erwartungen der Rezipienten zu enttäuschen, sich auf Menander beschränkt, wie oft vermutet wird,90 kann angesichts der nur fragmentarischen Überlieferung seiner Zeitgenossen wie Philemon oder Diphilos und somit des Fehlens des Kontexts bei den meisten Fragmenten nur vermutet werden, zumal wir allein aus der indirekten Tradition diese Besonderheit Menanders kaum rekonstruieren könnten. 4) Menander scheint also, wie an Hand einiger Beispiele gezeigt worden ist, in den grundlegenden Zügen ein Vertreter der Komödie seiner Zeit gewesen zu sein, zumal er sich weder in Bezug auf die Struktur seiner Stücke noch auf die Wahl der Themen und Motive sowie der komischen Technik merklich von seinen Zeitgenossen, bei denen ebenfalls private Thematiken im familiären Rahmen des οἶκος dominant waren, unterscheidet. 5) Auf Grund der Überlieferungslage läßt sich nicht bestimmen, ob und in welchem Maße Mythentravestien verbreitet waren, auch wenn im allgemeinen (bei Menander und anderen Dichtern wie Philemon) die Zahl der dem Mythos gewidmeten Titel abnimmt. 6) Die verfügbaren Testimonien und Fragmente reichen nicht aus, um das Profil einer Komödie, deren Handlung sich im Stil der Aristophanischen Komödie um politische Themen drehte und sich deshalb von derjenigen menandrischer Art unterschied, skizzieren zu können. Wie gezeigt, können wir bei allen Stücken, in denen Politiker genannt werden, mangels sicherer Datierung nicht bestimmen, ob die Komödie als ‚politische Waffe‘ diente und der Angriff etwa auf Stratokles bei Philippides oder auf Demochares bei Archedikos gegen einen Politiker gerichtet war, der noch über Einfluß in Athen verfügte, oder ob bereits gestorbene oder machtlose Staatsmänner Zielscheiben eines (episodischen) ὀνομαστὶ κωμῳδεῖν geworden sind. Die Fragmente, die politische Bezüge enthalten, scheinen auch im Falle der soeben erwähnten Autoren zahlenmäßig bei weitem geringer zu sein als diejenigen, in denen typisch ‚menandrische‘ Themen und Motive begegnen. Dieses Mißverhältnis könnte zwar durch die schon erwähnten Auswahlkriterien der indirekten Überlieferung bedingt sein, darf aber nicht ignoriert werden.

90

So etwa Nesselrath (1990: 332 ff.).

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7) Menanders philosophische und politische Ausrichtung scheint kein ausreichender Grund zu sein, um die Wahl gewisser Themen zu rechtfertigen, sondern ist höchstens in den Modalitäten, wie diese Themen behandelt und gewisse Knoten der Handlung gelöst werden, erkennbar; auch die Reduktion der Hinweise auf Politisches muß nicht einen rein ideologischen Grund haben, sondern könnte gleich wie die Verwandlung anderer Elemente traditioneller Komik einfach als Beitrag zur Konstruktion eines kohärenten, wahrscheinlichen und in sich geschlossenen Plots, der Abschweifungen keinen großen Raum eingesteht, gedeutet werden. 8) Schließlich sind der Stil und die fast nie exzessive und vulgäre Komik, die gewiß mit den peripatetischen Vorstellungen über das Komische und das Lachen im Einklang standen, das Ergebnis eines Wandels innerhalb der komischen Gattung, der schon vor dem Beginn von Menanders Karriere im Gang war.

Out of Athens: Greek Comedy at the Rural Dionysia and Elsewhere Benjamin Millis

For all its riches, Greek comedy remains in many ways an underexplored field.1 Aristophanes, or at least his extant plays, has always received ample attention, as has Menander since the waning years of the nineteenth century when substantial fragments of his plays began to be discovered. The comic fragments, never known as well or studied as intensively, are now being made much more accessible through increased work on them over the past decades. Nevertheless, nearly all scholars who engage with comic fragments continue to concentrate on poets of the late fifth and fourth centuries,2 thus providing greater context for the extant plays or trying to bridge the gap between Aristophanes and Menander. As important as this progress is, much of Greek comedy outside the narrow window of Classical and Early Hellenistic urban Athens remains ignored and shrouded in obscurity. Individual comedies are virtually always assumed, even in the absence of any direct evidence, to have been written for performance at the Athenian City Dionysia or Lenaea. There is ample evidence, however, that comic poets were staging plays competitively outside these two festivals, both at the rural Dionysia in extra­urban Attica and at festivals elsewhere in the Greek world, and that these other festivals were high­prestige venues. Comedy is also generally assumed to have come into its own in the early to mid­fifth century and to have lasted approximately two centuries before declining 1

2

I am grateful to Bernhard Zimmermann for the invitation to present a paper and for his graciousness as a host in Freiburg; to Stylianos Chronopoulos, the rest of the Freiburg team and the other conference participants for helping to create such an enjoyable and stimulating week; and to S. Douglas Olson for valuable criticism of earlier drafts of the written version as well as much else. ‘Old’, ‘Middle’ and ‘New’, the traditional designators of the periods of Greek comedy, are here eschewed in favour of chronological descriptions, since the traditional terms denote a misleading conflation of chronological periods and implications of content. Even as bare chronological indicators, their inadequacy for describing the genre as a whole should already have recognized by the common use of various special terms (e. g. ‘Doric Comedy’ vel sim.) to refer to comedy that falls outside the chronological and Athenocentric bias of this scheme. See below for more discussion.

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precipitously into irrelevance shortly after the death of Menander. Again, however, plentiful evidence demonstrates not just that comedies continued to be written and performed until at least the second century AD but also that they were being produced competitively by comic poets who enjoyed international success. One broader effect has been an uncritical correlation of quantity of evidence with importance and the assumption that the extant plays and their contexts are fully representative of Greek comedy as a whole. 1. Performance at the Rural Dionysia The rural Dionysia is an important but understudied feature of the Athenian religious calendar.3 The festival took place in various demes throughout the Attic countryside in the month Posideon (December / January), although individual demes need not have all celebrated it on the same day. The program included a procession and, at least in some demes, a dramatic competition. The direct evidence for the participation of specific poets in such competitions is epigraphic and has been needlessly disputed. Because of the nature of many of the relevant inscriptions and the paucity of the evidence, comedy is best treated together with tragedy. IG I3 970 = II2 3090 = I.Eleusis 53 is one of the oldest known and most discussed inscriptions among those pertaining to victories at the rural Dionysia, as well as one that exemplifies their problematic interpretation.4 The text itself is straightforward. [Γ]νάθις Τιμοκήδος, Ἀναξανδρίδης Τιμαγόρο χορηγο̑ντες κωμωιδοῖς ἐνίκων· Ἀριστοφάνης ἐ[δ]ίδασκεν· ἑτέρα νίκη τραγωιδοῖς· Σοφοκλῆς ἐδίδασκεν.

5

The inscription was found in Eleusis, which is presumably where the monument originally stood. Two men, Gnathis son of Timokedes and Anaxandrides son of Timagoras, acting as synchoregoi, were victorious in the comic competition with Aristophanes as poet; apparently on another occasion, the two men were victorious again, this time in the tragic competition with Sophocles as poet. Aristophanes is the famous comic poet; Sophocles is either 3

4

For the rural Dionysia in general, see Deubner (1932: 134–138); for an emphasis on the theatral aspect, see Pickard­Cambridge (1968) 42–54; Paga (2010: esp. 372–373); Goette (2014). For full bibliography, see Clinton on I.Eleusis 53.

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the famous tragic poet or his homonymous grandson, depending on the date of the inscription. Following its discovery, the monument was widely assumed to refer to victories at the City Dionysia. This interpretation was long maintained despite a number of difficulties. The monument was erected in Eleusis, not the south slope of the Acropolis, where all victory monuments indubitably associated with the City Dionysia were erected; it deals with dramatic vic­ tories, whereas all monuments certainly referring to the city festival concern only victories with the men’s or boys’ choruses; and it records a synchoregia, which is well­attested for the rural Dionysia but very poorly attested for the City Dionysia. Support for assigning this monument to the City Dionysia largely disappeared after Capps realized that correct restoration of IG II2 2318, the so-called fasti that give an annual account of victors at the City Dionysia, allowed for the existence of a synchoregia at the City Dionysia only a single time, in 406/5 shortly after the elder Sophocles’ death;5 nevertheless, this interpretation continued to enjoy some unwarranted currency.6 Therefore, the best interpretation of the monument is the obvious one: it was erected in Eleusis because it refers to victories there in the rural Dionysia. The precise date, and thus the identification of the poet Sophocles, remains uncertain but is immaterial for the matter at hand.7 The important point is that the differences in ages between the elder Sophocles and Aristophanes on the one hand, and Aristophanes and the younger Sophocles on the other, mean that it is overwhelmingly likely that at least one of the victorious poets was 5

6

7

Capps (1943) 5–8; cf. Pickard­Cambridge (1968: 87) with n. 3; Millis / Olson (2012: 17). The use of the synchoregia only a single time and at approximately this date is necessitated by the restoration of IG II2 2318; the precise date 406/5 (the City Dionysia of 405) is attested by ΣValt.EΘBarb. Ar. Ra. 404 (citing Arist. fr. 447 Gigon). For summaries of the arguments and bibliography for both sides of the question, see Pickard­Cambridge (1968: 47–48, 87 n. 3); Clinton ad loc. Perhaps the most influential continued advocate of the theory is Mette (1977), who assumed Sophocles’ victory was posthumous and attributed both victories to the City Dionysia of 406/5 in his text of IG II2 2318 (at his col. 9.78–85; pp. 23–24). To be fair, there is evidence for Sophocles competing posthumously if the claim of arg. II S. OC that that play was produced in 402/1 by Sophocles’ son is taken seriously. However, aside from the other objections, of which the matter of the synchoregia is seemingly unassailable, assigning this monument to the City Dionysia would entail the same men not only being choregoi in two years very close together but actually winning both times, and both these circumstances are unparalleled. Clinton ad loc. inclines, probably correctly, towards a date around the end of the fifth century, and thus identification of Sophocles as the homonymous grandson, on the basis of the inscription’s use of post­Euclidean orthography.

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already an established and successful playwright when he competed in the rural Dionysia at Eleusis. Scholarship on similar inscriptions found at other deme­sites in rural Attica has likewise been marked by a reluctance to read them at face­value. A good example is IG I3 969. Σωκράτης ἀνέθηκεν· Εὐριπίδης ἐδίδασκε· τραγωιδοί· Ἀμφίδημος Πύθων Εὐθύδικος Ἐχεκλῆς Λυσίας Μενάλκης Σῶν Φιλοκράτης Κριτόδημος Ἔχυλλος Χαρίας Μέλητος Φαίδων Ἐμπορίων

5

10

Found at Varkiza (ancient Anagyrous) on the southwest coast of Attica, the inscription is a victory monument dedicated by a certain Socrates, undoubtedly the victorious choregos. Euripides was the poet, and a list of fourteen chorus members (tragoidoi) follow. Mitsos (1965), the first editor, dated the inscription to the end of the fifth century or the beginning of the fourth century, thus suggesting a posthumous performance of a Euripidean tragedy. Ghiron­Bistagne (1976) 120 correctly dated the inscription to before the death of Euripides, but believed that the inscription was erected in the home deme of the choregos Socrates to commemorate a victory at the City Dionysia. She further noted the absence of the demotic for the chorus members and so rightly assumed they are all also from Anagyrous; less plausibly, she interpreted this as evidence that a choregos for the City Dionysia simply put together a chorus out of men that he knew, i. e. his fellow demesmen. Finally, Lewis in IG I3 returned the monument to the rural Dionysia at Anagyrous but dated it to ca. 440–431, i. e. early in Euripides’ career. None of these interpretations is satisfactory. Mitsos’ palaeographic date of ca. 400 could just as easily be a decade or so earlier, and there is nothing to suggest that the performance was a posthumous revival except an unwillingness to believe that the mature Euripides staged plays at the rural Dionysia. Ghiron­Bistagne is surely correct to adjust Mitsos’s date so that it falls within the life of the poet,8 but her contention 8

She does so partly by the identification of the choregos (see below) but draws no finer chronological conclusions on this basis other than that the inscription dates

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that the inscription refers to a victory at the City Dionysia is problematic. She rightly recognized that the chorus is composed of local men. This contention is buttressed by the occurrence in col. 2 line 6 of the extremely rare name Son; the only other attestation of the name in Attica is also from Anagyrous.9 A chorus of local men seems very fitting for a local festival, while for the City Dionysia it seems inherently unlikely that a choregos would rely solely on friends or local talent.10 Second, there are only fourteen chorus members instead of the expected fifteen. Csapo / Slater (1994) 353 make the attractive suggestion that the unnamed fifteenth member was a professional hired in from outside the deme to act as koryphaios and who, as a professional and non­demesmen, would not have merited inclusion.11 Lewis’ date of ca. 440– 431 is based on identification of the dedicator with the Socrates of Anagyrous (PA 13102) who was general in the Samian War in 441/0 (an identification raised, but rejected, by Mitsos).12 Although plausible at first glance, Lewis’ date is difficult to reconcile with the script used for the inscription, which is at home only near the end of the century. The best solution, and one that accords with all of the evidence, is the following: 1) the monument commemorates a victory at Anagyrous, where it was found, not a victory elsewhere; 2) it dates to late in the fifth century but before Euripides’ departure for Mace­ donia and subsequent death; 3) the victorious choregos and dedicant is not Socrates the general but his homonymous grandson (a possibility already raised at APF 13102) or another descendent. By this account, Euripides staged a play at the rural Dionysia in Anagyrous neither near the beginning of his career nor posthumously but fairly late in career, at a time when he was well­ established and one of the most prominent Athenian tragic poets.

9

10

11

12

to within Euripides’ lifetime. The occurrence of Son in IG I3 969 was in fact not understood at first as a complete name but was instead assumed to be a cutter error of some sort. Koumanoudes (1986) 159 first recognized the rare name Son here; cf. Matthaiou (1987: 171 n. 1); Matthaiou (1990–1991: 180–182), who adduced the second Attic example, inscribed on an unpublished grave monument of ca. 350 (SEG XLI 191). Ghiron­Bistagne’s claim, if true, would also have the effect of turning the dramatic competition into a sort of demotic or tribal competition, which it clearly was not. Note that the opposite situation prevails in inscriptions connected with certainty to the City Dionysia. In these inscriptions, all commemorating victories in the men’s or boys’ choruses, professionals are routinely named and chorus members are never included: e. g. IG II2 3056 Θράσυλλος Θρασύλλου Δεκελεὺς ἀνέθη­ κεν  / χορηγῶν νικήσας ἀνδράσιν Ἱπποθωντίδι φυλῆι. / Εὔιος Χαλκιδεὺς ηὔλει. Νέαιχμος ρχεν· Καρκίδαμος Σώτιος έδίδασκεν. Lewis’ dating is also predicated on the unprovable assumption that Socrates must have been choregos fairly soon after he was general.

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A final example is IG II2 3091, an inscription with the same problems of interpretation as the previous examples but one that presents its own difficulties as well.13 Εὔ̣[ . . . . . χορηγῶν ἐνίκα] κωμωιδοῖς· Ἐχφαντίδης ἐδίδασκε [[ . ]] Πείρας. Θρασύβολος χορηγῶν ἐνίκα κωμωιδοῖς· Κρατῖνος ἐδίδασκε Βουκόλος. Θρασύβολος χορη[γ]ῶν ἐνίκα τραγωιδοῖς· Τιμόθεος ἐδίδασκε Ἀλκμέωνα, Ἀ̣λφεσίβο[ιαν]. Ἐπιχάρης χορηγῶν ἐνίκα τραγωιδο[ῖς]· Σοφοκλῆς ἐδίδασκε Τηλέφειαν.

5

The inscription was found between Voula and Vari (ancient Halae Aexonides)14 on the southwest coast of Attica, not far from Anagyrous. The inscription records four victories, two in comedy and two in tragedy, by at least three different choregoi.15 Ecphantides was active in the middle of the fifth century,16 and Cratinus somewhat later;17 Sophocles may be the famous tragedian, active from before the middle of the fifth century until just before its close, or 13

14

15

16

17

The difficulties presented by this inscription are too numerous and complicated to be dealt with at length here; a fuller discussion of the inscription will appear elsewhere. The first editor identified the location as belonging to the deme Aexone, and that identification appears frequently in subsequent scholarship. For the identification of the locale as the neighbouring Halae Aexonides, see Eliot (1962: 29–30). The name at the beginning of line 1 was long read as Ἐπ̣[ιχάρης], with the restor­ ation based on the name in line 7. The two occurrences of the name were taken to refer to the same man; likewise the occurrences of Θρασύβολος in lines 3 and 5 were understood as two references to a single individual. Luppe (1969), however, pointed out that pi was an impossible reading of the second letter in line 1 and that the restored name was one letter longer than the available space, and so the identification of at least that pair had to be abandoned. The name is best restored as either Εὐ̣[χάρης] or Εὔ̣[βολος]. For the possible relationship between the various choregoi, see below. The first of Ecphantides’ four victories at the City Dionysia was in 458/7 or later (IG II2 2325.49 = 2325C.13 M–O). His absence from the corresponding list of Len­ aean victors suggests that he was already dead by the time that competition began in the late 440s; for the date when the Lenaean competition likely began, see Millis / Olson (2012: 178). Cratinus won the first of his six victories at the City Dionysia between 457/6 and 450/49 (IG II2 2325.50 = 2325C.14 M–O); his name immediately follows that of Ecphantides in this list. The first of his three victories at the Lenaea was between

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his homonymous grandson active in the early fourth century, and Timotheus is otherwise unknown. Although a date in the middle of the fifth century would fit with the known chronologies of the poets, the lettering of the inscription clearly does not belong to that period and is best placed early in the fourth century. This disparity has been dealt with in various ways, most commonly by assuming that the inscription either recorded a series of revivals or that it commemorated various victories at the city festivals.18 However, like the other similar inscriptions, the best interpretation is the obvious one that this inscription likewise commemorates victories at the local rural Dionysia. The chronological gap between the victories and the apparent date of inscribing remains, but that can be explained by the assumption that the monument records victories by members of the same family over several generations. Thus, the two victories in comedy can be placed in the middle of the fifth century, or shortly thereafter, where Ecphantides and Cratinus belong; the two choregoi were presumably brothers or other close relations. Half a century or so later, two descendents of the comic choregoi were also victorious, this time with tragedy, and chose to commemorate their victories together with earlier successes of their family. On this reading, Sophocles is the younger tragic poet of that name, and Timotheus can be dated to the early fourth century. In the above three examples, as with other inscriptions that record dram­ atic victories and were found in extra­urban Attic demes, scholars have often been reluctant to accept the obvious interpretation that these inscriptions offer a rare, and therefore exceedingly valuable, glimpse into dramatic performances at the rural Dionysia. A frequent recourse has been to understand the inscriptions as referring to revivals, sometimes posthumous, or to productions by poets who were not yet well established; most commonly, however, scholars have simply assigned the victories in question to one of the city festivals, usually the City Dionysia. These interpretations do not fit well with

18

435/4 and 432/1 (IG II2 2325.121 = 2325E.6 M–O), and he was active until at least 424/3, when he took first prize at the City Dionysia (Cratin. test. 7c). Under the latter theory, the victories need not all have been at the same festival. Pickard­Cambridge (1968: 55), for example, following Wilamowitz­Moellendorff (1930: 243–245 = [1962] 511–513), noted that the inclusion of only two plays by Timotheus (line 6) indicates the Lenaea, while he interpreted the Telepheia of Sophocles (line 8) as a reference to a trilogy or tetralogy, thus indicating the City Dionysia. Mette (1977) 44–45 (II.A.1) seemingly believed the entire inscription related to the Lenaea, despite the apparent reference to a Sophoclean trilogy and despite Ecphantides’ absence from the Lenaean victor lists.

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the evidence and, in the best case, rely on a circular argument;19 moreover, they often serve only to introduce difficulties that then have to be explained away. Reading these inscriptions at face­value, on the other hand, indicates clearly that well­established and successful dramatic poets did regularly stage plays at the rural Dionysia and provides concrete evidence in support of vague claims that particularly prolific poets, such as Antiphanes, Alexis and Menander, probably performed at the rural Dionysia.20 The rationale behind explaining away apparent instances of dramatic production at the rural Dionysia is seldom made explicit21 but seems to be the view that the rural Dionysia was a second­rate venue more appropriate for lesser poets or those who are not yet established and successful. This dismissal of the rural Dionysia presumably arose in part because of the bias of the evidence and a logical non sequitur: all the extant plays were written by leading poets, and bulk of these plays were performed at the City Dionysia and Lenaea; therefore, these two festivals were the appropriate venue for leading poets. In fact, however, the evidence for the rural Dionysia points to dramatic production by successful poets at the peak of their careers. There is thus every reason to assume that it was a high­prestige event that attracted 19

20

21

The parallels sometimes cited for a dramatic choregos commemorating his victory at a city festival with a monument in his home deme inevitably turn out to be one or more of the inscriptions under discussion here that have been connected with the City Dionysia without cogent evidence. This view has been put forward simply, but plausibly, on a numerical basis: a number of poets are credited with having written far more plays than could have staged at the City Dionysia and Lenaea during their careers. See, for example, Arnott (1996: 15) for Alexis; Pickard­Cambridge (1968: 55 n. 7) expresses scepticism but offers no alternative suggestion. A note of caution is perhaps warranted, however, since the epigraphic evidence for dramatic performance at the rural Dionysia largely disappears after the mid­fourth century. This may indicate a decline in the prestige and / or popularity of that festival, perhaps in favour of festivals outside Attica, but more likely suggests a shift in commemorative practices, perhaps due to a change in organization similar to the abolition of the choregia and the introduction of the agonothesia at the city festivals. A rare exception is Pickard­Cambridge (1968: 55–56), who argues that IG II2 3091 ought to commemorate victories at city festivals because ‘the alternative supposition–that so many famous poets of the fifth century should all have chosen Aixone as the place for the production of their plays by themselves–seems less likely.’ The unease with famous dramatic poets staging plays at the rural Dionysia may well be due in part to misplaced modern analogy; top performers appear in major cities regularly, but only exceptionally do they perform in smaller towns or villages, which tend to be the province of performers not yet famous or past their prime.

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well­established poets, and this festival presumably featured in the careers of most reasonably prolific and successful poets.22 This is not to argue that the City Dionysia and Lenaea were not high­prestige events, which they clearly were,23 but to note that the prestige of these two festivals, and the particip­ ation of leading poets in them, does not mean that other festivals were correspondingly low­prestige events avoided by leading poets when possible. 2. Performance outside Attica The evidence for dramatic performance outside Attica in the fifth century is slight and consists mostly of reports of exceptional occasions such as Eur­ ipides staging plays in Macedonia. Over the course of the fourth century, however, stone theatres began to be built in increasing numbers throughout the Greek world. In nearly all cases, the evidence for what precisely was performed in these theatres, and on what occasions, is minimal to non­existent. Nevertheless, by the end of the century a number of new festivals, some including dramatic performance, had been founded in various Greek cities and sanctuaries; this trend increased and continued throughout the Hellenistic period and into the Roman Imperial period.24 Even for those festivals for which the staging of plays is certain, the evidence is scanty at best and consists almost entirely of isolated victor lists.25 A complicating factor is that many festivals 22

23

24

25

The rural Dionysia may even have been of central importance for earlier gener­ ations of poets, since competitions did not begin at the Lenaea until the mid­440s for comedy (cf. Millis / Olson 2012: 178) and as much as a decade later for tragedy (cf. Millis / Olson 2012: 204, 208). Since the City Dionysia was the only major dramatic venue in Athens itself for the careers of comic poets such as Magnes, Chionides and others and for tragic poets such as Aeschylus or even Sophocles for the first few decades of his career, the rural Dionysia may have played a correspondingly greater role. Indeed, a cogent case can be made that drama at the City Dionysia at least did enjoy a special status analogous to the stadion at Olympia in that victors in both are singled out for inclusion in the Parian Marble. However, in the same way that the special status of the Olympian Games says relatively little about the status of other games, including the other pan­hellenic games, so too with the Athenian City Dionysia in the field of drama. For the growth in festivals, both with dramatic performance and without, in the Hellenistic period, see Chaniotis (1995). These victor lists must be sharply distinguished from IG II2 2325, the so­called Victors Lists from the Athenian City Dionysia and Lenaea. The latter are anomalous and provide complete lists of the victorious poets and actors in both genres at both

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had competitions in both new plays and in revivals, the latter a contest for actors. Additionally, some locations, for example Delos, seem regularly to have been the site of plays staged as exhibitions outside any competition, even if, as seems likely, they coincided with the celebration of a festival. A typical example of a victor list is IG XII.6 173, a mid­second century list of victors at the Heraea on Samos. ἐπὶ Ἀντιπάτρου· ἀγωνοθετούντων Ἑρμίππου τοῦ Μο̣σ̣χίων̣[ο]ς, Ἀριστείδου τοῦ Ἀπολλοδότου, Νικολάου τοῦ Π[․․c.8․․․]δου· γυμνασιαρχοῦντος Σωσιστράτου τοῦ Σωσι̣στρ̣άτου τοῦ νεωτέρου· ἐνίκων οἵδε· σαλπιστὴς Μ̣υΛ[ ­ ­ ­ ]κ̣λ̣έους Τραλλιανός· κῆρυξ Εὔβιος Σωστράτου· ὑποκριτὴς παλαιᾶς τραγῳδίας Δημήτριος Νικαίου Μ̣[ι]λ̣ή̣[σιος· vac.] λαμπάδι τοῦ φαίστου τοὺς ἀπὸ πρώτων Λεωνίδης Θεοδώρου Χησιεύς· λαμπαδάρχης Ἀριστομένης Ἀριστίππου Χησιεύς· 5 τ[οὺ]ς διδασκάλους τῶν κιθαριστῶν Καλλικράτης Καλλικράτου· α̣ὐ̣λ̣[η]τὴς Νειλεὺς Ἀμμωνίου Κ̣ο̣ρ̣[ί]ν̣θ̣[ι]ο̣ς̣· κ̣ιθα̣ρ̣ι̣σ̣τή̣ς Ν̣ί̣κ̣ω̣ν̣ Ἀντιγόνου φύσει δὲ Σιμακῶντος· κιθαρῳδὸς Λύκων Λ̣ύ̣κ̣ωνο̣ς̣ Τ̣α̣ρ̣α̣ν̣τ̣ε̣[ῖνος· λ]αμπά[δι τῆς Ῥ]ώμης τ̣[ο]ὺς [ἀπ]ὸ [πρώ]τ[ων] Σώτων Καλλικράτου Χησιεύς· λαμπαδάρχης Ποσείδι̣ππ ̣ [ο]ς [ ­ ­ ­ ]ί̣το ̣ υ Χησιεύς· τοὺς ποιητὰς [τῶ]ν καινῶν σατύρων Ἀρχένομος Ἑρμία Ῥόδιος· τοὺς ποιητὰς τῶν καινῶν τραγ[ῳ]δ[ιῶν] Σωσ[ίσ]τρατ[ος Σωσιστράτου· τοὺς] festivals in chronological order according to the date of a person’s first victory; for discussion and reconstruction of these lists, see Millis / Olson (2012: 133–224). The typical sort of victor list is a record of the victors in each event at a single festival in a single year. These are found throughout the Greek world, including at Athens (e. g. SEG XLI 115 for victors at the Panathenaea in the mid­second century), and normally consist of a heading that includes some combination of a dating formula, the name of the festival and / or the officials in charge, followed by a complete list of events with the victor in each. In the case of most festivals for which such lists survive, the publication of these records on inscribed stelae or the like does not seem to have been systematic, at least as far as the evidence goes, although there are often chronological clusters, and the decision to publish or not may have been due to the official(s) in charge in a given a year, the influence of a contemporary vogue, or both. Victor lists are thus also distinct from IG II2 2319–2323a, the so­ called Didascaliae from the Athenian City Dionysia and Lenaea, since these latter records were both systematic in their original coverage, even if very fragmentary today, and are nearly unique in providing full details for all competitors, not just the victors.

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ὑποκριτὰς Δημήτριος Νικαίου Μιλήσιος· τοὺς ποιητὰς τῶν καινῶν κωμῳδιῶν Ἀρίστων Τιμοσ[τρά]του 10 Ἀθηναῖος, ὑποκριτὴς Κλειναγόρας Στράτωνος Μαλλώτης· παῖδας δόλιχον Ἀσκληπιάδης Δημοκράτου· ἄνδρας Ἀπολλώνιος Ἀλκίππου Ἐφέσιος· παῖδας στάδιον Ἀγαθοκλῆς Ἀττάλου· ἄνδρας Σώτων Καλλικράτου· παῖδας δίαυλον Ἀγαθοκλῆς Ἀττάλου· ἄνδρας Σώτων Καλλικράτου· πέ̣[ντ]αθλον Ἀριστεὺς Ζηνοδότου. The inscription opens with a dating formula and the officials in charge and then proceeds to the list of events, each followed by the victor in that event. The bulk of this portion of the list consists of musical and dramatic competitions; athletic competitions follow. Because of its ordinariness, this example is useful for illustrating several key points. First, the competitors are an international group, drawn from Asia Minor, the Aegean islands, the Greek mainland (Corinth, line 6; Athens, line 10) and Italy (Taras, lines 6–7), although the Greek East as a place of origin dominates; this pattern is typical for the Hellenistic and especially Roman period, and is a phenomenon that has been observed in the case of athletic victors at the pan-hellenic games.26 Second, the victorious comic poet Ariston son of Timostratus of Phaleron (line 10) was successful and well-connected. He himself won three times at the Lenaea in Athens,27 and his father Timostratus was also a comic poet, as were his son Poses and his homonymous grandson Ariston II. Presumably, therefore, his participation in the Heraea on Samos was a matter of choice, and the prestige of the festival was sufficiently enticing. An additional point well illustrated by this inscription is a matter of some importance that has not always been adequately appreciated. Line 3 records the victorious actor in a competition among actors performing in tragic revivals (παλαιὰ τραγῳδία). In contrast, lines 8–10 record the victorious poets who were competing with new plays (καινὴ κωμῳδία etc.). This distinction in terminology is rigidly maintained throughout the Greek world and has no connection with the traditional designation of the periods of comedy as Old and New. In ancient scholarship, ‘Old Comedy’ is sometimes labelled παλαιὰ κωμῳδία but is much more commonly referred to as ἀρχαία κωμῳδία; ‘New Comedy’ is never called καινὴ κωμῳδία in ancient scholarship but only νέα κωμῳδία. The potential confusion engendered by the fact that παλαιά and ἀρχαία are frequently translated by the same word in English, as in other modern languages, and likewise καινή and νέα, does not exist in the Greek. 26

27

For the eastward shift of athletic victors in the pan­hellenic games, see Farrington (2010: 427–428). IG II2 2325.183 = 2325E.129 M–O.

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In this context, παλαιά and καινή have no generic connotations whatsoever, but are used exclusively to designate whether a given play is a revival or a newly written piece. Finally, two aspects of the dramatic competitions are worth noting in passing, even if they do not directly concern comedy. At the Heraea in this particular year, the same man, Demetrios son of Nikaios of Miletus (Stephanis 638), was the victorious actor in both tragic revivals (lines 3–4) and in new tragedies (line 9). The former may well have been meant as a showcase competition for actors, but actors could, and often did, compete in both. Second, here, as occasionally elsewhere, there is a competition for new satyr plays (line 8), although there is no associated actors’ competition as there is in the contests with new tragedies and comedies. In contrast, by the mid­fourth century at the City Dionysia in Athens, satyr plays had ceased to be performed competitively as one element in a tragic poet’s entry; instead a single satyr play was staged as a sort of exhibition.28 The victor list from the Samian Heraea is only one among many such inscriptions from a variety of festivals and locations over the course of centuries. The increase in dramatic festivals during the Hellenistic and Roman periods resulted in a number of such festivals across a great swath of central Greece for which surviving fragments of victor lists include comic poets: the Amphiaraia at Oropos,29 the Musea at Thespiae,30 the Sarapeia at Tanagra,31 the Charitesia and Homoloia at Orchomenos32 and the Soteria at Acraiphia.33 Comic poets are found competing in festivals as far east as Magnesia on the Maeander,34 and in the traditional heartland of athletic festivals at the Caesarea at Isthmia.35 Not all dramatic performances at festivals or sanctuaries need to have been part of a competition. At Delos, for example, there clearly were dramatic contests in the Athenian period, at least for tragedy and satyr plays,36 but comic poets occur only as having staged exhibitions. The so­called tabulae 28

29

30 31 32 33 34 35 36

For the satyr play as an exhibition event at the City Dionysia, see Millis / Olson (2012: 61) and on IG II2 2320.16–17, 23 = 2320 col. II.18–19, 25 M–O. IG VII 415 + 417 = I.Oropos 525; IG VII 416 = I.Oropos 523; IG VII 419 = I.Oropos 526; IG VII 420 = I.Oropos 528. IG VII 1761; 1773; SEG III 334; BCH 19 (1895: 343–345 no. 17). IG VII 540. ΙG VII 3197. IG VII 2727. I.Magnesia 88a; 88b; 88d. Hesperia 39 (1970: 79–83). I.Délos 1959.

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archontum, each normally introduced with the heading οἵδε ἐπεδείξαντο τῷ θεῷ or οἵδε γωνίζαντο τῷ θεῷ, record artists of various sorts who performed in honour of Apollo in a given year.37 A good example is IG XI.2 107. This inscription, from the year 280, records in line 25 that three comic poets gave performances that year: Philemo, Nicostratus and Ameinias. Ameinias won a single time at the Athenian Lenaea in an unknown year prior to 285/4 and was competing, apparently at a very young age, at the City Dionysia as early as 312/1, when he took third.38 Nicostratus II took an unknown number of victories at the Lenaea and, like Ameinias, competed at the City Dionysia in 312/1, when he took second.39 Better known is Philemo.40 He was victorious at the Lenaea three times, for the first time in a year after Menander’s first victory (thus in 316/5 or later), and at the City Dionysia an unknown number of times (for the first time in 328/7).41 The important point here is that all three men were poets who had been active and successful for decades by the time they staged plays on Delos. Therefore any account of the performances there must assume that the poets did not come to Delos for want of a better venue, to gain experience or to attempt to bolster their reputation before trying a more prestigious venue. They may have had multiple reasons for staging plays on Delos, but among them must have been the prestige attached to performing for the god on Delos and the international audience the location attracted. The plays they chose to stage there, however, remain entirely unknown. They may have been new comedies, whether written especially for performance on Delos or not, or they may have been reprises of recent plays 37

38

39

40

41

For the recognition that these inscriptions record exhibitions, not victors in competitions, see Robert (1936: 244 = 1969: 680); cf. Sifakis (1967: 19). Presumably the exhibitions normally took place in conjunction with one of the festivals on the island; see Sifakis (1967: 20). Lenaea: IG II2 2325.167 = 2325E.67 M–O; for the date, see Millis / Olson (2012: 178– 179). City Dionysia: IG II2 2323a.46–47 = 2323a col. I.12–13 M–O. Lenaea: IG II2 2325.165 = 2325E.65 M–O. City Dionysia: IG II2 2323a.43 = 2323a col. I.9 M–O. He may have belonged to the same family as the comic poets Nicostratus I (active in the early fourth century) and Nicostratus III (active in the 180s). Kassel–Austin identify the Philemo mentioned here as Philemo Iunior (Philem. Iun. test. 3) rather than as Iunior’s homonymous father, the more famous Philemo. They are almost certainly mistaken, since Philemo Iunior did not take his first victory at the Athenian Dionysia until 288/7 or later (IG II2 2325.74 = 2325C.83 M–O; cf. Millis / Olson ad loc.), whereas Ameinias and Nicostratus belong to the preceding generation, that of Philemo I. Lenaea: IG II2 2325.161 = 2325E.61 M–O. City Dionysia in 328/7: Marmor Parium FGrHist 239 B 7. In addition to his homonymous son Philemo Iunior, he is probably also a forebear of the comic poet Philemo III (active in the 180s).

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or of particularly popular ones from earlier in the poets’ careers. Almost the only thing that can be said with certainty is that they should be distinguished from the revivals performed as part of the actors’ contests, since these invariably were the products of former generations and were written by poets who were deceased or at least no longer active. Dramatic production at festivals outside Athens and Attica has been almost entirely neglected; Sifakis treated performance at Delos and Delphi, but most other locations and festivals have been discussed only incidentally and a systematic account has yet to be written.42 In large part, this lack may be due to the fact that the bulk of the evidence relates to the Hellenistic and Roman periods, when most scholars assume comedy had ceased to be a productive genre. Increasing attention has been paid to actors in this period and their performances in revivals of old plays, whether for competition or not, but this is only a portion of the evidence, and the production of new plays and the poets who wrote them continue to attract little interest. Nevertheless, much as at the rural Dionysia, the poets competing in these festivals seem to be already established and successful, often at multiple festivals in different locations. By the Hellenistic period, like athletes and actors, successful poets seem to be moving through a circuit of pan-hellenic festivals and competitions.43 None of this suggests a genre in decline, but rather one for which there is ever greater demand. 3. Post-Menandrian Comedy The generation of Menander and his contemporaries Philemo, Apollodorus of Gela and Diphilus is generally treated as the last productive period in Greek comedy, although poets of the succeeding generation such as Poseidippus, Philemo Iunior and especially Apollodorus of Carystus are sometimes given 42

43

Sifakis (1967), though limited to Delos and Delphi, is solid, but is now out of date. In particular, any treatment of dramatic performance at Delphi must take into account the exhaustive reappraisal of the Soteria festival by Nachtergael (1977), although, to be fair, Nachtergael did rely heavily on Sifakis’ work in his discussion of drama at that festival. Csapo / Slater (1994) 186–206 offer a brief account and a selection of the evidence. The larger standard handbooks, e. g. Schmid / Stählin (1920–1924), include the individual poets but offer no discussion of the festivals or the broader context and in any case are out of date. The biggest impediment to progress is that the evidence has yet to be collected systematically. Note also that, much like successful athletes, successful poets, e. g. Philemon I, Diodorus and Diomedes, were occasionally awarded multiple citizenships, including Athenian, presumably in honour of their victories in different locations.

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this dubious honour. However, the scant attention given to comic poets who date later than the beginning of the third century belies the fact that fully half of the known Greek comic poets belong to this period.44 Kassel-Austin include ca. 250 poets in their edition of the comic fragments; almost exactly half of these post-date Menander’s first victory, that at the Athenian Lenaea in 317/6.45 The evidence for the later poets is often very different than that for comic poets of the fifth and fourth centuries. Although the same number of poets are known from both before and after the early third century, the preponderance of surviving comic fragments belong to poets of the earlier period. The reason for this is largely due to the concerns and methodologies prevalent in ancient scholarship. The greatest source for comic fragments, Athenaeus and anthologists such as Stobaeus, ultimately drew primarily upon sources formed centuries earlier and so inevitably favour the earlier period. Similarly, the lexicographical tradition, another major source for comic fragments, is heavily indebted to Atticist grammarians, who likewise focussed on the fifth and fourth centuries for material. Papyrus finds offer fragments from a wide range of lost plays but from a very limited number of authors; this material suggests that the plays available to the reading public of Hellenistic and Roman Egypt reflected a canon not dissimilar to that which determined the plays still extant today.46 On the other hand, poets of later periods are widely attested in epigraphic sources, often much more so than earlier poets. The surviving fragments of the Victors Lists for the Athenian City Dionysia and Lenaea (IG II2 2325) are about evenly split between poets of all periods. In contrast, victor lists from festivals elsewhere are largely a phenomenon of 44

45

46

For a complete list of these comic poets, occasional corrections to their names and dates as given in Kassel­Austin, the addition of a half­dozen poets omitted by Kassel­Austin, and brief discussion of the scholarship on later comedy, see Millis (2014b). Menander was first victorious at the City Dionysia the following year, 316/5; cf. Marmor Parium FGrHist 239 B 14. Aside from the substantial fragments of Epicharmus, the overwhelming majority of comic fragments known from papyri belong to plays of Aristophanes, Cratinus, Eupolis or Menander. For this reason, the bulk of the adespota categorized simply as ‘New Comedy’ are most likely to belong to Menander, although undoubtedly some are from plays of his rough contemporaries. Fragments of other authors are very much an exception. The same pattern is true in other literary genres as well. All in all, the papyrus finds appear to represent a canon of literary authors that is strikingly similar to what we have today; the works that survived into a mediaeval manuscript tradition are largely the remains of a further winnowing of an already restrictive canon.

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the Hellenistic and Roman periods and so add much evidence for later periods but little for earlier periods. Finally, as the result of chance survival, the most extensive fragments of the Didascaliae from the Athenian City Dionysia (IG II2 2323) record comic poets of the late third and second centuries. One result of the differing nature of the evidence is that large numbers of later poets are known but knowledge is often limited to little more than their names and their participation in certain festivals.47 The sheer number of comic poets continuing to produce new plays and to compete in festivals strongly implies, despite the poverty of surviving fragments, that comedy underwent no appreciable decline in the centuries following Menander. This conclusion is fully supported by the Didascaliae (IG II2 2319–2323a) and Victors Lists (IG II2 2325) from the Athenian City Dionysia and Lenaea, which continue unabated until the inscribing of these records came to an end shortly after the middle of the second century BC. These inscriptions, combined with the evidence from elsewhere, show that comedy continued to be written and performed throughout the Hellenistic period and afterwards much as it had for centuries before.48 The realization that the production of new comedies for competitive performance had an extraordinarily long life has several major ramifications for the study of Greek comedy. Histories of the genre normally focus on the period between the mid to late fifth century and the beginning of the third cen47

48

Numerous titles are known, but the bulk of these derive from the Didascaliae (especially IG II2 2323), which offers much fuller information about individual competitors than most other inscriptions. Occasionally a more complete picture of a career can be assembled by the identification of the same poet in multiple testimonia. Fragments are rare because, as mentioned above, poets of this period largely fall outside the tradition of scholarship that provides the majority of fragments. Scholarly attention to actors and theatrical realia has made clear the extent to which performances and theatre generally remained important to Greco­Roman society, but acknowledgement that plays continued to be written is rare. Jones (1993) is one of the very few to argue forcibly for the continued production of new drama into the second century AD; contrast, for example, Heldmann (2000). The evidence does reveal one major change that the production of drama at the Athenian City Dionysia and Lenaea underwent in the Hellenistic period. The inscribed records show that at some point during the third century comedy was not produced every year at these festivals but approximately every other year. This change was certainly in place by 217/6 (IG II2 2323.99 = 2323.13 M–O) but was probably introduced in the middle of that century; cf. Millis / Olson (2012: 76, 158). Presumably each of the two festivals alternated between tragedy and comedy, with the one festival showcasing the genre that the other had not.

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tury: that is, the century and a half that has the fullest evidence and the only extant plays. While this restriction is understandable and can be appropriate in certain circumstances, such accounts misleadingly imply that this is the only important period of the genre and do not make clear that it is only one fairly early portion of a long tradition. Comedies were most likely introduced to the Athenian City Dionysia in the 480s and to the Lenaea about forty years later, in the 440s; records for these two festivals continued to be inscribed until a decade or two after the middle of the second century BC.49 Menander’s career (ca. 317/6–292) thus falls almost exactly at the midpoint of comic performance at the major Athenian festivals, and so accounts of comedy that go no further than his career ignore half the attested lifespan of the genre. The neglect is even more glaring when considering non­Athenian evidence, in which Menander falls somewhere between a quarter and a third of the way along the history of Greek comedy. The problem is not so much the chronological limitation per se found in most studies, but that nearly always a correlation is assumed, whether implicitly or not, between the amount of evidence and the quality and importance of comic poets. This assumption has shaped scholarly discussions of comedy by leading to a dismissal of later comedy as derivative and emblematic of a genre in decline, and so, by circular reasoning, has justified treating the period from Aristophanes to Menander as encompassing the full development of Greek comedy. Integrating later comedy back into the history of the genre also highlights both the inadequacy and the deleterious effect of the traditional division into Old, Middle and New Comedy. The tripartite division of comedy has been thoroughly handled by Nesselrath,50 and it is unlikely that his discussion will be bettered without the discovery of new evidence. If Nesselrath is correct, as seems likely, in placing the origins of the division in the Hellenistic period, then this understanding of the development of comedy must be recognized as a scholarly analysis of a living genre.51 Thus, regardless of its merits, Hellenis49

50 51

For discussion of the dates when comic competitions began, see Millis / Olson (2012: 156–157 [City Dionysia] and 178 [Lenaea]). That the records themselves, and not simply our evidence for them, ceased fairly soon after the middle of the second century can be deduced from comparison of several different inscriptions; cf. Millis / Olson (2012: 78, 179, 208). Nesselrath (1990: especially 65–187). Even if Nesselrath’s conclusions are not accepted regarding the date at which the tripartite division was introduced, the basic point still stands, in that the body of material discussed by later ancient scholars, for example those of the Roman period, by and large did not postdate the early third century, and so relied heavily on scholarship of this period.

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tic scholarship on comedy is fundamentally different from the same scholars’ work on early epic, for example, which had long since ceased to be a productive genre. Comedy, in contrast, continued to be written and to develop not only during the lifetimes of these scholars but for centuries afterward. As a matter of course, therefore, the tripartite division only ever applied to comedy that had been written prior to the early third century.52 Further confusion is engendered by the conflation of chronological and descriptive terms and the use of terminology that did not allow for the designation of subsequent periods.53 Modern scholars, even when disagreeing over details, have almost uniformly accepted the essential validity of the division of comedy into three periods labelled Old, Middle and New. This acceptance brings with it an implicit notion of a teleological development and a beginning and an end. This is furthermore an ahistorical use of ancient scholarship that treats it as offering a universally valid account of Greek comedy instead of a description of comedy as it existed at a particular time. The application of the ancient account of comedy has not just resulted in the dismissal of more than half of the genre’s attested lifespan but has also informed major interpretative tendencies relating to Classical and Early Hellenistic comedy. For example, assuming that comedy ended with Menander’s generation lends credence to the ultimately misguided attempt to understand the history of comedy

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The framework supplied by the tripartite division is not only limited chronologically, since it is also restricted almost exclusively to poets competing at the two major Athenian festivals. This may have been a matter of choice on the part of Hellenistic scholars or, more likely, the result of the evidence available in Alexandria and other centres of scholarship. The remains of Hellenistic scholarship do not appear to show awareness of evidence substantially different from the sources available today. Those scholars clearly had access to much fuller versions of the records from the Athenian City Dionysia and Lenaea, presumably via Aristotle’s Didascaliae (frr. 415–462 Gigon) and Νῖκαι Διονυσιακαὶ ἀστικαὶ καὶ Ληναϊκαί (no. 135 Gigon) or similar works, but their knowledge of records from other competitions or performances seems spotty at best. This pattern closely resembles the evidence from epigraphic sources. Analogous is the use of Modernism to denote various artistic endeavours of the early twentieth century. Just as not all comic poets of the late fifth century BC produced works of ‘Old Comedy’, so not all modern artists produced ‘Modern Art.’ Moreover, in a manner similar to the chronological finality of the term ‘New Comedy’, ‘Modernism’ allowed for no obvious successive period and thus necessitated the resort to terms such as ‘postmodernism’ and even ‘post­postmodernism’.

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as a transition from Aristophanes to Menander.54 As important as it may be to identify and explain trends in Athenian comedy over the course of the fourth century and to highlight differences between the comedy produced at the beginning and the end of that century, such investigations belong to the history of fourth century Athenian comedy, not the history of the genre as a whole. Recognition that comedy did not end with Menander or his immediate successors, but continued for nearly five centuries longer, provides a much larger context in which the differences between Aristophanes and Menander can be situated. More importantly, it drastically changes the common perception of comedy’s trajectory away from the model of a relatively short-lived55 genre that ended suddenly with the triumph of a master who could not be bettered. 4. Conclusion Scholars have now realized for the most part that the extant plays of Aristophanes provide the means to analyze Aristophanic comedy, not fifth cen­ tury comedy generally; thus, few scholars today would in good conscience attempt a history of the genre in that period on the primary basis of Aristophanes’ plays. The same is not true of what is still commonly viewed as the lower chronological limit of Attic comedy. There, Menander is routinely taken as representative of late fourth century comedy, and accounts of Men­ ander’s work are unthinkingly accepted as emblematic of the period.56 More 54

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Such an attempt also requires the assumption both that such a transition was linear and that Aristophanes and Menander are the two poles between which the transition must be mediated; neither assumption is verifiable and neither is necessarily probable. For one of the more thoughtful discussions of the transition, and one that questions some of the basic assumptions, see Csapo (2000). Just how short this period was is clear from the fact that the first play of Men­ ander is barely more than a century later than the first play of Aristophanes, and Menander is no more than seventy years after Aristophanes’ last play. Indeed, just as it is true that a man could have been alive in the time of both Pericles and Alexander, so too could a man have actually attended original productions of both Aristophanes and Menander. The man in question, Euphranor son of Euphron of Rhamnous, died in the second half of the fourth century at the age of 105, having seen three generations of descendents; he was presumably alive from sometime around the beginning of the Peloponnesian War or slightly earlier until around the battle of Chaironeia or somewhat later. His gravestone, which records his age, is SEG LIII 88 = Petrakos (1999: 260) = ΣΕΜΑ 821 (Bardani–Papadopoulos 2006). A recent example in a prominent publication is Ireland 2010, although this is hardly an isolated instance. Somewhat paradoxically, the recovery of several nearly

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serious, however, is the apparently widespread belief that he and his immediate successors formed the end of the productive life of the genre despite incontrovertible evidence that new comedies continued to be written and produced on stage until at least the second century AD, a full four centuries or more after comedy’s supposed demise.57 Misconceptions about the extent of comedy are not just chronological, but also geographical. The Athenian City Dionysia and Lenaea are regularly assumed without question to have been the venues par excellence for the production of both comedy and tragedy or even the only worthwhile venues for a successful poet. Nevertheless, the fourth century and thereafter saw a proliferation of theatre construction and a marked increase in the number of festivals with dramatic performances across the Greek world, while in Athens itself the rural Dionysia, with dramatic production in various demes, had long been a fixture of the Attic religious calendar. Regardless, continued scholarly focus on the two major Athenians festivals has led to an anachronistic belief in a dichotomy of both prestige and quality perhaps analogous to the modern distinction between Broadway and off­Broadway. The reasons for a lack of scholarly engagement with this evidence that suggests a rather different history of Greek comedy are several. All the extant plays for which there is evidence were performed at either the City Dionysia or the Lenaea; similarly, the literary evidence for dramatic production focuses almost exclusively on these two festivals.58 Other dramatic festivals are only poorly attested and scarcely figure in the literary sources. Moreover, the

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complete plays as well as substantial portions of a number of others resulted in a narrowing focus of attention that concentrated on Menander to the exclusion of his contemporaries. Important comic poets of the late fourth and early third cen­ tury BC such as Philemo, Diphilus and Apollodorus of Carystus, once commonly considered in conjunction with Menander, largely disappeared from scholarship, and only recently have indications of a revival of interest appeared (e. g Bruzzese 2011; cf. Millis 2014b). For a recent example, in the same prominent publication, see Dobrov (2010: 20): ‘the 270s marked the end of the productive era of Greek comedy.’ The City Dionysia and Lenaea are also disproportionally well­represented in the epigraphic evidence, but this fact is deceptive. The large amount of information we possess about dramatic production at these two festivals comes almost entirely from the extensive fragments of just three inscriptions: IG II2 2318 (the Fasti), 2319–2323a (these six inscriptions are in fact all fragments of the same set, namely the Didascaliae) and 2325 (the Victors Lists). Thus, in terms of the number of relevant inscriptions, the City Dionysia and Lenaea are unexceptional, and if any of these three inscriptions had not been found, or if a similar inscription from elsewhere is discovered in future, the picture would look very different.

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basic interpretative framework for the history of Greek comedy was already firmly ingrained by the time that the epigraphic evidence began to appear at the end of the nineteenth century. This framework is largely an uncritical adoption of Hellenistic scholarship together with its emphasis on the two major Athenian festivals and its ignorance, by definition, of the comedy that was to come in the following centuries. Using the traditional tripartite division of comedy, with its periods demarcated and exemplified by select groups of poets, not only made a great deal of sense but was also almost the only practical means of progress in early attempts to sort out the jumbled mass of comic fragments that had survived from antiquity. The order imposed by Meineke, upon which we are still largely dependent today, would scarcely have been possible without such an aid.59 Unfortunately, this framework was uncritically retained after its utility had been exhausted and despite the emergence of new evidence that called in question aspects of its applicability. Most detrimentally, this system for part­ itioning comedy did not account for plays outside a select period and place and used a handful of prominent trends as defining chronological features.60 Thus the context of performance in Athens at the City Dionysia or Lenaea in the Classical or Early Hellenistic period has been understood as the nearly universal background for Greek comedy; likewise, a handful of themes, for example an intense engagement with Athenian politics, have been taken as essential to the nature of comedy.61 Re­evaluating the context of comedy so as to include the extensive evidence for performance outside urban Athens both in rural Attica and elsewhere in the Greek world and for the continued production of new comedy well into the Roman period offers an opportunity to move beyond these constraints. Comedy clearly flourished for a century and a half or so in Classical and Early Hellenistic urban Athens, but that time and place was neither the only context nor was it necessarily emblematic of comedy as a whole. The extant comedies of the late fifth century compared with those of the late 59

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See especially Meineke (1839), which in many respects has yet to be surpassed as a history of Greek comedy. Hence, for example, confusion as to whether Plato comicus was a poet of Old Comedy (test. 1, 2, etc.) or of Middle Comedy (test. 16; cf. Nesslerath 1990: 35–37) or the classification of Cratinus’ Odysseuses as a type of Middle Comedy (Cratin. Od. test.). Even in the case of a poet such as Menander, whose plays lack an obvious engagement with contemporary politics, much interpretative criticism has been expended on this lack because of an assumed close relation between comedy and Athenian democracy.

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fourth century demonstrate how different comedies a century apart can be, even though they were all written for the same two festivals in the same city. Just as Aristophanes and Menander were writing for two different audiences with different expectations, so the expectations of the audience may have changed from festival to festival and city to city. There is no particular reason to assume that Aristophanes would have written the same sort of play for the rural Dionysia as he did for the Lenaea, or that Philemon wrote the same sort of play for performance on Delos as he did for the Athenian City Dionysia. The unfortunate truth is that we know little about the plays performed in these other venues and may never know more; possession of a title and a meagre handful of fragments is more than we have in most cases.62 Nevertheless, realization of the importance that festivals other than the City Dionysia and Lenaea had for the careers of dramatic poets and of the probability that plays were tailored to the venue and audience is an important first step in attempting to understand the various strands, of which the Athenian festivals were only one, of the Greek comic tradition and the influence these different strands may have had on one another.63

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One possible exception is Menander’s Perikeiromene, the probable setting of which in Corinth has led many scholars to believe it was written for performance in that city. For example, one common explanation for the lack of local details and interest in Athenian politics in Menander’s plays is that he was writing for a more international audience. There may well be some truth in this argument, but not to be overlooked is the possibility of influence from performances elsewhere. Similarly, comedy from the middle of the fourth century seems to show a marked increase in mythological plays and reliance on stock characters just at the time that there begins an apparent influx of foreign­born competitors in Athens.

Von Athen nach Rom: Von der griechischen zur römischen Komödie1 Michael Fontaine

1. Die Alte und Neue Komödie in Rom Obwohl viele griechische Texte und die dazugehörigen Kommentare bis ins 2. Jahrhundert nach Christus verfügbar waren, hatte die griechische Alte Komödie zu keiner Zeit einen auch nur im Geringsten erkennbaren Einfluss auf die lateinsprachige Bevölkerung Roms – weder in den gestaltenden Künsten, noch im intellektuellen Leben. Keine Fresken, Mosaike, Vasen, Skulpturen oder andere Erzeugnisse der bildenden Kunst geben einen Hinweis darauf, dass die römische Bevölkerung mit dieser Gattung vertraut war. Die Alte Komödie kam dort niemals zur Aufführung. Gesetzt den unwahrscheinlichen Fall, dass sie gelesen wurde, so erregte sie kaum Interesse oder Begeisterung bei den römischen Schriftstellern der klassischen Periode, von den ersten Dichtern des 3.  Jahrhunderts v. Chr. bis zum Ende der heidnischen Antike. Zwar suchte die Angriffslust der römischen Satire zuweilen Inspiration in der Freiheit der Alten Komödie, politisch aktive Persönlichkeiten zu parodieren, aber diese Beziehung beruhte dennoch nur auf Analogie, nicht aber auf einer etwaigen Abstammung von der griechischen Komödie. Noch ist im Geringsten klar, ob Eupolis, Kratinos und Aristophanes jemals mehr als Namen waren, welche die wenigen römischen Autoren, die sie erwähnen, aus zweiter oder dritter Hand erfahren hatten. Sogar Cicero, von dem man am ehesten erwarten würde, dass er etwas von der Alten Komödie gelesen hat, tat dies mit großer Wahrscheinlichkeit nie. In einem Brief an seinen Bruder Quintus scheint er zwar die Verse 659–661 aus Aristophanes’ Acharnern zu zitieren, doch handelt es sich tatsächlich um Verse des Euripides, die Aristophanes parodiert. Mit Ausnahme einer ‚Alten Komödie‘ von Vergilius Romanus aus dem 2. Jahrhundert n. Chr. beziehen sich lateinische Hinweise auf vetus oder antiqua comoedia, ‚alte Komödie‘, fast ausschließlich auf Wiederaufführun1

Dieser Aufsatz ist eine überarbeitete Übersetzung von Fontaine (2014b). Die meisten Änderungen sind geringfügig, doch habe ich §6 neu geschrieben und dabei einiges Material (besonders §6.c) durch Punkte ersetzt, die ausführlicher in Fontaine (2014a) erörtert werden. Ich danke Katharina Xenia Epstein für die Übersetzung.

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gen der Neuen Komödie Menanders und seiner Zeitgenossen, oder auf raffinierte lateinische Adaptionen dieser Komödien, die wir üblicherweise als fabulae palliatae – ‚Stücke im griechischen Mantel‘ – oder noch gebräuchlicher, als ‚römische Komödie‘ bezeichnen.2 Im Gegensatz zur Alten Komödie war die Begeisterung für diese Adaptionen der Neuen Komödie im Rom der mittleren bis späten 3. und 2. Jahrhunderte v. Chr. enorm. Von diesen Stücken sind 26 erhalten, darunter 20 von Plautus (T. Maccius Plautus, fl. ca. 210–184 v. Chr.) und 6 von Terenz (P. Terentius Afer, fl. 166–160 v. Chr.). Hinzu kommt ein sehr fragmentarisch erhaltenes plautinisches Stück und mehrere hundert kurze Fragmente von Plautus und etwa einem Dutzend anderer in jenen Jahren aktiver Komödiendichter, die bei Grammatikern erhalten sind. Als Plautus im 3. Jahrhundert v. Chr. begann, in Rom Theaterstücke aufzuführen, war die lateinische Komödie bereits seit einer Generation als Gattung etabliert. In den 140er Jahren nahm die Produktion neuer Stücke ab und am Ende des 2. Jahrhunderts v. Chr. war die Komödie als lebendige Gattung erloschen. Von da an überlebte sie nur in Neuinszenierungen älterer Stücke, gelegentlichen Versuchen von Amateuren und Poetastern, die wahrscheinlich für Vorträge bestimmt waren, und als Schultexte, die von jungen adligen Römern wie Cicero oder Julius Caesar gelesen wurden.3 Doch in ihrer Blütezeit (ca. 210 – 160 v. Chr.) wurden diese römischen Komödien in temporär errichteten Theatern regelmäßig an bis zu vier öffentlichen Festen in Rom aufgeführt. Dabei fand jedes dieser Feste jährlich statt und dauerte mehr als einen Tag. Ausserdem gab es Aufführungen bei einer Reihe von anlassgebundenen Festen, wie zum Beispiel öffentlichen Beerdigungen für führende Bürger. Insgesamt also ist heute mehr von diesen römischen Adaptionen erhalten als von den Stücken der griechischen Neuen Komödie – und doch meinen viele, es sei kaum möglich, durch diese Adaptionen einen Eindruck von der

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Zur römischen Kenntnis der Alten Komödie: Quadlbauer (1960: 52–70). Alte Komödie im 2. Jahrhundert n. Chr.: Rusten (2011). Satire und die Alte Komödie: Horaz Satiren 1.4.1–8; AP 282 ff.; Persius 1.123–125; Cicero De republica 4.11; contra Cucchiarelli (2001), der versucht zu zeigen, dass Horaz Satiren 1.5 den Fröschen des Aristophanes verpflichtet ist. (In Wahrheit hat die römische Satire viele offensichtliche Ähnlichkeiten mit der griechischen Neuen Komödie.) Cicero und Aristophanes: Quadlbauer (1960) 55–56; Wright (1931) 80–83. Ciceros Brief: ad Quint. 8.8.2 (= 158.2 Shackleton Bailey). Vergilius Romanus: Plinius Epist. 6.21. Lowe (2007) 83–87, 92–95, 130–131; Menander test. 69 KA (= CIL IX 1164, Epitaph von Pomponius Bassulus). Caesar und Cicero: Courtney (1993: 153).

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griechischen Komödie selbst zu gewinnen, die diesen als Vorlage diente. Weshalb? Was war diese Gattung der römischen Komödie? 2. Wie „griechisch“ ist die römische Komödie? Die römische Komödie als Opernadaption Ich möchte mit zwei Vorbemerkungen beginnen. Erstens glaubten Forscher bis vor kurzem, dass die römische Komödie eine beliebte Unterhaltungsform war, die für große, lärmende Menschenmengen bestimmt war. Deren Aufmerksamkeit zu erregen und behalten mussten sich die Komödiendichter bei einer Konkurrenz durch andere Festdarbietungen – Seiltänzer, Gladiatoren, und dergleichen – sehr bemühen. Die meisten Antworten auf die hier gestellten Fragen bauten dementsprechend auf dieser Prämisse auf. Neue archäologische und demographische Befunde aus dem Jahr 1998 haben diese Annahme jedoch widerlegt und lassen stattdessen darauf schließen, dass das Publikum recht klein war. Indem Sander Goldberg die Stufen des Magna Mater Tempels auf dem Palatin ausmaß, auf welchen die Zuschauer bei der Aufführung von Plautus’ Pseudylus4 im April 191 v. Chr. saßen, rechnete er aus, dass nur etwa 1600 Personen anwesend gewesen sein können. Dies entspricht also in etwa einer Schulaula und nicht einem Kolosseum – und das zu einer Zeit, als Roms Bevölkerung möglicherweise nicht weniger als 350.000 Menschen umfasste. Verschiedene andere Überlegungen (für Senatoren reservierte Plätze, unübersetzte griechische Wörter im Text, Aussagen über die in Rom bevorzugte Ästhetik, wie im Prolog von Menaechmi 7–9, und so weiter) suggerieren, dass das Publikum der römischen Komödie adlig, gebildet, philhellenisch und natürlich de facto theaterbegeistert war. Daher überdenken Forscher nun ihre bisherigen Annahmen über die Gattung, vor allem aber, was genau die „römische Komödie“ war, für wen sie geschrieben wurde, und woher sie kam.5 Die Frage, weshalb römische Dichter ein erstes Interesse an der griechischen Komödie fassten, muss nun gänzlich überdacht werden – und aus Gründen, die ich später erläutern werde, sind diejenigen von uns, die sich dafür interessieren, zu sehr unterschiedlichen Ergebnissen gekommen.

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Zu dieser ungewöhnlichen Schreibweise und zu Plautus’ anderen Titeln, siehe unten §7. Publikum: die fundamentale Untersuchung von Goldberg (1998); Fontaine (2010: 183–187), mit Verweisen. Feste: Marshall (2006: 16–21). Theaterbedingungen in Rom: Marshall (2006); Brown (2002). Für die Liste der sicheren und vermutlichen griechischen Vorlagen von Plautus’ Komödien vgl. Fontaine (2014a: 517).

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Meine zweite Vorbemerkung gilt dem Stil. John Wright demonstrierte 1974 überzeugend, dass Plautus und die fragmentarisch erhaltenen Komödiendichter eine „stilistische Einheitlichkeit“ aufweisen. Dies bedeutet, dass die Adaptionen der fragmentarisch erhaltenen Komödiendichter vermutlich alle wenigstens oberflächlich denen des Plautus ähnelten. Wright zeigte jedoch ferner, dass Terenz, von dem uns sechs Komödien erhalten sind, in vielerlei Hinsicht ein außergewöhnlicher Dichter war, der diese stilistische Einheitlichkeit mied. Daher bezeichnet im Folgenden der Name „Plautus“ als eine Art Kurzschrift auch die „Gesamtheit der römischen Komödiendichter mit Ausnahme von Terenz“.6 Was aber bedeutet diese stilistische Einheitlichkeit in der Praxis? Die römische Komödie bewahrt das griechische Setting der Vorlagen. Die Stücke spielen in Athen oder seltener an anderen realen Orten der hellenisierten Welt (Kyrene, Epidaurus, etc.). Während dieses griechische Milieu dasselbe blieb, wich die „römische“ Komödie in zwei bedeutenden strukturellen Aspekten, die in der Regel von augenfälligeren Unterschieden in den Hintergrund gedrängt werden, von der griechischen Neuen Komödie ab. Dies liegt daran, dass Forscher, die sich zum ersten Mal mit der römischen Komödie befassen, unausweichlich vom offensichtlichsten Merkmal dieser Gattung beeindruckt sind – von der Tatsache nämlich, dass sie auf Latein und nicht auf Griechisch verfasst ist. Obwohl der Wechsel der Sprache sicher ihr auffälligstes Merkmal ist, ist es doch, möchte ich behaupten, vermutlich der unwichtigste Unterschied zwischen griechischer und „römischer“ Komödie, und dazu mit Sicherheit eine Ablenkung von den wirklich wichtigen Unterschieden. Zudem regt dies dazu an, die Interpretation der „römischen Komödie“ von irreführenden Prämissen aus anzugehen, wie wir unten sehen werden. Eine der strukturellen Änderungen, die die römische Komödie vornahm, war die Eliminierung der Zwischenakte und der Zwischenspiele des Chors, was den Vorteil einer ununterbrochenen Handlung hatte. Während die griechische Komödie als eine Abfolge von fünf Akten vor allem in mimetischen, gesprochenen iambischen Trimetern verfasst wurde, und dabei zwischen den Akten musikalische Zwischenspiele vom Chor dargeboten wurden, tilgten die römischen Komödiendichter den Chor ganz und bevorzugten eine von Anfang bis Ende ununterbrochene Aufführung. (In dieser Hinsicht unterscheidet sich die Komödie stark von der „römischen“ Tragödie, die den Chor beibehielt.) Eine andere Veränderung ist jedoch origineller und überraschender. Die römischen Komödien wandelten mehr als die Hälfte der einfachen, gesprochenen iambischen Verse der Vorlagen zu längeren Versen ab, die ähn6

Siehe Wright (1974: 127–151, 183 und passim).

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lich wie ein unbegleitetes Rezitativ oder zu musikalischer Begleitung durch Rohrflöten (tibiae) vorgetragen wurden. Diese musikalisierten Verse (cantica) schließen sowohl die recht regelmäßigen trochäischen septenarii mit ein – das Metrum ähnelt dem der Ode an die Freude – sowie weit anspruchsvollere lyrische Gesänge in beständig wechselndem Metrum (auf Latein sogenannte cantica mixtis modis), die wir dementsprechend Arien oder Duette nennen würden. Die römischen Dichter erhöhten also zunächst massiv den Anteil dieser musikalischen Verse im Vergleich zu den gesprochenen (deverbia) und integrierten diesen Gesang dann in die ununterbrochene Mimesis, wobei die gesungenen Partien in unvorhersehbaren Intervallen mit den gesprochenen iambischen senarii wechselten.7 Obwohl sie nach eigener Angabe viel Material für die Handlung und die Charaktere von einem griechischen Stück übernahmen, waren viele römische comoediae eigentlich Musicals, und nicht das, was wir unter einer typischen „Komödie“ verstehen. Somit hätten die zwei Stücke, die Vorlage und ihre römische Adaption, in der Aufführung jeweils einen ganz anderen Eindruck erweckt. Tatsächlich waren römische comoediae so durch und durch musikalisch, dass es zutreffender wäre, sie als „komische Opern“ oder „Broadway­Hits“ statt als „Komödien“ zu bezeichnen. Lassen Sie mich das noch einmal betonen: Wie seine Kollegen zog Plautus die erfolgreichen Neuen Komödien Athens als Vorlagen heran und verwandelte ihre gesprochenen, mimetischen Skripte in wild­phantasievolle libretti und somit in eine neue Form musikalischer Unterhaltung, die unserer komischen Oper nahesteht. Dieser musikalische Aspekt muss von Anfang an hervorgehoben werden, weil man immer noch der nur halbbewussten Vorstellung begegnet, dass die griechische Neue κωμῳδία und die lateinische comoedia sich funktional entsprechen, nur in unterschiedlichen Sprachen verfasst wurden und sich folglich für einen rationalen Vergleich auf ästhetischer Grundlage eignen. Obwohl die Musikalität oft als sekundär betrachtet wird, kann diese wichtige Tatsache nicht genug betont werden, da sie vorgibt, dass die Komödiendichter bei ihrer Arbeit kreativ vorgingen und dass wir dessen und bewusst sein sollten. Nähern wir uns der römischen Komödie mit dem Wissen, dass sie an erster Stelle eine Adaption eines gesprochenen Dramas in opernartige, musikalische Form, und nicht nur eine Übersetzung aus einer Sprache in eine andere ist, und dass sie ferner eine Opernadaption darstellt, so wirft diese Prämisse ein gänzlich anderes Licht auf die Änderungen, die Plautus, Caecilius und ihre Kollegen an ihren Vorlagen vornahmen und hilft, diese zu begründen. 7

Musikalische und gesprochene Verse: Moore (2008); Moore (1998). Prozentuale Anteile: Moore (2008: 4–5); Duckworth (1952: 362–363 und 369–370). Zu allen musikalischen Fragen, siehe Moore (2012).

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Ein guter Ausgangspunkt für eine neuorientierte Erörterung wichtiger Prämissen in diesem Sinne ist die vor kurzem erschienene Wiederauflage eines berühmten Buches über Plautus. 3. Eduard Fraenkel und seine Wirkung 2007 veröffentlichte die Oxford University Press mit The Plautine in Plautus eine englische Übersetzung von Eduard Fraenkels 1922 erschienenem Buch Plautinisches im Plautus. Es sind 85 Jahre seit der ursprünglichen Veröffentlichung vergangen, 47 seit der italienischen zweiten Ausgabe mit dem Titel Elementi Plautini in Plauto. Wie kommt es, dass ein Buch, das fast ein Jahrhundert alt ist, gerade jetzt neu übersetzt wurde? Eduard Fraenkels (1888–1970) Buch wird oft der Ausgangspunkt der Plautus­Forschung genannt. Darin versuchte Fränkel, „die alte Frage ‚Wie übersetzt Plautus?‘ wieder aufzunehmen und sie zu erweiteren zu der Frage nach dem eigenen Schaffen des lateinischen Dichters“ (1922: 5; cf. 2007, 3). Fraenkel wollte also das ‚plautinische Element‘ identifizieren, indem er untersuchte, genau welche Teile seiner Stücke Plautus im Vergleich zur Vorlage deutlich geändert hatte, und diese Änderungen ihrerseits nach Zeichen von Plautus’ eigenem künstlerischen Ausdruck prüfte. Dieser Ansatz war damals eine Art Neuheit. Im Deutschland des späten 19. und frühen 20. Jahrhunderts hatte der weit verbreitete Philhellenismus Forscher wie Friedrich Leo (1851– 1914) und Wilamowitz (1848–1931) vor allem in der Hoffnung zu Plautus und Terenz geführt, das Genie Menanders und seiner Kollegen wiederzugwinnen, indem sie sie von dem befreiten, was sie als die Auswüchse römischer Farce sahen; ebenso, wie in den plastischen Künsten das griechische Element vorrangig war und das römische höchstens eine minderwertige Kopie dessen darstellte. Latinisten, die in diesem Bereich arbeiteten, versprach Fraenkels Buch eine Art Befreiung, um Plautus und die lateinischen Komödiendichter – welche später die Römer selbst als Künstler einstuften, die der eingehenden Betrachtung und des Zitats würdig waren – als unabhängige Dichter und Schaffende zu erforschen. Indem Fraenkel einzelne Aspekte von Plautus’ Stil analysierte und soweit es ihm möglich war, vergleichbares griechisches Material untersuchte, identifizierte er und sprach von plautinischer Erweiterung, Verstärkung und Verdichtung von Reden und einzelnen Elementen der griechischen Vorlagen  –  von Personifikationen, wörtlich behandelten Metaphern, hyperbolischen Vergleichen, Transformations­ und Identifikationsmotiven, mythologischem Material, auf Sklaven übertragener militärischer Bildersprache, Rätseln und vor allem „Skurrilitäten“. Damit bezeichnete Fraenkel Wortspie-

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le, albernes Geplänkel sowie abgedroschene oder absurde Witze, die Lesern von Plautus oft ein Lächeln entlocken.8 Indem er derartiges Material sammelte, versuchte Fraenkel, eine Grundlage für die merkliche Veränderung des Ethos, also der Charakterisierung, zu finden, die sich von der griechischen zur römischen Neuen Komödie vollzog. Zugleich wollte er so neues Licht auf die literarischen Interessen von Plautus’ römischem Publikum werfen. Obwohl Fraenkels Methode beeindruckt, muss man sie womöglich doch eines Zirkelschlusses bezichtigen. So ist es beispielsweise recht wahrscheinlich, dass Fraenkel bei der Identifizierung von in stilistischer und qualitativer Hinsicht possenartigen Elementen als „plautinisch“ lediglich auf viele derselben stilistischen Kriterien verwies, auf deren Grundlage der republikanische Gelehrte M. Terentius Varro (116–27  v. Chr.) die Liste der 21 kanonischen plautinischen Stücke zusammenstellte, die uns bis heute erhalten geblieben sind. So hat uns Fraenkel vermutlich zu Varro zurückgeführt, aber nur durch Zufall auch zu Plautus.9 Und doch bestätigte nach der ersten Veröffentlichung von Plautinisches in Plautus im Jahre 1922 der Papyrusfund von Menanders Dis Exapaton auf beeindruckende Weise viele von Fraenkels Ergebnissen. Obwohl sie anfangs auf Kritik stießen, wurden sie wenig später mit Begeisterung aufgenommen. Wenig später aber entwickelte Fraenkels Buch aufgrund seines Erfolges ein seltsames Nachleben. Viele Wissenschaftler begannen, Fraenkels gesammelte Ergebnisse als unumstößliche Wahrheit zu behandeln. Sie sprachen nicht länger von „Adaption“, sondern von vollkommener, ungezügelter Originalität. In Verbindung mit einigen alten Missverständnissen über Plautus’ Text begannen sich die Erwartungen an die Gattung zu ändern: Für viele war die griechische Illusion überhaupt keine Illusion, denn die Figuren der plautinischen Komödie waren nicht länger Griechen, sondern verkleidete Römer, das Stück spielte nicht wirklich in Athen oder an einem anderen griechischen 8

9

Fraenkel übernahm diesen Ausdruck anscheinend stillschweigend von seinem Lehrer Leo; vgl. Leo (1912: 157) und (1913: 127, 146, 215, 248 und 259). Dies kann man aus Varros konvergierenden Kriterien filum atque facetia sermonis (Gellius, N. A. 3.3.3), iocorum venustas und iocorum copia (Macrobius Sat. 2.1.10– 11, mit Deufert 2002: 104, Anm. 278) folgern, insbesondere, da bei Macrobius die possenartigen Scherze betont werden (vgl. scurra, 2.1.12). Zum „Kanon“ Varros (eigentlich ein irreführender Name, da Varro selbst 40 Stücke als echt einstufte), siehe Ritschl (1845: 126–154); zu Ritschls Rechnung 40–21=19, siehe Suerbaum (2002: 222 §127 T. Maccius Plautus T 66 und T 70). Ritschl meint, Varros andere 19 Stücke waren vermutlich Addictus, Artemo, Astraba, Boeotia, Cacistio, Commorientes, Condalium, Faeneratrix, Fretum, Frivolaria, Fugitivi, Gemini lenones, Hortulus, Nervolaria, Parasitus medicus, Parasitus piger, Satyrio, Sitellitergus und Trigemini.

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Ort, sondern in Rom selbst, oder gar in irgendeinem phantastischen Raum dazwischen mit halbgriechischen, halbrömischen Figuren. Ausgehend von diesen Prämissen wurde der Inhalt der plautinischen Komödien bald zu einer Quelle für römische Sozialgeschichte, sei es als Satire, Kulturkommentar, oder rassistische Karikatur. Im Laufe der Zeit hat sich diese neuartige Ansicht zu einem vollwertigen Paradigma entwickelt, einem Glaubenssystem über das Wesen der plautinischen Komödie selbst.10 Doch ich greife voraus; bevor wir in der Darstellung fortfahren, wollen wir einige Beispieltexte im Detail betrachten und sehen, wie die römische Komödie bei der Übernahme ihrer Vorlagen vorging. 4. Textbeispiele Wollen wir die römische Komödie mit ihren Ausgangstexten vergleichen, so ist unsere Auswahl durch jenes denkbar schlechteste Kriterium eingeschränkt – das der zufälligen Überlieferung. Obwohl solche Vergleiche selten möglich sind, offenbaren sie gelegentlich doch, dass römische Bearbeitungen griechischer Komödien sehr nah am jeweiligen Original sein können. Ein Beispiel hierfür bietet ein Fragment aus dem Demetrius (fr. 5 Ribbeck³) des Komödiendichters Turpilius11 (iambische Senare): antehac si flabat aquilo aut auster, inopia tum erat piscati Früher, wenn der Nordwind oder der Südwind blies, dann gab es Mangel an Fisch. Dieses Beispiel behält den Sinn, das Metrum und sogar die Wortstellung von Alexis’ Demetrios fr. 47.1–3 bei (iambische Trimeter): πρότερον μὲν εἰ πνεύσειε βορρᾶς νότος ἐν τῇ θαλάττῃ λαμπρός, ἰχθῦς οὐκ ἐνῆν οὐδενὶ φαγεῖν Früher, wenn der Nordwind oder der Südwind kräftig auf dem Meer blies, gab es darin für niemanden einen Fisch zu essen. Ähnliches gilt für Plautus’ Maxime in Bacchides 816–7 (iambische Senare)

10 11

Siehe hierzu eine kurze Darstellung in Fraenkel (2007: xi­xvi) und §6 unten. Zu Turpilius, siehe Wright (1974: 153–181) und Suerbaum (2002: 258–259).

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quem di diligunt adulescens moritur Wen die Götter lieben, der stirbt jung. Dieses Beispiel ist ein auch im Metrum treues Echo von Menanders Dis Exapaton (fr. 4 Arnott, iambische Trimeter): ὃν οἱ θεοὶ φιλοῦσιν, ἀποθνῄσκει νέος Wen die Götter lieben, der stirbt jung. Zudem ist V. 1318 aus Plautus’ Carchedonius [gemeinhin bekannt als Poenulus] te cinaedum esse arbitror – „Ich glaube, du bist eine Schwuchtel“ – vermutlich eine Wiedergabe von βάκηλος εἶ – „Du bist schwul“ – aus Alexis’ Karchedonios (fr. 105). Es sind zusätzlich mehrere längere Auszüge aus römischen Adaptionen zu Studienzwecken verfügbar, deren Vergleich sehr erhellend ist.12 (1) In Plautus’ Synaristosae [Cistellaria] erklärt Selenium der Kupplerin, wie ihr Vergewaltiger sich ihre Gunst erschlich (89–93; trochäische Septenare):                      Per Dionysia mater pompam me spectatum duxit. dum redeo domum, conspicillo consecutust clanculum me usque ad fores. inde in amicitiam insinuavit cum matre et mecum simul blanditiis, muneribus, donis.

              Während des Dionysosfestes nahm mich Mutter mit, um den Umzug zu sehen. Als ich auf dem Rückweg war, folgte er mir heimlich von seinem Beobachtungsposten bis zur Haustür. 12

90

90

Zur terenzischen Praxis der Adaption, siehe Barsby (2002). Abgesehen von den unten erwähnten oder zitierten Texten sind die einzigen ausgiebigeren Möglichkeiten, römische Komödie im Vergleich mit ihren Vorlagen zu studieren, sehr rar: (1) Plautus Carchedonius [Poenulus] 522–5 und Alexis incert. fr. 265 K.­A. (vermutlich Karchedonios). (2) Plautus’ unkanonisches Werk Colax fr. 2 und Menander Kolax 96–100 Pernerstorfer; (3) Turpilius fr. 50–3 Ribbeck3 (Epiclerus) und Menander fr. 129 (Epikleros), (4) Turpilius fr. 9 Ribbeck3 (Leucadia) und Menander Leukadia fr. 1 Arnott, und (5) (zitiert in Fontaine 2014a, 526–529) Plautus Pseudylus 9–17 und Menander fr. 4 incert. Arnott (fr. adesp. 1027).

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Dann erschmeichelte er sich die Freundschaft mit Mutter – und mit mir zugleich – durch Komplimente, Geschenke und Gaben. Vergleichen Sie hiermit die Worte des Mädchens (κόρη) Plangon in Menanders Synaristosai (fr. 337, iambische Trimeter): Διονυσίων < > ν πομπή ὁ δ’ ἐπηκολούθησεν μέχρι τοῦ πρὸς τὴν θύραν· ἔπειτα φοιτῶν καὶ κολακεύων τὴν μητέρ’ ἔγνω μ’ ( Beim Dionysosfest gab es einen Umzug Er folgte mir bis direkt vor die Türe und kam danach immer wieder vorbei und schmeichelte

meiner Mutter, er kannte mich

˘

1

5

1

5

Abgesehen von den Unterschieden, die jeweils durch die lateinische bzw. griechische Sprache bedingt sind, ist Seleniums Antwort praktisch eine wortgetreue Wiedergabe von Plangons Rede in Menander: wörtliche Übereinstimmungen einschließlich der Lehnwörter, Wörter in Umschrift und Verwandtschaftsbezeichnungen (pompam ~ πομπή; Dionysia ~ Διονυσίων; matre ~ μητέρ’[α]) und ganz gewöhnliche wörtliche Entsprechungen (consecutust... me usque ad fores ~ μ’ κολούθησεν μέχρι τοῦ πρὸς τὴν θύραν; blanditiis, muneribus, donis ~ κολακεύων) sind offenkundig. Dennoch lässt Plautus Menanders Euphemismus für die Vergewaltigung, „er kannte mich“, einfach aus, während die dreifache Alliteration conspicillo consecutust clanculum (91), die keine Entsprechung bei Menander findet, Plautus’ Vorliebe für verbale Verstärkung und Ausdruckskraft anzeigt (hier verleiht sie den Worten vielleicht den Anklang einer düsteren Vorahnung). Hinzu kommt, dass Plautus Menanders gesprochene iambische Trimeter zu musikalisch begleiteten trochäischen Septenaren umformt. Dies bewirkt die Erhöhung oder Abstraktion einer gewöhnlichen Unterhaltung zu einer offensichtlich künstlichen Sprachform. (2) Ein Auszug von hundert Zeilen aus Menanders Dis Exapaton, „Der zweimal Betrügende“, einem Stück, das mehr über Papyrusfragmente als durch sekundäre Überlieferung bekannt ist, verhält sich parallel zu Plautus’

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Bacchides (494–562).13 Im folgenden Textstück mahnt der Vater eines jungen Mannes namens Moschus (in Plautus’ Stück Pistoclerus), der ein immer ausschweifenderes Leben führt, einen zweiten jungen Mann (bei Menander mit dem Namen Sostratos, bei Plautus Mnesilochus), einzuschreiten und seinen Sohn zu retten. In beiden Stücken bittet ein paedagogus namens Lydos („der Lyder“) seinen älteren Herren um Erlaubnis, bei der geplanten Intervention behilflich zu sein. Obwohl sein Anliegen zurückgewiesen wird, drückt er seine Besorgnis um seinen jüngeren Herrn deutlich aus (Menander, Dis Exapaton 11–17, iambische Trimeter): Μ ΣΧ Υ ΑΤΗ    ΛΥΔ Σ   Σ ΣΤ ΑΤ Σ Μ.Π. σ]ὺ δ’ ἐκεῖνον ἐκκάλε[ι ]ν, νουθέτει δ’ ἐπαν[τίον αὐτόν τε σῶσον, οἰκίαν θ’ ὅλην φίλων. Λυδέ, προάγωμεν. ΛΥ. εἰ δὲ κἀμὲ καταλίποις... Μ.Π. προάγωμεν. ἱκανὸς οὗτος. ΛΥ. αὐτῳ, Σώστρα[τε, χρῆσαι πικρῶς· ἔλαυν’ ἐκεῖνον τὸ[ν] ἀκρα[τῆ· ἅπαντας αἰσχύνει γὰρ μᾶς τοὺ[ς] φίλους. –

11 12 13 14 15 16 17

MOSCHUS’ VATER   LYDOS   SOSTRATOS M.V. (zu Sostratos) ]Rufe ihn heraus ]und weise ihn von Angesicht zu Angesicht zurecht, Rette ihn und den gesamten Haushalt seiner Lieben. Lydus, lass uns gehen. LY. Ließest du auch mich zurück... M.V. Lass uns gehen. Der dort genügt. LY. Erledige diesen Lebemann, Sostratos, setze ihm hart zu, er beschämt uns, seine Freunde, nämlich alle.

11 12 13 14 15 16 17

Vergleichen Sie hiermit Plautus’ Bacchides 494–499 (hrsg. Questa 2008, trochäische Septenare):

13

POxy. LXIV 4407, 1997 herausgegeben von Eric Handley. Gräzisten, die sich zum ersten Mal der römischen Komödie nähern, sollten ihre Auseinandersetzung mit den Parallelen zwischen Dis Exapaton und den Bacchides beginnen. Neben Arnotts Ausgabe gibt es den griechischen Text samt englischer Übersetzung in Barsby (1986: 191–195). Die wichtigsten Parallelen werden in Fontaine (2014a) mit zusätzlichen Verweisen zitiert.

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PHILOXENUS    MNESILOCHUS    LYDUS PH. Mnesiloche, hoc tecum oro ut illius animum atque ingenium regas; serva tibi sodalem | et mi filium. MN. factum volo. PH. in te ego hoc onus omne impono. Lyde, sequere hac me. LY. sequor. melius multo, me quoque una si cum | hoc reliqueris. PH. adfatim est. LY. Mnesiloche, cura, ei, concastiga hominem probe, qui dedecorat te, me amicosque alios flagitiis suis. –

494 495 499 496 497 498

PH. Mnesilochus, ich bitte dich darum, lenke sein Herz und seinen Sinn, 494 Rette dir den Gefährten und mir den Sohn. MN. Das will ich erreichen. 495 PH. Dir lege ich diese ganze Last auf. Lydus, folge mir von hier fort. LY. Ich folge. 499 Um vieles besser wäre es aber, wenn du zugleich auch mich mit ihm zurückließest. 496 PH. Er genügt. LY. Mnesilochus, gib Acht, geh’, verpass’ dem Kerl einen rechten Denkzettel, 497 Er bereitet dir, mir und seinen anderen Freunden Schande durch seine Skandale. 498 Obwohl man gewisse Abweichungen aufgrund der jeweiligen Spracheigentümlichkeiten erlauben muss, sind einzelne wörtliche Übereinstimmungen wiederum leicht zu finden (σῶσον ~ serva; ἱκανὸς ~ adfatim; ἔλαυν[ε] ~ concast-iga [von agere], und so weiter). Es ergeben sich jedoch einige interessante Unterschiede im Ton und in der Rhetorik. Menanders Λυδέ, προάγωμεν, beispielsweise, ist höflich und schließt sowohl Sklave wie Herr mit ein, während dagegen Plautus’ Formulierung Lyde, sequere hac me die Autorität des Herrn betont. Auch vollendet Plautus explizit Menanders Aposiopesis εἰ δὲ κἀμὲ καταλίποις ... (V. 14) mit einer Apodosis (melius multo, me quoque … si … reliqueris, 496). Im Gegenzug gebraucht Plautus’ Philoxenus mehr rhetorische Verzierungen als sein Gegenstück bei Menander. Andere Unterschiede finden sich in der Bezeichnung von familiären Beziehungen und sozialen Bindungen: οἰκίαν θ’ ὅλην φίλων bezieht sich grob auf alle Angehörigen des Haushaltes, et mi filium aus einer Antithese, die bei Menander nicht vorkommt, ist sehr persönlich. Zum wiederholten Male hat Plautus zudem Menanders Sprechverse zu einer gesungenen Partie ausgeweitet und umgestaltet.

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(3) Schließlich vergleicht Aulus Gellius in einem berühmten Kapitel (NA 2.23.1–22) drei Auszüge aus Caecilius Statius’ Komödie Plocium, „Die Halskette“ mit ihrer Vorlage, Menanders Plokion.14 Bei einer Betrachtung der ersten Auszüge beobachtet Gellius, dass Caecilius keinen Versuch unternimmt, Menanders Verse zu reproduzieren (§11) und stattdessen nescioqua mimica hinzufügte, „gewisse Elemente, die dem Mimus eignen“. Im zweiten Vergleich, der unten angeführt ist, stellt er fest, dass Caecilius Menander verdarb, indem er der Rolle Züge eines Possenreißers verlieh (§13). An dieser Stelle, Menanders fr. 297 (=C17 Olson 2007), unterhält sich Laches mit seinem etwa gleichaltrigen Nachbarn über seine Ehefrau (iambische Trimeter): ΛΑ. ἔχω δ’ ἐπίκληρον Λάμιαν· οὐκ εἴρηκά σοι τουτὶ γάρ; A. οὐχί. ΛΑ. κυρίαν τῆς οἰκίας καὶ τῶν ἀγρῶν καὶ †πάντων ἀντ’ ἐκείνης† ἔχομεν. A. Ἄπολλον, ὡς χαλεπόν. ΛΑ. χαλεπώτατον. 5 ἅπασι δ’ ἀργαλέα ‚στίν, οὐκ ἐμοὶ μόνῳ, υἱῷ πολὺ μᾶλλον, θυγατρί. Α. πρᾶγμ’ ἄμαχον λέγεις. ΛΑ. εὖ οἶδα. LA. Ich bin mit der Erbin Lamia verheiratet. Habe ich dir Das noch nicht erzählt? A. Nein. LA. Sie ist die Herrin unseres Hauses, Unserer Felder und † von allem, was † Wir haben. A. Bei Apollo, das ist schlimm. LA. Es könnte nicht schlimmer sein. Sie ist zu allen unangenehm, nicht nur zu mir, 5 Noch viel mehr zum Sohn, zur Tochter. A. Du beschreibst eine aussichtslose Lage. LA. Das weiß ich wohl. Caecilius (Warmington fr. 151–155 ist Ribbeck³ 158–162 vorzuziehen) gibt diesen Dialog folgendermaßen wieder (A = ‚Laches‘; iambische Senare): B. Sed tua morosane uxor quaeso est? A. Va! Rogas? B. Qui tandem? A. Taedet mentionis quae mihi ubi domum adveni, adsedi, extemplo savium

14

Warmington Caecilius fr. 136–155 und 163–166 = Menander fr. 296 (C16 Olson 2007), 297 (C17 Olson 2007), und 298. Es ist lohnend, sich ausführlich mit Gellius’ Diskussion zu beschäftigen, da sie offenlegt, dass Caecilius bedeutende Änderungen an Menanders Text vorgenommen hat. Zu Caecilius, der manchen Angaben gemäß Roms bedeutendster Komödiendichter war, siehe Wright (1974: 87–126) und Suerbaum (2002: 229–231).

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dat ieiuna anima. B. Nil peccat de savio: ut devomas vult quod foris potaveris. 5 B. Aber sag’ mir, ist deine Frau sauertöpfisch? A. Pff! Das fragst du noch? B. Wieso denn? A. Ich habe es satt darüber zu reden; sie gibt mir, Sobald ich nach Hause komme und sitze, sofort einen Kuss, Der vor Nüchternheit stinkt. B. Mit dem Kuss macht sie nichts falsch: Sie will, dass du erbrichst, was du außer Haus getrunken hast. 5 Ohne die Anleitung des Gellius wäre es schwer festzustellen, dass diese Passagen übereinstimmen. Caecilius wirft Menanders wunderbar pointierte Anspielung auf Lamia, einen wunderschönen, kinderfressenden Succubus über Bord, ebenso seine Anspielung darauf, dass die Frau eine uxor dotata ist, also eine Frau, die ihres Ehemanns Leben bequem, aber unerträglich gestaltet. Verschwunden ist auch die unangenehme Konsequenz hieraus, nämlich ihre herrische Inbesitznahme des Familienvermögens an der Stelle ihres Ehemannes, die Tatsache also, dass sie die Herrin im Hause ist. Dagegen betont Caecilius die schlechten Launen der Ehefrau (morosa) und verbindet diesen Missstand nach Art eines Clowns mit einem rätselartigen Scherz über ihren schlechten Atem (der von ihrem nüchternen Magen herrührt). Vor diesem Kuss ekelt es den Ehemann, der sich außer Haus herumgetrieben und gezecht hat, um ihrer Herrschaft zu entgehen. Wie Plautus kondensiert Caecilius den Text und stellt ihn um, er ändert Charakterisierungen und erhöht die Lebendigkeit. Anders als bei Menander klingen die zwei Männer bei ihm wie leicht frauenfeindliche „good old boys“. Nach Gellius’ Ansicht (§22) verhält sich Caecilius zu Menander wie Bronze zu Gold. Wie dem auch sei, die Begriffe, die Gellius in seinem Aufsatz für den Vergleich der römischen Komödien mit ihren griechischen Vorlagen vor allem in Hinsicht auf Ästhetik, Werktreue und Naturalismus bzw. Farce anbietet, sind für die Erforschung der römischen Komödie zur Grundlage schlechthin geworden. Diese Kriterien bilden die Essenz der Bewertung der sogenannten „Werktreue“. 5. Opernadaption und Werktreue Da sie ein so offensichtliches Unterfangen darstellt, ist die Bewertung der Werktreue sozusagen die am niedrigsten hängende Frucht der Adaptionsforschung. Überraschender ist wohl, dass neuere, viele Literaturen (im weiteren Sinne) umfassende Theorien zur Adaption offenbaren, dass die traditionell an der römischen Komödie und speziell an Plautus kritisierten Elemente fe-

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ste Merkmale von Adaptionen sind. So schreibt Linda Hutcheon, dass Adaptionen regelmäßig als deformiert, verdorben oder kulturell minderwertig im Vergleich zum ursprünglichen Text betrachtet werden.15 Man kann natürlich solche Ansichten vertreten; sie werden aber vielleicht der römischen Komödie nicht völlig gerecht. Erkennen wir nämlich an, dass die römische Komödie vorrangig eine adaptierte Literaturform ist – die sich vom gesprochenen über das mimetische zum Musikdrama erstreckt – und erst an zweiter Stelle eine übersetzte Literaturform – von der griechischen zur lateinischen Komödie – so können und sollten wir unsere Erwartungen dementsprechend anpassen. Es scheint gar, dass die frühesten römischen Literaturwissenschaftler genau dies taten. Als Volcacius Sedigitus einen Kanon der zehn besten poetae comici zusammenstellte, womit er Autoren der palliata meinte, sagte er kein Wort über „Treue“ gegenüber den griechischen Vorlagen; und ebenso vergleicht Varro römische Komödiendichter nur untereinander, nicht aber mit griechischen Komödiendichtern. Dies legt nahe, dass eine Anpassung unseres kritischen Ansatzes zu neuen Erkenntnissen führen könnte.16 Hätte Fraenkel beispielsweise die plautinische Komödie primär als Musikalisierung eines Dramas betrachtet und nur sekundär als Übersetzung – vgl. oben (S. 255) das Wort „übersetzt“ (bzw. „traduce“ in der italienischen Version) –  so wären vermutlich viele seiner Schlussfolgerungen über Plautus’ Tätigkeit identisch mit denen, zu denen er tatsächlich gelangt ist. Über die musikalische Adaption in allen Literaturen bemerkt Hutcheon (2006: 30): To appeal to a global market or even a very particular one, a television series or a stage musical may have to alter the cultural, regional, or historical specifics of the text being adapted. A bitingly satiric novel of social pretense and pressure may be transformed into a benign comedy of manners in which the focus of attention is on the triumph of the individual ... Abgesehen von der Verstärkung „bitingly“ klingen die Worte „a ... satiric novel of social pretense and pressure“ sehr nach dem altbekannten Lob für die menandrische Komödie, während „the triumph of the individual“ stark an

15 16

Hutcheon (2006) 2–3. Zum Kanon des Sedigitus: Gellius N. A. 15.24 = Courtney (1993: 93–4); Varro: Menippeans fr. 399 Astbury, Courtney (1993: 96). Obwohl eine frühe Kritik der Werktreue im Aufsatz des jungen Julius Caesar mitschwingt – er nennt Terenz einen dimidiatus Menander, „einen halben Menander“  –  so stellt dies doch eine eher dilettantische denn gelehrte Ansicht dar.

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Fraenkels achtes Kapitel über „Die Vorherrschaft der Sklavenrolle“17 erinnert, welches allgemein als eines der besten gilt. Naheliegende Beispiele sind hier Plautus’ Bacchides, Mostellaria und Pseudylus. Hutcheon stellt auch fest, dass Adaptionen in Opernform immer eine Verzerrung der Charakterisierung und der Psychologie mit sich bringen, und zwar bis hin zur „cartoonization“, also einer grellen Karikierung (2001: 28, mit einem Zitat eines modernen Opernkritikers): It is opera, however, that has been singled out as particularly guilty on both the loss of quality and quantity counts, given its extremes of compression; again, it takes much longer to sing than to say a line of text, much less read one. Operatic recycling „denatures“ a novel, we are told, „reducing it to a cartoon spray­painted in Day­Glo colors and outlined with a Magic Marker“. Neben Gellius’ obigem Kommentar, Caecilius habe nescioqua mimica zu dem hinzugefügt, was Menander praeclare et apposite et facete scripsit, ist dies der geläufigste Kritikpunkt an Plautus in der Forschung des 20. Jahrhunderts – nicht zuletzt in Fraenkels Buch. So schrieb ein Wissenschaftler der jüngeren Zeit (Hervorhebung von mir): „... Fraenkel explains [that]...the elaboration of the [Plautine] slave as hero panders to the need of the unsophisticated Roman audience for greater colour, less subtle distinctions than the Greek audience of Menander...[.]“18 Hutcheon zeigt uns jedoch, dass diese Veränderung engstens mit der Form der Veränderung verbunden ist. Indem er eine Theorie zur Adaption in verschiedenen Literaturen aufstellt, legt Hutcheon das Folgende mit speziellem Bezug auf musikalische Adaptionen dar (2006: 3): They use the same tools that storytellers have always used: they actualize or concretize ideas; they make simplifying selections, but also amplify or extrapolate; they make analogies; they critique or show respect, and so on. Like parodies, adaptations have an overt and defining relationship to prior texts, usually revealingly called „sources“. Unlike parodies, however, adaptations usually openly announce this relationship.

17 18

Fraenkel (1922: 231–250); vgl. (2007: 159–172). Leigh (2004: 25), in einem Verweis auf das Buch, das jetzt Fraenkel (2007: 171–172) ist. Die Zahl der Beispiele ließe sich noch stark erweitern.

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Hier findet man knapp zusammengefasst Fraenkels übrige Schlüsse über Plautus’ Originalität  –  allerdings präsentiert als offensichtliche generische Voraussetzungen, die man als selbstverständlich annehmen soll. Ich möchte damit nicht suggerieren, dass Fraenkel unrecht hatte, ganz im Gegenteil; nur ging er einen sehr langen Umweg. Es war immer offenkundig, dass Plautus und seine Kollegen die griechischen Aktpausen eliminiert und gesprochenes Material in Musik umgewandelt hatten, während viele Stücke im Prolog ihre Beziehung zu einer griechischen Vorlage ganz offen selbst ankündigen. Hätte Fraenkel die römische Komödie stattdessen als eine eigentliche Adaption behandelt, so wie ich es hier vorschlage, so hätte er die plautinische Komödie möglicherweise direkter im Kontext der hellenistischen Literatur und der zeitgenössischen Aufführungspraxis betrachtet. Dies führt uns dazu, einige gut bekannte und miteinander verbundene Prämissen über die römische Komödie im Allgemeinen und Plautus im Besonderen zu überdenken. 6. Der Paradigmenkrieg Die Erforschung der römischen Komödie in den letzten 45 Jahren neigt dazu, eines von zwei rivalisierenden Paradigmen vorauszusetzen. Da jedes dieser Paradigmen seiner eigenen Logik gemäß effizient funktioniert, kommen beide zu unterschiedlichen, miteinander unvereinbaren Schlüssen über das Wesen der plautinischen Komödie und über die Bühnenwelt, die seine Figuren bewohnen. Ich nenne diese zwei Paradigmen „saturnalisch“ und „hellenistisch“ und stelle fest, dass ihre Spaltung auf das Jahr 1968 zurückgeht. Während Eric Handley im Jahre 1967 in England den Papyrus von Menanders Dis Exapaton entzifferte und für die Veröffentlichung vorbereitete, wurde der amerikanische Wissenschaftler Erich Segal, auf der anderen Seite des Atlantiks und ohne Kenntnis von Handleys Arbeit, zum Vorreiter eines ganz anderen Ansatzes für die plautinische Komödie. Wie Handley veröffentlichte Segal seine Monographie im Jahr 1968 und bot in Roman Laughter eine völlig andere Herangehensweise zu Plautus, die sich vor allem aus einer Auseinandersetzung mit Plautus’ Texten ohne Berücksichtigung des entsprechenden griechischen Materials ergab. Mit der Zeit führte die allmähliche Übernahme von Segals Argumenten in größerem oder kleinerem Ausmaß zur Entwicklung des saturnalischen Paradigmas. Dieses wurde nach dem römischen Fest im Winter benannt, in dessen Geiste die plautinische Komödie aufgeführt wurde. Das saturnalische Paradigma hebt das Konzept der „Freiheit“ in vielerlei Hinsicht hervor: Es betont Plautus’ Unabhängigkeit von seiner Vorlage oder die Subversion derselben,

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sowie die vorübergehende Befreiung von römischen gesellschaftlichen Regeln, die das Publikum bei Aufführungen genoss, und innerhalb der Illusion des Stückes betont es schließlich eine „verkehrte Welt“, die frei von der mimetischen Wirklichkeit selbst ist. Entsprechend betont dieses Paradigma auch das „Römertum“ des Plautus und sieht oft die einheimische Tradition der Atellanen als Hauptinspiration für diese Innovationen. Dieser Ansicht steht das hellenistische Paradigma gegenüber. Ausgehend vom griechischen Material betont es, dass Plautus die griechische Tradition fortsetzt. Es erkennt an, dass Plautus notwendigerweise in einer anderen Sprache schrieb, sieht die römische Komödie aber vor allem auf einem Kontinuum mit der Neuen Komödie und nicht als subversiv oder gleichgültig dieser gegenüber. Das hellenistische Paradigma leugnet nicht, dass viele „ins Gegenteil verkehrte“ Elemente vorhanden sind, doch stuft es diese eher als unwichtigere denn wichtigere Elemente ein und vermeidet, sie als programmatisch zu betrachten. Stattdessen zieht es vor, diese Elemente darauf zurückzuführen, dass Plautus in einem anderen, adaptierten Genre schrieb – nämlich das des Musicals anstelle eines Stückes mit vier Intermezzi. Dieses Paradigma betont folglich die Beständigkeit im Einklang mit der griechischen Tradition, wenn auch in aktualisierter Form, ähnlich wie bei den dionysischen Techniten, die die hellenistische Welt in Plautus’ Zeit durchquerten. Manche Forscher, die dieses Paradigma zur Grundlage nehmen, sind auch der Meinung, dass spätere Interpolationen die beste Erklärung für Widersprüchlichkeiten und viele Elemente der Farce bei Plautus sind. Diese zwei Paradigmen beruhen nicht lediglich auf unterschiedlichen Denkweisen von Wissenschaftlern. Sie ergeben sich aus tatsächlichen Mehrdeutigkeiten in Plautus’ Texten und werden von diesen bekräftigt. Dass Leser sich entscheiden, diese Mehrdeutigkeiten auf eine bestimmte Weise und nicht eine andere aufzulösen, führt dazu, dass sie ähnliche Mehrdeutigkeiten an anderen Stellen im Text auf ähnliche Weise auflösen. Vier kurze Beispiele werden die jeweilige Kettenreaktion von in sich stimmigen Annahmen und Interpretationen vorführen und dadurch dieses Dilemma der Forschung illustrieren. 1. Im Prolog von Plautus’ Trinummus wird der Neologismus trinummus mit einer kurzen Rechtfertigung als Übersetzung oder Ersatz für Philemons Titel Θησαυρός, „Schatz“, verwendet (18–20): huic Graece nomen est Thensauro fabulae: Philemo scripsit, Plautus vortit barbare, nomen Trinummo fecit, nunc hoc vos rogat ut liceat possidere hanc nomen fabulam.

20

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Auf Griechisch hat dieses Stück den Namen Θησαυρός: Philemon schrieb es, Plautus übertrug es ins Barbarische. Er nannte es Trinummus, und bittet euch nun darum, 20 Dass es diesen Namen behalten darf. Da aus dieser Passage nicht zu erschließen ist, ob Plautus’ Titel eine Übersetzung oder einen Ersatz darstellen soll, wird Trinummus üblicherweise auf Grundlage der Ankündigung des Betrügers in den Versen 843–4 als „Dreigroschentag“ gedeutet: Huic ego die nomen Trinummo faciam: nam ego operam meam tribus nummis hodie locavi ad artis nugatorias. Ich werde diesen Tag „Dreigroschentag“ nennen, denn meine Dienste In der Kunst des Gaunerns vermietete ich heute für drei Groschen. Da diese Erklärung recht eindeutig erscheint, wird sie normalerweise auch in dieser Form akzeptiert. Diese auch für die Deutung des Titels anzunehmen, impliziert drei Schlussfolgerungen, die sich allesamt leicht durch das saturnalische Paradigma erklären lassen. Erstens suggeriert diese Erklärung, dass Plautus Philemons Titel absichtlich von einem „Schatz“ zu einer lächerlichen Summe verkleinerte. Dies tat er anscheinend, weil Plautus vortit barbare  –  was offenbart bedeutet, dass Plautus Philemons Komödie „barbarisierte“, oder frei änderte. Zweitens erscheint die Erklärung des Betrügers so spät im Stück redundant, da ja beide Passagen trinummus auf identische Weise definieren. Doch da das römische Publikum vermutlich unruhig war und inmitten der Festlichkeiten leicht ablenkbar, war eine Erinnerung ihm sicher willkommen  –  das Wort ist ja schließlich ganz unbekannt. Da drittens keine Figur in einem realistischen Drama eine redundante Äußerung von sich gäbe, muss man davon ausgehen, dass der Betrüger metatheatralisch spricht. Dieser Ansicht gemäß spricht der Betrüger diese Verse bewusst nicht in seiner eigentlichen Rolle, sondern als Schauspieler hinter seiner Maske oder sogar als Plautus selbst. Damit bezieht sich seine Äußerung nicht nur auf den Tag, sondern auch auf das Stück. Die durch dies Interpretationen implizierte Unabhängigkeit und Inversion bzw. Subversion von Philemons Stück passt zum feierlichen Freiheitsgeist, den das saturnalische Paradigma steht. Parallelen zu den meisten dieser Punkte kann man leicht auch anderswo in Plautus’ Werk finden. Das hellenistische Paradigma verwendet einen anderen Ansatz. Es bemerkt, dass die Darlegungsform der Etymologie in den Versen 843–4 einem Wortspiel in Menaechmi 263–4 ähnelt:

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propterea huic urbi nomen Epidamno inditumst, quia nemo ferme huc sine damno devortitur. Daher wurde dieser Stadt der Name Epidamnus beigelegt, Da kaum jemand hier einkehrt, ohne Schaden (damnum) davonzutragen. Daher vermutet es auch bei Plautus an dieser Stelle ein Wortspiel und findet in der griechischen Komödie die Verwendung des Präfixes τρι­ nicht nur mit der wörtlichen Bedeutung „drei“, sondern auch mit einer rein verstärkenden Bedeutung im Sinne von „sehr, super, mega“ z. B. im griechischen τριγέρων, „megaalt“. Diese Funktion der Verstärkung erklärt auch Aristophanes’ Titel Τριφάλης, „Megaphallus“, ebenso wie Naevius’ Titel Triphallus, „Megaphallus“, und Tribacelus, „Megaschwuchtel“. Das hellenistische Paradigma beobachtet ferner, dass Plautus diese griechische Verwendung für seine eigenen Hybridschöpfungen heranzieht, wie bei trifur (d. h. τρι­fur), „Superschurke“ (Aul. 633) und triparcus (d. h. τρι­parcus), „supergeizig“ (Persa 265). Kehrt man zum griechischen Material zurück, so stellt man fest, dass Aristophanes im Τριφάλης (fr. 561, 563, 566, und 569, mit KA zu fr. 561) wiederholt Wortspiele mit der Zahl „drei“ verwendet. Daher kommt man auf diese Weise zu dem Schluss, dass Trinummus, also „Supermünze“ eine hervorragende Wiedergabe von Θησαυρός, „Schatz“, darstellt. Auf ähnliche Weise spielt also Plautus’ Betrüger bei seinem ersten Auftritt in den Versen 843–4 mit dieser Bedeutung: (Triumphierend) Ich werde diesen Tag „Supermünze“ nennen, denn – (sein Lächeln verschwindet plötzlich) meine Dienste In der Kunst des Gaunerns vermietete ich heute für drei Groschen Nach dieser Ansicht erweist sich Plautus’ Wortschöpfung plötzlich als ein Witz para prosdokian, der zugleich den Wert der Münze und unsere Erwartungen platzen lässt, ähnlich, wie im Deutschen mehr Wasser als Meerwasser oder die Seite wechseln als die Saite wechseln19 eine neue Bedeutung annehmen. Die Konsequenzen dieser Herangehensweise unterscheiden sich stark von denen der saturnalischen Sichtweise. Erstens wird so behauptet, dass Plautus die Größendimension von Philemons Titel Θησαυρός gar nicht verkleinert hat, sondern nach einer passenden Wiedergabe strebte. Die Rechtfertigung in den Versen 20–1 für die Wortschöpfung Trinummus anstelle des Lehnwortes Thensaurus soll nur das spätere Wortspiel vorbereiten. Zweitens suggeriert das hellenistische Para19

„foreman as four men or forefathers as four fathers“ im amerikanischen Original (Anm. der Üb.).

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digma, dass Plautus vortit barbare in einem Prolog, der von einer griechischen Persona gesprochen wird, einfach bedeuten soll, „Plautus adaptierte es in seiner eigenen barbarischen Sprache“, also Ῥωμαϊκῶς (Latein). Drittens legt es nahe, dass das römische Publikum nicht unruhig und leicht ablenkbar war, sondern wachsam und aufmerksam und – da Witze idealerweise eine zu hundert Prozent effiziente Kommunikation erfordern – tatsächlich doch mit der griechischen Verwendung des Wortes vertraut war. 2. Unter Plautus’ kürzeren Theaterstücken gibt es eines mit dem Titel Curculio. Es spielt in Epidaurus und sein Titel bezieht sich auf die Hauptfigur, einen Schmarotzer. Der saturnalischen Ansicht gemäß ist sein Name einfach das lateinische Wort für „Getreidekäfer“ (curculio) in der Verwendung als Eigenname. Dieser abwegige Name passt ganz offensichtlich zu einem Schmarotzer, oder Parasiten, nicht nur, weil er vom σῖτος („Essen“, wörtlich „Getreide“) eines anderen lebt, sondern auch, weil sein Gegenstück in einem anderen Stück auf Lateinisch Saturio, „Herr Dickwanst“, heißt. Laut der hellenistischen Sicht jedoch heißt dieser Mann in Wahrheit Gorgylio (Γοργυλίων, “Der Hitzkopf“). Wie bei vielen Figuren der Neuen Komödie leitet sich sein Name von γοργός (hitzig, lebhaft, schnell) ab und bezieht sich auf seinen ungestümen, rennenden Auftritt in der Mitte des Stückes. Als sprechender Name gestattet es den Vergleich mit einem gewissen Koi­ kylion, „Der Gaffer“, der seinen Namen erhielt, weil er mit offenem Munde starrte, während er Wellen zählte (adesp. 71 = Aelian VH 13.15; Κοικυλίων von κοικύλλειν). Als Titel ähnelt Gorgylio griechischen Komödien mit Titeln wie Ankylion (Alexis, Eubulus; cf. Aristophanes Wespen 1397), Botrylion (Anaxilas) und Kampylion (Araros, Eubulus), die allesamt nach ihrer Hauptfigur heißen. Die Wahrscheinlichkeit, dass der Name nicht griechisch ist, erscheint auf dieser Grundlage einfach unglaublich gering. 3. Analoge Annahmen beider Paradigmen betreffen nicht nur die Zusammensetzung und Beschaffenheit von Plautus’ römischem Publikum, sondern auch Plautus’ Biographie. Die meiner Meinung nach wichtigste, aber oft unterbewertete Verbindung zwischen Griechenland und Rom während des halben Jahrhunderts, das zwischen Menanders Tod 292 v. Chr. und der ersten aufgezeichneten Aufführung eines adaptieren griechischen Stücks 240 v. Chr. liegt, sind die „dionysischen Techniten“ (οἱ περὶ τὸν Διόνυσον τεχνῖται). Diese Gruppen reisender Schauspieler durchquerten die griechische Mittelmeerwelt einschließlich Siziliens und Süditaliens regelmäßig und brachten dabei klassische Stücke der griechischen Neuen Komödie zur Aufführung. Die erste bekannte Aufführung in Rom fand gegen Ende von Plautus’ Karriere in den

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180er Jahren v. Chr. statt.20 Wie Bruno Gentili gezeigt hat, hatten diese Schauspieler zu jenem Zeitpunkt bereits damit begonnen, Klassiker des früheren griechischen Dramas auf eine neue Weise für die Aufführung an besagten Orten auszuwählen, zu kombinieren und mit Musik zu versehen.21 Varro erzählt in der Biographie von Plautus, die er eineinhalb Jahrhunderte nach dessen Tod verfasste, dass der Dichter einen Beruf eingeschlagen hatte, in dem er in operis artificum scaenicorum anscheinend außerhalb Roms Geld verdiente. In operis, „im Dienste von“ oder „in der Gruppe von“, ist ein vager Ausdruck, der einen Schauspieler, Regisseur, Schriftsteller, Bühnenhelfer oder etliche andere Tätigkeiten bezeichnen könnte. Vermutlich wählte Varro ihn, weil er selbst nicht wusste, in welcher Funktion Plautus tatsächlich gearbeitet hatte. Nicht die geringste Unklarheit gibt es dagegen über den Begriff artificum scaenicorum, denn andernorts sagt uns Gellius selbst (N.A. 20.4.2), der besagten Auszug aus Varros Biographie zitiert (N.A. 3.3.14), dass artifices scaenici die lateinische Übersetzung von οἱ περὶ τὸν Διόνυσον τεχνῖται ist. In anderen Worten: Gellius behauptet, dass Plautus seine Karriere begann, indem er für oder mit diesen reisenden Gruppen von Griechisch sprechenden technitai arbeitete. Laut dem hellenistischen Paradigma klingt Varros Erklärung nicht nur vernünftig, sondern auch naheliegend, selbst, wenn sie falsch sein sollte. So ließe sich erklären, wie Plautus so vertraut mit der griechischen Komödie und vor allem ihren drei kanonischen Autoren Menander, Diphilus und Philemon wurde, die sowohl Plautus’ Repertoire als auch das jener Künstler dominierten. Varros Worte in operis werden üblicherweise übersetzt als „im Dienste von“; dieser Ansicht gemäß bedeuteten sie jedoch vermutlich „in der Gruppe von“, „unter der Zahl von“, vielleicht als eine Wiedergabe von ἐν τῇ συνόδῳ oder ἐν τῷ κοινῷ, „in der Zunft“. Nach dem saturnalischen Paradigma ist dagegen Varros Erklärung so unwahrscheinlich, dass seine Aussage als Hinweis darauf uminterpretiert worden ist, Plautus habe seine Karriere mit einer Arbeit im Umfeld der Atellane begonnen.22 (Dies könnte zwar letzt20

21

22

Livius 39.2.2 artifices ex Graecia und 39.2.10 artifices. Da die ludi, also ein „Fest (das dramatische Aufführungen mit einschließt)“ im griechisch­sprachigen Tarent in Süditalien als eine beliebte und bekannte Institution im Prolog zu Plautus’ Menaechmi (29–30) erwähnt werden, könnten sich Verweise auf artifices in Plautus’ Prologen (Amphitryo 70 und Carchedonius 36–39) auch auf diese griechischen technītai beziehen. Gentili (1979: 15–62). Technītai: Lightfoot (2002); zu ihrem späteren Wirken, siehe Petzl und Schwertheim (2006) und Slater (2008) (mit englischer Übersetzung). Dies schlägt Leo (1912) vor, es folgen ihm hierin Duckworth (1952) und viele andere.

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endlich richtig sein, stimmt aber mit den Worten Varros nicht überein.) Und doch scheint Plautus’ zweiter Name Maccius eine Homage an Maccus, den Clown der Atellane, zu sein. Es erscheint eher wahrscheinlich, dass ein Farceur, der die festliche saturnalische Welt geschaffen hat, stark von der Farce beeinflusst wurde. Auf solchen zweideutigen Details beruht ein großer Teil unseres Verständnisses der plautinischen Komödie. In einem circulus vitiosus – oder virtuosus  – bestätigen die von uns bevorzugten Interpretationen in der Regel unseren Glauben an das eine oder das andere Paradigma. Zudem führt es zu überraschenden Ergebnissen, wenn man sich diese grundsätzliche Teilung bewusst macht. Mit einem solchen Ergebnis möchte ich diesen Beitrag abschließen. 7. Neue Erwägungen zu Varros Kanon Obwohl die gängige Liste von Plautus’ überlieferten Komödien natürlich älter ist als Erich Segals Buch, spiegelt und untermauert sie weitgehend eine saturnalische Interpretation des Plautus. Die dort angegebenen Titel sind zum Teil auf Griechisch, zum Teil auf Latein, und das Übergewicht von letzteren  – im Gegensatz zu denen des Terenz, die allesamt griechisch sind – hat den Glauben an Plautus’ Unabhängigkeit von seinen Vorlagen bestärkt. Eine revidierte Fassung von Plautus’ 21 „varronianischen“ Libretti würde nach dem hellenistischen Paradigma deutlich anders aussehen. Es widerspricht beispielsweise einem Hinweis im Stück selbst (V. 5), dass Cicero an einer Stelle mit dem lateinischen Titel Ipse se poeniens im Vorübergehen auf Terenz’ Heauton Timorumenos verweist (Tusc. 3.65). Diese Beobachtung gibt den Anstoß zu einer weiteren: Manche von Plautus’ gängigen Titeln entsprechen ebenfalls nicht den Hinweisen innerhalb der Stücke selbst. Im Miles Gloriosus, zum Beispiel, wird der Titel Alazon (86) verkündet, wohingegen Terenz’ beiläufige Verwendung von miles gloriosus in Eun. 38 die Vermutung verstärkt, dass die lateinische Phrase nicht der Titel war, den Plautus seinem Stück gab. Diese Beobachtung deutet ihrerseits darauf hin, dass viele der uns geläufigen lateinischen Titel nicht auf Plautus’ besondere „Unabhängigkeit“ oder ein „Römertum“ oder gar einen „Anti­Hellenismus“ seinerseits hindeuten, sondern vielmehr durch nachträgliche Zuweisungen von Grammatikern und neuinszenierenden Produzenten oder einfach durch Missverständnisse der Texte entstanden sind. Eine revidierte Fassung des Plautinischen Kanons würde daher folgendermaßen aussehen:

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gr. Umschrift

Bedeutung

Gängiger Titel und / oder Bedeutung

1.

Alazon

Ἀλαζών

Der Aufschneider

Miles Gloriosus, ‚Der prahlerische Soldat‘

2.

Amphitryo

Ἀμφιτρύων

3.

Asinaria

Die Eselsangelegenheit

4.

Aulularia

Die Topfangelegenheit

5.

Bacchides

6.

Captivi

7.

Carchedonius

Καρχηδόνιος

Der Karthager

Poenulus, ‚Der kleine Punier‘

8.

Cleroumenoe

Κληρούμενοι

Die Losenden

Casina

9.

Emporus

Ἔμπορος

Der Kaufmann

Mercator, ‚Der Kaufmann‘

10. Epidicus

Ἐπίδικος

11. Gorgylio

Γοργυλίων

12. Menaechmi

Μέναιχμοι

13. Persa

Πέρσης (?)

Der Perser

14. Phasma (?)

Φάσμα

Das Gespenst

15. Pseudylus

Ψευδύλος

Βακχίδες Die Kriegsgefangenen

16. Rudens 17. Stichus

Amphitruo

Curculio

Mo(n)stellaria, ‚Die Gespensterkomödie‘ Pseudolus

Das Seil Στίχος

18. Synaristosae (?) Συναριστῶσαι

Damen beim Frühstück

Cistellaria, ‚Die Kästchenkomödie‘

19. Trinummus

Die Supermünze

‚Der Dreigroschentag‘

Τρίνουμμος (?)

20. Truculentus

‚Der Griesgram‘

21. Vidularia

‚Die Kofferangelegenheit‘

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Michael Fontaine

Unübersetzte Titel in der obigen Liste verweisen auf Eigennamen führender Figuren, während Titel im Plural wie Captivi, Bacchides, und Menaechmi Verwechslungskomödien bezeichnen. Anders als die sprechenden Namen Gorgylio, „Der Hitzkopf“, und Pseudylus, „Der Lügner“, haben die Namen Amphitryo, Menaechmus, Bacchis, Epidicus und Stichus unabhängig von ihren Etymologien jeweils mythologische, historische oder generische Konnotationen. Titel, die nicht in griechischer Umschrift angegeben sind, sind ausschließlich lateinisch; Fragezeichen zeigen entweder Titel an, bei denen nicht klar ist, ob sie lateinischen oder griechischen Ursprungs sind, oder weisen auf Unklarheit über Plautus’ eigenen Titel hin. Keiner dieser Titel gibt jedoch notwendigerweise den Titel der plautinischen Vorlage oder dessen Übersetzung wieder. Hierbei sind Eigennamen, die als Titel gebraucht werden, besonders verdächtig: Bacchides ist eine Bearbeitung von Menanders Dis Exapaton, „Der zweimal Betrügende“, während Stichus eine Bearbeitung seiner ersten Adelphoi, „Die Brüder“, ist – doch Truculentus gehört nicht zu Menanders Dyskolos, „Der Menschenfeind“. Phormio von Terenz ist ebenso eine Bearbeitung von Apollodorus’ Epidikazomene, „Die vor Gericht Gewonnene“.23 Obwohl die moderne Plautusforschung ausnahmslos die oben angeführten gängigen Titel gebraucht, sollten diese – um nun endlich meine Meinung offenzulegen – aufgegeben werden, da sie lediglich eine Mischung aus Textkorruptionen, Missverständnissen und späteren Zusätzen darstellen. So betrachtet gleicht Plautus viel mehr einem Komödiendichter der hellenistischen Tradition als einem vorrangig lateinischen Autor. Das ist schließlich auch völlig gerechtfertigt, da die griechische Komödie richtigerweise nicht nur in drei, sondern vier Perioden unterteilt wird. Doch genau in dieser blühenden vierten Periode können Gräzisten – diejenigen, die bereits Experten in der griechischen Komödie sind – uns Latinisten helfen, die „römische“ Komödie besser zu verstehen.

23

Zu den Titeln Emporus, Phasma, Stichus und Synaristosae siehe Wright (1974: 92– 96); zu Amphitryo, Gorgylio, Pseudylus, Trinummus, Apollodorus’ Epidikazomene und Plautus’ nicht kanonischen Werken Baccharia und Satyrio siehe Fontaine (2010) passim. Wie in Fontaine (2010) dargelegt, lassen sich Plautus’ griechische Wörter am besten durch klassiche Normen umschreiben; diese Praxis ist zwar anachronistisch, fördert jedoch die Verständlichkeit. Siehe auch allgemein Gentili (1979: 32).

275

Von Athen nach Rom

Appendix: Zusatztexte Dies ist eine Zusammenstellung der fünf parallelen Auszüge aus griechischen und römischen Komödien, die in Fußnote 12 genannt werden, und der längsten Passage aus Terenz, die eine Parallele zu einer überlieferten Vorlage aufweist. Die Passagen wurden in chronologischer Reihenfolge nach ihrem Autor geordnet. 1. Plautus Carchedonius [Poenulus] 522–5 (hrsg. Lindsay) und Alexis incert. 265 KA (Karchedonios?) ADVOCATI liberos homines per urbem modico magi’ par est gradu ire, servoli esse duco festinantem currere – praesertim in re populi placida atque interfectis hostibus non decet tumultuari. 525 ἓν γὰρ νομίζω τοῦτο τῶν ἀνελευθέρων εἶναι, τὸ βαδίζειν ἀρρύθμως ἐν ταῖς ὁδοῖς, ἐξὸν καλῶς· οὗ μήτε πράττεται τέλος μηδεὶς γὰρ μᾶς, μήτε τιμὴν δόντα δεῖ ἑτέρων λαβεῖν, φέρει δὲ τοῖς μὲν χρωμένοις δόξης τιν’ ὄγκον, τοῖς δ’ ὁρῶσιν δονήν, κόσμον δὲ τῷ βίῳ, τὸ τοιοῦτον γέρας τίς οὐκ ἂν αὑτῷ κτῷτο φάσκων νοῦν ἔχειν;

5

2. Plautus Pseudylus 9–17 (hrsg. Leo) und Menander fr. 4 incert. Arnott (fr. adesp. 1027 KA):24 PSEUDOLUS quid est quod tu exanimatus iam hos multos dies gestas tabellas tecum, eas lacrumis lavis, neque tui participem consili quemquam facis? eloquere, ut quod ego nescio id tecum sciam. CALIDORUS Misere miser sum, Pseudole. PS. Id te Iuppiter prohibessit. CAL. Nihil hoc Iovis ad iudicium attinet: sub Veneris regno vapulo, non sub Iovis. licet me id scire quid sit? nam tu me antidhac supremum habuisti comitem consiliis tuis. ὦ Ζεῦ, τί σύννους κατὰ μόνας σαυτῷ λαλεῖς, δοκεῖς τε παρέχειν ἔμφασιν λυπουμένου; ἐμοὶ προσανάθου· λαβέ με σύμβουλον πόνων· 24

Ich erörtere diese Passage in Fontaine (2014a: 526–529).

10

15

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μὴ καταφρονήσῃς οἰκέτου συμβουλίας. πολλάκις ὁ δοῦλος τοὺς τρόπους χρηστοὺς ἔχων τῶν δεσποτῶν ἐγένετο σωφρονέστερος. εἰ δ’ τύχη τὸ σῶμα κατεδουλώσατο, ὅ γε νοῦς ὑπάρχει τοῖς τρόποις ἐλεύθερος.

5

3. Plautus Colax fr. 2 Monda und Menander Kolax 96–100 Pernerstorfer (= C195–9 Arnott): qui data fide firmata fidentem fefellerint, subdoli subsentatores, regi qui sunt proxumi, qui aliter regi dictis dicunt, aliter in animo habent. ὅσοι τύραννοι πώποτ᾽, ὅστις γεμὼν μέγας, σατράπ[ης], φρούραρχ[ο]ς, οἰκιστὴς τόπου, στρατηγός – οὐ [γὰρ] ἀλλὰ τοὺς τελέως λέγω ἀπολωλότας [νῦν –  τ]οῦτ’ ἀνῄρηκεν μόνον, οἱ κόλακες. οὗτοι δ’ εἰσὶν αὐτοῖς ἄθλιοι. 4. Terenz H(e)auton Timorumenus 61–4 und Menander fr. 77 KA (Hauton Timoroumenos): CHREMES nam pro deum atque hominum fidem quid vis tibi aut quid quaeris? annos sexaginta natus es aut plus eo, ut conicio; agrum in his regionibus meliorem neque preti maiori’ nemo habet; πρὸς τῆς Ἀθηνᾶς, δαιμονᾶις, γεγονὼς ἔτη τοσαῦθ’; ὁμοῦ γάρ ἐστιν ἑξήκοντά σοι, καὶ τῶν Ἅλησι χωρίων κεκτημένος κάλλιστον εἶ, νὴ τὸν Δία, ἐν τοῖς τρισίν γε, καὶ τὸ μακαριώτατον, ἄστικτον

5

suppl. Kaibel : < καὶ πλέον> Reitz

5. Turpilius fr. 50–3 Ribbeck³ (Epiclerus fr. 1) und Menander fr. 129 KA (Epikleros): STEPHANIO quaeso edepol, quo ante lucem te subito rapis, ere, cum uno puero? PH(ILOXENUS?). nequeo esse intus, Stephanio. ST. quid ita? PH. ut solent, me curae sommo segregant forasque noctis excitant silentio.

Von Athen nach Rom

277

ἆρ’ ἐστὶ πάντων ἀγρυπνία λαλίστατον; ἐμὲ γοῦν ἀναστήσασα δευρὶ προάγεται λαλεῖν ἀπ’ ἀρχῆς πάντα τὸν ἐμαυτοῦ βίον. 6. Turpilius fr. 113–4 Ribbeck³ (Leucadia fr. 9) und Menander Leukadia 1–3 Arnott: miseram me terrent omnia: maris scopuli, sonitus, solitudo, sanctitudo Apollinis. ΑΙΔΙ Ν Ἄπολλον, εἰς οἷον κατῳκίσθης τόπον. ἅπαντα πέτρα καὶ θάλαττ᾽ ἐστὶν κάτω ἰδεῖν φοβερά τις.

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Indices Index locorum Aelianus Varia Historia 13.15: 270 Aeschines 2.151: 76 [Aeschines] Epistulae 4.3: 103  152 Aischylos Choephoroe 415: 118  20 957: 118  20 Prometheus 381: 118 20 test. 1.18 R.: 143 test. 55a R.: 142 test. 56a R.: 142 Akron fr. 2 Wellmann: 127 49 Alexis fr. 2: 172 fr. 16: 180 61, 183, 185 73 fr. 16.5: 180 61 fr. 27: 185 fr. 47.1–3: 257 fr. 57: 180 61, 184, 185, 214 47 fr. 76: 180 61, 183 fr. 76.7: 184 69 fr. 102: 214 47 fr. 105: 258 fr. 113: 207 fr. 117: 214 47 fr. 130: 180 61 fr. 131: 180 61 fr. 140: 210 35 fr. 173: 214 47 fr. 177: 223 81 fr. 204: 180 61

fr. 204.4–6: 184 69 fr. 212: 165 fr. 249: 214 47 fr. 265: 258 12, 275 fr. 272: 165 21 Alkimos (historian; FGrH 560) F 1: 110 2 Alkiphron 4.18.16: 72 [Ammonios] De adfinium vocabulorum differentia 247 Nickau: 69 14 Amphis fr. 30: 180 61, 185 73 fr. 30.4, 8: 180 61 fr. 46: 175 Ananios fr. 4 West: 12336 Anaxandrides fr. 42.37–66: 125 fr. 46: 174 Anaxilas fr. 11: 178 fr. 13: 178 fr. 22: 172 fr. 22.12–14: 184 71 Anaxippos fr. 1: 224 86 Anonyma Dorica (PCG I) fr. 20: 117 17 Anonymus in Platonis Theaetetum col. 71.12–40: 111 Antiatticista p. 99.1 Bekker: 113 9

310 Antiphanes fr. 27: 180–184 fr. 27.11: 184 69 fr. 123: 180 61, 184 fr. 130.4: 184 71 fr. 140: 125 42 fr. 145: 180 61, 183 fr. 157: 167, 185 74 fr. 157.9–10: 180 61 fr. 159: 180 61, 184 fr. 159.5: 180 61 fr. 164: 180 61, 183 fr. 164.6–7: 184 fr. 166: 165, 167 fr. 189: 215 49 fr. 194: 163 fr. 204: 180 61, 184, 185 73 fr. 204.5: 180 61 fr. 210: 165 21, 172 fr. 217: 180 61, 184 Apollodoros (historian; FGrH 244) F 226: 114 Apollodoros (mythographer) Bibliotheca 2.6.2: 195 91 3.8.2: 176 55 Apuleius Florida 16 p. 24,4: 207 16 p. 24,7: 18 Archedikos fr. 3.2: 184 71 fr. 4: 216 test. 2: 216 Archestratos fr. 19 Olson­Sens: 184 71 Archilochos frr. 66–67 W.²: 131 Archippos fr. 23: 180 61

Indices Aristophanes Acharnenses 333: 138 496–503: 215 49 628–645: 215 49 659–661: 250 Aves 760–767: 183 67 801 ff.: 176 56 904–958: 13 9 1372–1409: 13 9 1565 ff.: 210 35 1579 ff.: 186 1585 ff.: 186 1689–1690: 186 1691–1692: 186 Ecclesiazusae 155 ff.: 182 160: 182 581–582: 121 27 Equites 518–540: 16 520–540: 14 524–525: 152 15 526–536: 93 112 537–539: 144 Lysistrata 928: 186 Pax 73: 138 75 242–254: 183 67 741: 140 79 751: 155 18 Plutus 83: 138 75 Ranae 503–578: 186 76 565–566: 193 605 ff.: 186 76 728 f.: 12 1085: 214 46

Index locorum Thesmophoriazusae 225: 182 65 254: 182 65 517: 182 65 569: 182 65 Vespae 57–60: 186 60: 140 79, 210 35 209: 133 65 493–495: 180 61, 184 70, 185 73 493 ff.: 180 61 1253–1255: 138 1326–1386: 156 1397: 270 1410: 105 159 fr. 402: 180 61 fr. 402.8: 184 fr. 402.8–10: 180 61 fr. 402.9: 183, 184 fr. 402.10: 180 61 fr. 545: 138 fr. 559: 87 83 fr. 561: 87 83, 269 fr. 563: 87 83, 269 fr. 566: 87 83, 269 fr. 567: 87 83 fr. 568: 87 83 fr. 569: 87 83, 269 fr. 581: 125 41 fr. 636: 138 75 fr. 968: 98 130 test. 1.50: 158 test. 4: 87 83 Aristophanes Byz. fr. 363 Slater: 29 51 fr. 364–366 Slater: 29 fr. 368 f. Slater: 28 fr. 376 Slater: 29 fr. 402 Slater: 28 46 test. 7 Slater: 29 48

311

Aristoteles Athenaion Politeia 18: 96121 55.3: 138 Didaskaliai frr. 415–462 Gigon: 245 52 Ethica Nicomachea 1128a20–25: 16–17 1128a22–25: 221 Historia Animalium 511b33: 184 71 616a32: 184 71 Metaphysica 985b23–32: 113 8 Poetica 1448a3 f.: 30 1448a29–34: 125 44 1448a31–32: 133 1448a33–34: 109–110 1449a11–13: 131 1449a13: 107 1449a14 f.: 33 52 1449a15–18: 141 1449a37: 76 1449a38­b9: 17 1449b1–9: 110 1449b5–9: 108, 140 1449b5 ff.: 148 7, 152 14, 154 1451b11–15: 17, 141 1453a 30–39: 175 53 Politica 1336b20–23: 30 fr. 447 Gigon: 230 5 Aristoxenos fr. 45 Wehrli: 116 Athenaios 1.3a–b: 36 3.110b: 124 3.115d: 126 48 4.132e: 224 5.181c: 132 6.230b: 172

312 6.235e: 139 6.236e: 139 77 6.245 a–b: 214 46 6.267e–270a: 146 3 7.293a: 19 12 7.312f: 184 71 7.329d: 19 8.336d: 21 8.350d–e: 116 16 8.362b: 135 9.387a: 19 12 9.405e: 217 56 10.421e: 210 35 10.422 f: 19 12 11.481 f: 21 11.482c: 20–21 12.516c: 126 48 12.549a–c: 217 13.555a: 165, 172, 173 13.586a: 20, 184 71 13.587d: 19 12, 20 14.621d: 133 14.621d–f: 133 14.622a: 101 144 14.648d: 113 9, 114 Baton fr. 2: 212 fr. 3: 212 fr. 5: 212 Caecilius fr. 158–162 Ribbeck³: 262–263 Chionides test. 1: 109 1 Cicero De re publica 4.11: 251 2 Epistulae ad Quintum 8.8.2: 250–251 Tusculanae Disputationes 3.65: 272 Comica Adespota (PCG VIII) fr. 1017.15: 181 64 fr. 1027: 258 12, 275

Indices fr. 1062: 174 50 fr. 1063.26: 181 64 fr. 1093.163: 181 64 Damoxenos fr. 2: 213, 225 Deinarchos fr. 16.5 Conomis: 69 14 [Demetrios] De elocutione 156: 114 10 Demetrios Com. II fr. 1: 217 Demochares (historian; FGrH 75) F 4: 106 163 Demosthenes 19.287 (with scholia): 76–77 21.10: 74 54.14–17: 87 83 54.20: 87 83 54.39: 87 83 Didymos In Demosthenem col. XII 55–62: 116 16 Diogenes Laertios 3.9–16: 118–119 5.79: 220 8.78: 112 Diomedes De arte grammatica 3 Keil: 92 109 Dion Chrysostomos Or. 31.21: 93 112 Dionysios (comic poet) fr. 2: 224 Dioskorides AP 7.410–411: 92 106 Diphilos fr. 17: 223, 224 fr. 31.11: 181 64 fr. 32: 180 61, 183 fr. 42: 223 fr. 45: 210 fr. 60: 211

Index locorum fr. 67: 180 61, 185 73 fr. 67.2–4: 180 61 fr. 70: 163 fr. 71: 163 fr. 74: 211 fr. 90: 223 Duris (historian; FGrH76) F 70: 116 16 Ennius Annales fr. 8–10 Sk.: 112 7 Ephippos fr. 3: 187 fr. 5: 187 fr. 12: 125 42 fr. 20: 163 fr. 21: 167 Epicharmos / Pseudepicharmeia fr. 1: 123 fr. 4: 123 36 fr. 5: 138 75 fr. 6: 136 71 fr. 7: 136 71 fr. 13: 135 69 fr. 18: 128 fr. 18.1: 118 19 fr. 22: 123 36 fr. 31: 139 77 fr. 31.3: 139 77 fr. 32: 122, 128 50, 139 77 fr. 32.9–12: 109 fr. 33: 139 77 fr. 38: 128 51 fr. 39: 124, 130 fr. 40.1: 125 39 fr. 40.3–6: 125–126 fr. 40.6: 118 18 fr. 40.11: 125 40, 135 fr. 42.1: 125 39 fr. 46: 124 fr. 47: 124 39, 129

fr. 48: 124 39 fr. 49: 124 39, 125 41 fr. 49.1–2: 125–126 fr. 51: 123 36, 125–126 fr. 52: 124 39 fr. 57: 125 39, 129 fr. 58: 125 39 fr. 62: 124 fr. 63: 124 fr. 64: 124 fr. 65: 138 75 fr. 66.2: 114 fr. 68: 125 43, 128 50, 135 fr. 76: 122, 123, 138 fr. 77: 123–124, 132 fr. 84: 124 38, 125 40, 135 fr. 85: 125 39 fr. 88: 125 39 fr. 89: 125 39 fr. 92: 123 36 fr. 97: 118 18, 122, 124, 128, 140 80 fr. 97.8: 118 18 fr. 98.131: 118 19 fr. 99: 128 fr. 100: 135 71 fr. 103: 135 69 fr. 108: 135 69 fr. 110: 144 87 fr. 111: 144 87 fr. 113.4–15: 122 fr. 113.135: 118 19 fr. 113.243: 138 75 fr. 113.244: 118 18,19 fr. 113.247: 118 18 fr. 113.415: 135 71 fr. 114: 135 71 fr. 115: 135 71 fr. 121: 135 71 fr. 122: 122, 135 fr. 122.8: 135 70

313

314

Indices

fr. 123: 137 fr. 125: 136 71 fr. 126: 136 71 fr. 128: 114 11 fr. 129: 114 fr. 135: 117, 117–118, 118, 119–120, 120 fr. 136: 111, 121, 139 77 fr. 146: 122 29, 138 fr. 147: 122 29, 138 75 fr. 158: 117 fr. 158.4: 118 19 fr. 161: 115 fr. 199: 112 7 fr. 214: 115 14 fr. 218: 116 14 fr. 224: 135 71 fr. 236: 114–115 fr. 240: 113 8 fr. 243: 113 8 fr. 244: 113 7, 116 15 fr. 244.10–11: 121 fr. 253: 116 14 fr. 271: 114–115 fr. 274: 112 7 fr. 275: 119, 120 22, 121 fr. 276: 119, 120 22 fr. 276.3: 118 18 fr. 276.6–8: 111 fr. 277: 120 24 fr. 277.3: 118 18 fr. 277.6: 118 18 fr. 278: 112 7 fr. 279.4: 118 18 fr. 280: 112–113 7, 120 24 fr. 281: 112 7 fr. 295.19: 118 18 fr. 296: 112 6 frr. 275–279: 118 frr. 282–286: 112 7 Epinikos, test. ii: 135

test. 1: 109 1, 125 44, 142 test. 3: 109, 125 44 test. 4: 125 44, 142 83 test. 5: 110 test. 6: 114 test. 9: 112 test. 12: 111 3 test. 18: 125 44 test. 21: 121 test. 33: 120, 125 44 test. 34: 125 44 test. 35.4: 144 87 Eratosthenes fr. 48 Strecker: 28 fr. 109 Strecker: 144 87 Eubulos fr. 15: 174–175 fr. 24: 170 36 fr. 25: 170 36 fr. 26: 170 36 fr. 63: 125 42 fr. 69: 165 fr. 80: 165, 172, 173 fr. 87: 167 fr. 93: 138 Eupolis fr. 50: 157 fr. 84: 123 36 fr. 89: 153 fr. 172: 139 77 Euripides Electra 492: 184 71 Helena 122: 115 14 Eusebios Praeparatio evangelica 10.3.13: 167 Eustathios In Odysseam 3.350: 100 141 Galenos vol. X, p. 5 Kühn (de methodo medendi): 127 49

Index locorum Gellius Noctes atticae 2.23.1–22: 262–263 3.3.3: 256 9 3.3.14: 271 15.24: 264 16 20.4.2: 271 Hegesandros (historian; FHG IV) fr. 8, 14–17: 99 138 Heniochos fr. 5: 170 Hephaistion Enchiridion 8.2: 135 Herakleitos (philospher; DK 22) B 15: 78 53,54 Hermippos fr. 47: 152 test. 2: 152 Herodotos 2.48–49: 87 81 4.72.5: 184 71 7.6: 105 159 Hesiodos Opera 287–292: 114 Theogonia 240–262: 130 337–338: 129 338–341: 130 355–356: 130 950–955: 129 fr. 266a M.­W.: 138 75 Hesychios α 5716: 101 143 σ 865: 69 14 Hipparchos fr. 3: 181 64 Hippokrates De ossibus 12–18: 184 71 Hipponax fr. 32 W.²: 132

fr. 78.14 W.²: 132 Homeros Ilias 6.429–430: 138 9.63: 135 71 10: 128 14.201: 110–111 14.302: 110–111 Odyssea 4.242–258: 128 Horatius Ars poetica 220–224: 92 108 275–277: 92 108 281: 92 107 281–284: 199 282 ff.: 251 2 Epistulae 2.1.58: 121 Sermones 1.4.1–8: 251 2 Hyginus Astronomica 2.1: 176 54 Fabulae 32: 195 91 Iamblichos Vita Pythagorae 266: 111 3 Isokrates 21.43: 94 115 Kallisthenes (historian; FGrH 124) F 5.1: 116 Kallixeinos (historian; FGrH 627) F 2: 78 54 Krates fr. 46: 156 20 test. 3: 144 Kratinos fr. 151: 136 72 fr. 152: 144 fr. 153: 136 72 fr. 342: 149 10 fr. 360: 100 143 fr. 372: 100 143 fr. 502: 149

315

316 Odysses test.: 248 60 test. 7c: 234 17 Livius 39.2.2: 271 20 39.2.10: 271 20 Lukianos Dialogi meretricii 9: 156 Macrobius Saturnalia 2.1.10–11: 256 9 2.1.12: 256 9 Magnes test. 1: 109 1 Marcus Aurelius Ad se ipsum 11.6.1–2: 18–19 Marmor Parium (FGrHist 239) Α 39: 89 Α 43: 91 B 7: 240 B 14: 242 Marsyas (historian; FGrH 135/136) F 17: 116 16 Menandros Aspis 146–148: 207 407–432: 212 Dis exapaton 11–17: 260 91–102: 173 44 fr. 4: 258 Dyskolos 30–32: 168 28 153 ff.: 167 230: 206 17 326–331: 168 28 365–370: 168 28 442 ff.: 167 28 447–453: 168 28 473 ff.: 168 28 487–499: 224

Indices 576–594: 168 28 797–812: 202 968 f.: 206 21 Epitrepontes 325–337: 211 1084–1099: 212 fr. 1 Sandbach: 224 82 fr. 2 Sandbach: 224 82 Heros fr. 1: 206 Kolax 85–119: 219 66 96–100: 258, 276 fr. 2 Sandbach: 218 Leukadia 1–3 Arnott: 277 fr. 1 Arnott: 258 12 Perikeiromene 124 ff.: 218 Perinthia 1–23: 166 23 Samia 283–295: 224 84 285: 223 81 293 f.: 223 81 325 ff.: 173.44 492–520: 211 736 f.: 206 21 Sikyonioi 150–167: 218 Synaristosai fr. 1 Arnott: 100 142 fr. 337: 259 fr. 25: 218 fr. 51: 218 fr. 77: 276 fr. 114: 212 fr. 129: 258 12, 276 fr. 193: 212 fr. 208: 214 46 fr. 224.14: 217 fr. 297: 262 fr. 351: 224 fr. 409: 224

Index locorum fr. *903: 206 21 fr. 908: 206 21 test. 9: 220 test. 69: 251 3 Mnesimachos fr. 3: 167 fr. 4.40 f.: 19 Nikomachos fr. 1: 225 89 Nonnos Dionysiaca 2.122–123: 176 55 33.289–292: 176 55 Ovidius Metamorphoses 2.425–440: 176 55 Pausanias 1.2.4: 97 1.2.5.12–6.1: 80 1.8.4: 103 152 Persius 1.123–125: 251 2 Petronius Satyricon 25: 156 Pherekrates fr. 77: 156, 164 15 fr. 100: 149 fr. 102: 149 Philemon fr. 12: 223 79 fr. 42: 223 79 fr. 60: 209 fr. 63: 223 79 fr. 64: 223 79, 225 88 fr. 71: 223 79 fr. 82: 223 fr. 83: 223 79 fr. 88: 212 fr. 95: 207 fr. 102: 212 fr. 114: 223 79

fr. 134: 212 41 fr. 176: 223 79 test. 7: 208 Philemon II test. 3: 240 40 Philetairos fr. 5: 164, 173 44 fr. 6: 164, 17344 fr. 8: 164 fr. 9: 164, 172 fr. 21: 172 Philippides fr. 5: 216 fr. 8: 216 fr. 9: 216 fr. 10: 216 fr. 25: 154 17, 215 fr. 26: 215 fr. 27: 216 test. 3: 214 Philistion fr. 1 Wellmann: 127 49 fr. 2 Wellmann: 126 48 fr. 4 Wellmann: 127 49 fr. 9 Wellmann: 126 48 fr. 13 Wellmann: 126 48 Philochoros (historian; FGrH 328) F 79: 112 7, 114 Philostratos Vita Apollonii 4.22: 93 112 Photios ι 106: 100 141 Pindaros fr. 70b: 104–106 fr. 70b.22–25, 26: 105 160 fr. 75: 102–104 Platon (comic poet) fr. 90: 177 fr. 91: 177 fr. 195: 164 15

317

318 test. 1: 248 60 test. 2: 248 60 test. 16: 248 60 Platon (philosopher) Apologia 26d­e: 98 130 Epistulae II 314d: 126 48 Gorgias 505e: 115 Leges 637a–b: 77 47 700a1–701b3: 12 816e: 111 Theaetetus 152e: 109, 125 44 Platonios De differentia comoediarum 1 f.: 30 2–14: 30–31 14–21: 31 21–34: 31 31–34: 136 35–45: 31 45–61: 31 59–65: 199 1 62–72: 31 Plautus Amphitruo 70: 271 20 Aulularia 633: 269 Bacchides 143–169: 172 43 368 ff.: 172 43 494–499: 260–261 494–562: 205 816–817: 257–258 Cistellaria 89–93: 258–259 90: 100 142 Colax fr. 2: 258 12, 276 Curculio (Gorgylio) 643–651: 100 Menaechmi 7–9: 252 29–30: 271 20

Indices 263–4: 268–269 Miles gloriosus 86: 272 Mostellaria 1096–1180: 166 23 Persa 265: 269 Poenulus (Carchedonius) 36–39: 271 20 522–525: 258 12, 275 1318: 258 Pseudolus 9–17: 258 12, 275 Trinummus 18–20: 267–268 20–21: 269 843–844: 268, 269 Truculentus 262–264: 138 75 test. 66: 256 9 test. 70: 256 9 Plinius maior Naturalis Historia 29.5: 127 49 Plinius minor Epistulae 6.21: 251 2 Plutarchos Alcibiades 32: 116 16 34.4: 96 117 Antonius 24.4: 78 54 Demetrius 11.2–3: 154 12.26.1–3: 215 Moralia 527d: 69 559a­b: 111 750e: 216 851e, f: 154 17 Numa 8.9: 112 6 Pollux 1.232: 22 2.197: 22 4.182: 22 6.35: 139 77 7.17: 23 27

Index locorum 7.69: 23 27 7.71: 23 27 7.78: 23 27 7.162: 23 27 8.103: 97 124 8.125: 99 10.86: 124 Polybios 12.13: 154 12.13.7: 216 12.13.8.9–11: 106 163 Porphyrios Vita Plotini 24: 125 44 Poseidippos (comic poet) fr. 6: 206 21 fr. 16: 212 Proklos Chrestomathia 206 Severyns: 128 Prolegomena de comoedia III Koster: 23–25, 26–27, 30, 31, 32 1–7: 91 1–8: 23–24 9: 125 44 9–13: 24 16: 114 42–46: 24–25 53 f.: 25 IV Koster: 32, 199 1 V Koster: 32–33, 200 24–26: 33 61 Proverbia Coisliniana 168: 114 11 Scholia in Aratum 37–44 (p. 90 Martin): 175 54 Scholia in Aristophanem Ach. 243: 79–80 Av. 1403: 105 159 Eq. 537a: 144 Pac. 185: 137 Ra. 404: 230 5

319

Ra. 1028a: 142, 144 87 Scholia in Callimachum Hymn. Jov. 41 (II p. 43 Pfeiffer): 176 55 Scholia in Dionysium Thracem 1.3 p. 18.13–20.12 Hilgard: 33 63 1.3 p. 19.26 Hilgard (= Proleg. de com. XVIII p. 71.38 f. Koster): 199 1 Scholia in Homerum Il. 17.577: 139 77 Scholia in Lucianum Dialogi deorum 1–5: 77 Dialogi meretricii 7: 77 52 Semonides fr. 7 W.²: 132 fr. 24 W.²: 132 Semos (historian; FGrH 396) F 24: 78 53, 101 Sophokles Aiax 554: 118 20 Antigone 883: 118 20 Oedipus in Colono 115: 118 20 495: 118 20 795: 118 20 1368: 118 20 1537: 118 20 Philoctetes 525: 118 20 Sophron fr. 56: 117 17 fr. 86: 117 17 fr. 136: 135 69 fr. 147: 135 69 test. 14: 114 10 Sosibios (historian; FGrH 595) F 7: 133 Sosipatros fr. 1: 225 89 Strattis fr. 63: 138

320

Indices

Suda α 1026: 126 48 α 1982: 158, 165, 172, 173 α 4177: 69 δ 1169: 27 δ 1179: 120 ε 2766: 109 1, 125 44, 142 θ 282: 92 105 κ 227: 26 36 κ 2646: 105 159 λ 139: 105 μ 20: 109 1 χ 318: 109 1 Telekleides fr. 41: 149 11 Terentius Eunuchus 38: 272 Heauton timorumenus 61–4: 276 Tertullianus De anima 46.10: 112 7 Theokritos Epigramma 18: 125 44 Theophilos fr. 11: 172 Theophrastos fr. 708: 220 Thukydides 1.12.4: 94 115 1.20: 96 2.65: 151 Tibullus 2.1.55–58: 92 107 Timaios (lexicographer) Lexicon Platonicum s. v. ὀρχήστρα: 98 Timokles fr. 4: 170 34, 213 46 fr. 7: 170 34 fr. 9: 213 46 fr. 10: 213 46 fr. 12: 170 34, 213 46

fr. 14: 170 34, 213 46 fr. 15: 213 46 fr. 16: 213 46 fr. 17: 170 34 fr. 18: 170 34 fr. 19: 170 34, 213 46 fr. 23: 170 34 fr. 25: 173 44, 213 46 fr. 27: 213 46 fr. 29: 213 46 fr. 32: 163 fr. 34: 214 46 Turpilius fr. 5 Ribbeck³: 257 fr. 9 Ribbeck³: 258 12 frr. 50–53 Ribbeck³: 258 12, 276 frr. 113–114 Ribbeck³: 277 Tzetzes ad Hesiodi Opera 6: 130 Vita Aristophanis = Proleg. de comoed. p. 27.103 f. Koster: 199 1 Varro Saturae Menippeae fr. 399 Astbury: 264 16 Vergilius Georgica 2.380–384: 92 107 Vita Aeschyli 18: 143 Vita Aristophanis 28, p. 135.51 Koster: 199 1 Vita Pindari Ambrosiana I p. 2.21 Drachmann: 142 83 Xenarchos fr. 7: 180 61, 185 73 fr. 7.5: 180 61 Xenophon Hipparchicus 3.2: 94–98 Memorabilia 2.1.20: 114 Zenobios Ath. I 42: 18 vulg. 4.7: 114 11

Index inscriptionum

Index inscriptionum BCH 19 (1895) 343–345 no. 17: 239 30 CIL IX 1164: 251 3 I.Délos 1959: 239 36 IG I³ 46: 94 115 71.57–58: 94 115 508: 93 969: 231–233 970 (= II2 3090 = I.Eleusis 53): 229–231 IG II² 657: 214 1006 + 1031: 71 1078.29–30: 96 117 2318: 81, 230, 247 2318.1: 74–75, 77 47 2319–2323a: 81, 237 25, 243, 247 58 2320.16–17, 23: 239 28 2323: 243 2323.99: 243 48 2323a.43: 240 39 2323a.46–47: 240 38 2325: 81, 236 25, 242, 243, 247 58 2325.49: 233 16 2325.50: 233 17 2325.74: 240 40 2325.121: 234 17 2325.161: 240 41 2325.165: 240 39 2325.167: 240 38 2325.183: 238 28 2971: 99 138 3091: 149 8, 233–234, 235 21 4298: 97 124 IG II³ 306.22–23: 80 61 416.39–40: 80 61 IG VII 415 + 417 (=I.Oropos 525): 239 29 416 (= I.Oropos 523): 239 29 419 (= I.Oropos 526): 239 29 420 (= I.Oropos 528): 239 29 540: 239 31 1761: 239 30

2727: 239 33 3197: 239 32 IG VIII 1773: 239 30 IG XI.2 105–133: 75 107: 240 108–109: 75 IG XII.6 173: 237–239 IG Urb. Rom. 215–222: 26 I.Magnesia 88a: 239 34 88b: 239 34 88d: 239 34 SEG 3.334: 239 30 40.128: 74 41.115: 237 25 53.88: 246 55 SIG³ 57: 96 117

321

322

Indices

Index personarum et rerum Acraiphia, Soteria performance of comedy: 239 act plays divided into five acts: 206, 253 third and fourth act: 208–209 actors contests of: 237, 238, 239, 241 number of: 33 second actor in tragedy: 142 Aeschylus: 142–143, 149, 157 Aitniai: 142 Alkmene: 158 and Cratinus: 149 and Epicharmus: 142, 143–144 as comic character: 149 Choephoroi: 194 Kallisto: 158 Kares or Europe: 158 Persai: 142, 143–144 Semele: 158 Aesop as comic character: 163 Agallis of Kerkyra: 36 Agathocles of Syracuse: 217 agon: 141 in Epicharmus: 123 Agora in Athens site of: 103–104 alazon: 167 Alcaeus (comic poet): 177 57 Callisto: 158 24 Ganymedes: 158 24 Pasiphae: 158 24 Alcibiades: 28, 151 Alcimus: 118–120 Alcmene (in comedy): 177–178 Alexander (comic poet) Dionysos: 209 Helena: 209 Alexander the Great: 218 Alexis (comic poet): 36, 201 6, 235 Agonis or Hippiskos: 166 Aisopos: 163

Ankylion: 270 Archilochos: 163 Asotodidaskalos: 21 development of cook figure: 222 Didymoi or Didymai: 168 Gynaikokratia: 168 Helene: 175 Homoia: 168 Kleobouline: 163 political satire: 214 47 Pseudomenos: 166 Pythagorizousa: 169 Tokistes or Katapseudomenos: 166 allegory / allegorical figures: 123, 146, 147, 152, 153, 155, 157, 170 ἔμφασις: 152, 157 Ameinias (comic poet): 240 Ameipsias (comic poet) Konnos: 149 Sappho: 146, 162 Amphictyon (king of Athens): 80 Amphidromia: 187 Amphis (comic poet): 36 Gynaikokratia: 168 Kallisto: 175 Philetairos: 156 Sappho: 162 Amphitryon: 177, 190 anagnorisis: 158, 165, 172, 205, 207–209, 211, 213–214 46 Ananius (iambic poet): 123 36 anapaests (tetrameter, dimeter): 135, 136 72, 139 76, 140 80 Anaxandrides (comic poet): 26, 36, 158, 165, 172, 173 Didymoi: 168 Tereus: 173–174, 176 Anaxilas (comic poet): 36 Botrylion: 270 Kalypso: 178 Kirke: 178 Monotropos: 167 animal choruses / riders: see komos vases

Index personarum et rerum Antiatticista as source for comic fragments: 203 Antidotus (comic poet) Homoia: 168 Antiochus of Alexandria (author of komodoumenoi­treatise): 20 Antipater (Macedonian commander): 154 Antiphanes (comic poet): 24, 25, 36, 165, 172, 173, 201 6, 235 Argyriou aphanismos: 166 Auletris or Didymai: 168 Didymoi: 168 Halieuomene: 168 Homoioi or Homoiai: 168 Misoponeros: 156, 167 Oionistes: 167 Philetaerus: 156 Sappho: 162 Aphrodite: 157 Apollo: 192–197 Apollodorus of Carystus (comic poet): 209, 241, 247 Epidikazomene: 274 Hiereia: 209 Apollodorus of Gela (comic poet): 241 Apollodorus (of Carystus or Gela): 25, 204, 223 Paidion: 209 Apollophanes (comic poet) Danae: 158 Kretes: 158 Araros (comic poet) Kampylion: 270 Archedicus (comic poet): 36, 216–217, 220, 226 political comedy: 154 Archestratus of Gela (parodist): 36 Archilochus as comic character: 163 Archippus (comic poet): 153 Amphitryon: 158 Rhinon: 153 Aristomedes (Athenian politician): 213 Aristomenes (comic poet): 26 Ariston I (comic poet): 238

323

Ariston II (comic poet): 238 Aristophanes (comic poet): 24, 31–32, 32, 33, 148, 158, 170, 229, 250 Acharnians: 122, 149, 153, 154, 157 Aiolosikon: 136, 222 and Euripides: 149 and periodization of comedy: 13–14, 146, 160, 199–201, 228, 244, 246 and Pherecrates: 157 Babylonioi: 149, 152 Birds: 146 Clouds: 121, 123, 149, 153, 169 Daedalus: 158 Daitales: 149 Danae: 156 domestic comedy: 155 Ecclesiazusae: 146, 156, 168 fragments on papyri: 242 Frogs: 13, 135, 155, 156, 188, 189, 195 Knights: 146, 152, 153, 155, 197 Kokalos: 158 on predecessors and rivals: 14, 16 Plutus: 33, 146, 155 political comedy: 152–153, 153–154 Tagenistai: 146 Thesmophoriazusae: 156, 157, 189 Triphales: 269 Wasps: 155, 176, 188 women­plays: 157 Aristophanes of Byzantium: 21, 22, 28–30 Lexeis / Glossai: 28 Peri Prosopon: 29 Aristophon (comic poet) Didymai or Pyraunos: 168 Platon: 169 Pythagoristes: 169 Aristotle Didaskaliai: 28 history of comedy: 16–17, 107, 110, 131–132, 140–141 history of tragedy: 13 influence on Menander?: 220–221 on comic plots: 17, 140–141 Aristoxenus of Selinus (iambic poet): 123–124, 132, 135

324

Indices

Artemis: 175–177 Aspasia: 152 atellana: 267, 272 Athenaeus: 36–65 and Middle Comedy: 19–23 citations from Aristophanes: 39–65 citations from Herodotus: 37–39 discussion of courtesans (book 13): 29 source for comic fragments: 202, 203, 204, 217–218, 222, 225, 242 sources of: 19–23, 242 Atticist grammarians as sources for comic fragments: 242 audience criticized by the comic poet: 150 directly addressed by the comic poet: 207–208 21 expectations and reactions: 12, 144, 148, 151, 183, 249, 265 in Rome: 252, 252–253, 268, 270 international: 154, 240, 249 for performances in the Athenian Agora: 82, 98, 98–101, 101, 106 political attitude: 152 autokabdaloi: 133 banquet: 40, 41, 44, 122 30, 125, 186–198, 223 banquet­plays: 44, 47, 155 Baton (comic poet) mockery of philosophers: 212 Bellerophontes: 174–175 birth of gods / mythological figures: 146, 150, 153 16, 196, 175 52 Caecilius (comic poet) adaptation of Menander: 262–263 Plocium: 262 Caesar as reader of Roman comedy: 251 Callias (comic poet): 26, 162 8 Callias (son of Hipponicus): 155, 157 21 Callimachus (poet and scholar): 21, 25–26 Pinakes: 26, 28 Callimedon (komodoumenos): 184–185, 213, 217 Callisthenes (komodoumenos): 183

Callisto (in comedy): 175–177 canon poets of New Comedy: 200 3, 271 poets of Old Comedy: 200 3 Cantharus (comic poet): 150 Medeia: 150 Tereus: 150 cantica in Roman comedy: 254 catalogues in comedy: 128 51, 129–130, 180 61, 183 67, 185 74 food catalogues: 40, 45, 124–126, 187 catalogues of authors and works: 21, 25–27, 28 46, 256, 272–274 Chaeremon (comic poet) Io: 158 change of speaker: 44, 46, 48; see also dialogue in comedy antilabe: 140, 141 character depiction / character comedy: 123, 128 50, 139, 150, 160, 166–168, 171, 202, 207 22, 208 26 256 character types (stock characters): 155, 156, 171, 178–185, 223–224, 226, 249 63 Cheiron: 195 Chionides (comic poet): 110 Choerilus (tragic poet): 157 Choiroboscus as source for comic fragments: 203 choral performances: 132 61, 62, 137 choruses on wagons: 94 dithyrambic chorus: 104–106 in iconography: 81–89, 106, 149 men’s / boys’ choruses in Dionysia: 74–76, 81, 93, 105, 106–107, 230, 232 11 processional choruses: 66–108, 110, 131, 132 choregia / choregos: 81, 229–231, 231–233, 233–234, 235 19, 20 chorus in comedy: 90, 132 60, 143–144, 148, 161, 178 comedies without choral parts: 31, 33, 136 in Epicharmus: 134–136 in iconography: 85–88 in Middle Comedy: 161

Index personarum et rerum in New Comedy: 206 origins of: 110 chorus in tragedy in Aeschylus: 142 Chrysogonus (author of pseudoepich. Politeia): 116, 127 Cicero as reader of Greek comedy: 250 as reader of Roman comedy: 251 citizen boy (in comedy): 155 citizen girl (in comedy): 155, 156, 165, 172 citizen status of comic characters: 155, 172, 219 City Dionysia: 66–108 dramatic performances at: 235, 236 22,  23, 239, 243 48, 244, 247–248 Cleoboulina (poet): 163 Cleon: 149, 150, 151, 152–153, 154, 215 49,  51 Cleonymus (komodoumenos): 40 Cleophon: 153 comic poets careers of: 147 collaboration: 148, 153 non­Athenian poets in Athens: 214 47, 249 politically active: 214, 216 rivals: 14, 18, 148, 153 conventions in comedy: 225–226 modification of: 223–224 reversal of: 178–179, 192, 197, 226 cook (in comedy): 155, 179, 217, 221–225 using philosophical language: 213 costumes: 14, 43, 46, 78, 86, 87, 88, 89, 92, 104, 106, 123 60, 155, 176 56 change of: 186 76 Crates (comic poet): 14, 24, 111, 136, 141, 144, 148, 150, 154, 171 as actor for Cratinus: 144 Lamia: 158 Theria: 146, 171 Crates of Thebes (philosopher): 212 Cratinus (comic poet): 14, 24, 31–32, 33, 144, 148, 152, 170, 233, 250 Archilochoi: 146, 163 Dionysalexandros: 146, 148, 152

325

fragments on papyri: 242 intertextuality in: 149 Kleoboulinai: 146, 163 myth comedy: 171 Nemesis: 146, 150, 152, 153, 157, 175 Odysses: 31, 136, 144, 150 Pytine: 155, 156 Seriphioi: 146 Cratinus II (comic poet) Pseudypobolimaios: 165 Pythagorizousa: 169 Crobylus (comic poet) Pseudypobolimaios: 165 Damoxenus (comic poet) Hauton penthon: 209 deikelistai: 133 Delos: 237, 239 Delphi dedications: 37, 38, 135 Delphic oracle: 80, 192–197 performances at: 241 demagogues / politicians (komodoumenoi): 150, 151, 151–153, 155, 163, 169, 213 46, 217, 225, 226 demagogue comedy: 149, 153, 154 Demetrius II (comic poet) political satire: 217 Demetrius of Phaleron: 106, 154, 213 46, 219 friendship with Menander: 220 Demetrius Poliorcetes: 154, 215, 217 54, 219–220 66 Demetrius (tragic actor): 239 Demochares (Demosthenes’ nephew): 154, 216, 226 Demosthenes: 154, 169, 213 deus ex machina: 174 dialogue in comedy: see also change of speaker origins of: 140 Didascaliae (inscriptions): 81, 236–237 25, 243, 247 58 Didymus (grammarian): 21 commentaries on comedy: 20–21 Diocles (comic poet): 177 57

326

Indices

Thalatta: 156 Diogenes Laertius as source for fragments: 225 Dionysiades of Mallos Χαρακτῆρες Φιλοκώμῳδοι: 27 Dionysiades of Mallos (grammarian): 27 Dionysian festivals: see also City Dionysia, Lenaea, Rural Dionysia Dionysia at Delos: 75 Dionysia at Peiraeus: 74 Katagogia of Ephesos: 78 order of competitions in: 74–75 Pompe at Alexandria: 78 Pompe at Delos: 78 Pompe at Edessa: 78 Pompe at Methymna: 78 Thargelia: 74 Dionysius I (tyrant of Syracuse): 170 Dionysius II (tyrant of Syracuse) Leda: 158 Περὶ τῶν ποιημάτων Ἐπιχάρμου: 125 Dionysius of Heracleia (tyrant): 217 Dionysus Dionysus Eleuthereus: 72, 78, 79–80 in Athens: 79–80 in comedy: 135, 152, 158 24, 186 76, 188, 195, 209 31 in iconography: 83–85 temple of in Athens: 82 Dioxippus (comic poet) Philargyros: 167 Diphilus (comic poet): 25, 201 6, 204, 209, 241, 247 Adelphoi: 209 cook figure: 223 Danaides: 209 Epikleros: 209–210 Eunouchos: 209–210 Hekate: 209 Herakles: 209 Leukadia: 209–210 mythological titles: 209 Peliades: 209 Sappho: 162 Theseus: 209

Dipylon gate: 96–97 dithyramb: 101–106 circular chorus: 105 in theatre: 105–106, 107 parody of dith. in comedy: 13 9 domestic / everyday life (in comedy): 123, 146, 147, 154–155, 155–156, 157, 158, 162, 163–166, 169, 171, 171–173, 209 Donatus (grammarian) as source for comic fragments: 203 Dorotheus of Ascalon (grammarian): 19–20 dwarfs in Dionysian processions: 88 Ecphantides: 149, 233 Eisagoge, at City Dionysia: 70, 71–72, 75–77, 77–79 Ennius Epicharmus: 112, 127 Ephippus (comic poet): 36 Geryones: 187–188 Homoioi or Obeliaphoroi: 168 Sappho: 162 Epicharmus and Ps.­Epicharmus: 24, 109–145 Agrostinos: 123, 128 Alkyoneus: 128 Amykos: 122 and Attic tragedy: 141–143 and chorus: 134–136 and Hesiod: 129–130 and Homer: 135–136 71 and Plautus: 121 Atalantai: 135 Bousiris: 122 character types: 122–123 Cheiron: 113, 127 Choreuontes or Choreutai: 135 dialect: 117–118, 120 dialogue: 122 Dionysoi: 135 earlier than first Athenian comedians?: 110 Elpis or Ploutos: 123, 128 fragments ex Alcimo: 118–120

Index personarum et rerum fragments on papyri: 242 Ga kai Thalassa: 123 Geraia: 123 Gnomai: 114–116 gnomic treatises: 112, 114–116 Hebas gamos: 120, 124, 125, 126, 128, 129, 130, 132, 134 Hedypatheia: 126 Heorta: 128 Herakles ho epi ton zostera: 122, 128–129 Herakles ho par Pholoi: 122, 129 influence on Attic comedy: 112, 136–141 Kolaphos: 123 Kyklops: 122, 128 Logos kai Logina: 123 Medeia: 122 medical treatises: 112 Mousai: 120, 124, 126, 128 myth comedy: 122, 149 12 Nasoi: 128 Odysses: 136 Odysseus automolos: 124, 128, 134 Odysseus nauagos: 123, 128 Opsopoiia: 113, 126 Orya: 128 parody of epic: 128–130 Persai: 144 Philoklines: 123 Philoktetas: 123 philosophic content of comedies: 120–122 Pieros kai Pimpleis: 124 pseudepigraphy: 112–120 Pythagorean / Empedoclean influences on: 127 reception in Athens: 111, 115–116 Seirenes: 128 Sphinx: 123 Thearoi: 128 Troes: 123 Epicrates (alias Kurebion): 76 Epicurean philosophy in New Comedy: 213

327

Epidaurus setting for Plautus’ Curculio: 100, 270 Epigenes (comic poet) Argyriou aphanismos: 166 epic parody in comedy: 128–130, 146 Eratosthenes of Cyrene: 22, 27–28, 100 141, 100–101 143, 144 87 Περὶ τῆς ἀρχαίας κωμῳδίας: 27–28 Erotianus as source for comic fragments: 203 errors, comedy of: 168, 176, 274 eschara: 70, 71, 72–73, 77, 96, 97 ethelontai: 133 etymology of κωμῳδία: 23–24, 32, 76, 92 Eubulus (comic poet) Ankylion: 270 Dionysios: 170 Kampylion: 165, 270 Pamphilos: 172 Pannychis: 156 Euegoros, law of: 74–75 euphemism: 259 Euphranor Euphronos of Rhamnous: 246 Eupolis (comic poet): 24, 31, 32, 148, 150, 151, 153, 170, 250 Aiges: 149 Autolykos I, II: 151, 155 Chrysoun genos: 146, 151 death of: 28, 31 Demoi: 151, 189 fragments on papyri: 242 Kolakes: 149, 151, 154, 155, 157 Marikas: 148, 151, 153 Poleis: 151 Euripides: 157, 231–233, 236 Alcmene: 158 and Aristophanes: 149 Andromache: 193 Antiope: 158 cited in New Comedy: 211 Danae: 158 Helena: 193 Kretes: 158 Lamia: 158 Melanippe sophe: 158

328

Indices

Pasiphae: 158 posthumous performance: 231 Telephos: 152, 153, 157 exarchos: 85–86, 89, 106, 107, 132, 133; see also koryphaios exclusus amator (in comedy): 179 fantastic elements in comedy: 40, 148, 160, 162, 168, 170, 171, 176 56, 182 utopian / fantastic plays: 146–147, 149, 155, 156 Fasti (inscriptions): 74–75, 76, 81, 88, 230, 247 58 father (in comedy): 155, 156, 157, 166, 169 31, 172, 190, 207, 260; see also son (in comedy),  man (in comedy) fishmonger (in comedy): 155, 178–185 on stage: 183 food (in comedy): 40, 42, 44, 50, 124, 125, 129, 216, 183 67, 186–197 foreign cults: 155 foreigner (character in comedy): 172 gastronomic literature cookery books: 125 in Sicily: 126 Gellius as source for comic fragments: 202 gender inversion: 88, 168 29, 181–182 Geryon: 187, 187–188 Golden Age: 146 gourmand / glutton (in comedy): 41, 155, 184; see also Heracles Harpocration as source for comic fragments: 203 Hegesippus (comic poet) Philetairos: 156 Helen: 152, 196 birth of: 196 Heniochus (comic poet) Dis exapatomenos: 166 Philetairos: 156 Heracles: 140 79, 186–197 birth of: 177 in Epicharmus: 128–129 in New Comedy: 210 in oaths / invocations: 181

Hermes: 157, 177 Hermippus (comic poet): 148, 152, 153, 158, 162 8, 171 Artopolides: 153 Athenas gonai: 150, 153 Europe: 158 Moirai: 152 Herodicus of Babylon: 20 Herodotus: 37–39 Hesiod and Epicharmus: 129–130 as comic character: 163 pseudepigraphy: 113 hetaera (in comedy): 147, 155, 156–157, 164–165, 166, 171, 172, 179, 213 46, 216, 223 “false hetaera”: 172 treatises on: 29 hexameter: 135–136 71 Hipponicus (father of Callias): 155 Homer: 110, 116, 125 44 in comedy: 146–147 4 hybridisation of comedy types: 148, 158 of genres: 136–137, 131–134, 143 84 Hyperbolus (politician): 153 Hyperides (orator): 213 Hypodicus of Chalkis (didaskalos): 81 iambic poetry: 17, 30, 124, 131–134, 134, 139, 143, 149 in Sicily: 132–133 iambic tetrameter: 42, 45, 134, 139 iambic trimeter: 112–113 7, 121 27, 134, 135–136, 139, 217 56, 253, 257, 258, 259, 260, 262 senarii in Roman comedy: 254, 257, 257–258, 262 iambike idea: 17 4, 110, 136, 137, 140, 143, 148, 152, 154 iambistai: 132, 134, 136 Ikarion and Thespis: 92 comic competitions in: 90 Ikarios, myth of: 77 ikria in the Agora: 98–101

Index personarum et rerum Ilias parva: 128 intellectuals (in comedy): 147, 149, 162– 163; see also philosopher (in comedy), poets (in comedy) intrigue / scheme / deception: 156, 157, 165, 166, 169, 173, 179, 197, 209 Iolaos: 190, 195 Ion of Chios Alkmene: 158 Isthmia, Caesarea performance of comedy: 239 ithyphallic: 83, 85, 132 60 ithyphalloi: 76, 87 83, 94, 101, 106 Itys: 174 komasts in iconography: 83, 85; see also Komos, komos vases komodoumenoi, treatises on: 20–21, 22 komos: 70, 71, 73–74, 75–77, 87, 91, 94, 107 komos vases: 87–90, 106, 149 and dithyrambus: 104 koryphaios: 232; see also exarchos kottabos: 174–175, 190 83 Lachares (tyrant of Athens): 217 Laches (strategos): 151 Lasus of Hermione (dithyrambic poet): 104, 107 laughter: 33, 227 “Megarian laughter”: 186 Leda: 152 Lenaea: 74; see also victors lists (inscriptions) dramatic performances in: 24, 148, 152, 228, 233 16, 234 18, 235, 236, 243 48, 244, 247, 247–248, 249 Lenaian theatre: 100–101 143 Lenin: 115 14 Leucon (comic poet) Presbeis: 188 lexicographical tradition as source for comic fragments: 242 sources of: 242 Library at Alexandria: 25–26, 36 literature (subject of comedy): 123–124, 146, 207 22 love plot: 158, 160, 161, 162, 163–166, 167,

329

168, 169, 171, 171–173, 209 Lycophron On Comedy: 165 Lycurgus (politician): 90 Lynceus (comic poet) Kentauros: 209 Lynceus of Samos (author of comedy and prose works): 36 Lysimachus (of Pella): 154 Lysippus (comic poet): 26 Maccus (figure of Atellana): 272 Macedonian expansion reaction of comedy to: 31, 169–170, 199 1, 214–215, 220 Macho: 36 Magna Mater, temple theatre performances at: 252 Magnes: 14, 24, 110, 148, 152 Magnesia on the Maeander performance of comedy: 239 male characters, language of: 181–182 man (in comedy) old man: 42–43, 46, 48, 156, 163, 164–165, 167, 173 44, 190, 190–192, 196 young man: 43, 165, 166, 172, 172–173, 190, 260 Margites: 132 market­woman (in comedy): 155 mask: 24, 31, 155, 199 1 in Dionysian processions: 76, 77 in komos vases: 85, 88 of Heracles: 188, 190, 197 98 of slave: 188, 195 treatises on: 29 Matro of Pitane: 36 Megara and origins of comedy: 30, 133 Megarian comedy: 186 Menander: 18, 25, 29–30, 32, 158, 179, 235, 241, 244, 199–227 Achaioi or Peloponnesioi: 206 Adelphoi: 209, 274 Agroikos: 202 and periodization of comedy: 13–14, 146, 160, 199–201, 228, 244, 246

330 and Peripatos: 220–221 and politics in Athens: 249 and tragedy: 210–212 Anechomenos: 202 Aspis (prologue): 207 cook figure: 223–225 Daktylios: 207, 209 Dardanos: 209 Deisidaimon: 167 Didymai: 206 Dis exapaton: 166, 205, 256, 259–260, 266, 274 Dyscolus: 128, 156, 179, 219, 223–224, 274 Encheiridion: 207, 209 Epikleros: 209–210 Epitrepontes: 179, 206 Eunouchos: 209–210 first victory: 242 fragments on papyri: 242 Glykera: 202 Halieus or Halieis: 217 Hauton penthon: 209 Heros: 210 Hiereia: 209 Hypobolimaios: 209 Imbrioi: 206 Kedeia: 202 Kolax: 209 Kres: 202 Leukadia: 209–210 Lokroi: 202 Melia: 202 Misanthropos: 202 Misoumenos: 179 mythological titles: 209 Nemesis: 202 Paidion: 209 Peloponnesioi: 202 Perikeiromene: 179, 207, 249 Philadelphoi: 209 Plokion: 262 political satire: 217–221 Poloumenoi: 206 representative of New Comedy?:

Indices 246–247 Samia (prologue): 207 Sikyonioi: 179, 219 Thrasonides: 202 Metagenes (comic poet) Homeros: 146 Thοuriopersai: 146 Middle Comedy: 18 as concept: 18–23, 159–161, 200 3 as transition: 13, 146 chronological definition: 160–161, 200 3 mime: 128 50, 133, 137, 141, 142, 262 misanthrope (in comedy): 167 Misgolas: 163 Mnesimachus (comic poet) Dyskolos: 167 Philippos: 169, 214 political satire: 154, 169, 214 47 mockery / satire: 17, 30, 32, 33, 132, 150, 152, 160, 161, 169, 183, 213–214 46; see also political comedy in Dionysiac processions: 77 in iambic poetry: 136, 139 political and social bias: 151–152 satire, political: 13, 28, 31, 161, 162, 163, 169, 170, 199 1, 213–221, 225, 226–227 Monimus of Syracuse: 212 monologue (in comedy): 122, 125, 128 50, 132, 183, 205, 222 77, 224 Music (as character in comedy): 156 Myrrhine (hetaera): 157 myth comedy: 122, 123, 124, 128 50, 146, 149–150, 152, 157, 158, 161, 162, 163, 171, 173–178, 189, 209, 213 46, 226, 249 contemporary elements in: 174–175 everyday life in: 177–178 metamorphosis: 173–174, 175–177, 178 mythical figures with human flaws: 192 rationalization: 173–174 reversal of mythical situation: 175 Naevius Tribacelus: 269 Triphallus: 269 narrative (in comedy): 180, 183, 185

Index personarum et rerum Nemesis: 152, 157 Nicias: 151 Nicochares (comic poet): 177 57 Kretes: 158 Nicophon (comic poet): 177  57 Seirenes: 146 Nicostratus I (comic poet): 240 Hesiodos: 163 Nicostratus II (comic poet): 240 Nicostratus III (comic poet): 240 Niobe: 212 nurse (in comedy): 156, 172, 173, 185 74 oath: 181–182 obeliaphoroi: 94 obscenity: 13, 46, 48, 85, 161 absent from Menander: 227–228 Odysseus (in comedy): 135 68, 136 72, 178 in Epicharmus: 122, 128–129, 135 Okimon (hetaera): 20 Old Comedy reception in Rome: 250–251 old man / woman (in comedy): see woman (in comedy), man (in comedy) orchestra in the Agora: 98–101 Orchomenos, Charitesia and Homoloia performance of comedy: 239 origins of comedy: 66–108, 110, 131–133 Orion (grammarian) as source for comic fragments: 203 Oropos, Amphiaraea performance of comedy: 239 palliata: 251, 264 Panathenaea: 93, 98 131, 236–237 25; see also processions papyri containing comic plays: 201–202, 204 12, 206, 242 parabasis: 14, 132, 137, 141, 148 plays without: 31, 136 parasite (in comedy): 122, 123, 139 77, 155, 163, 166, 213 46, 216, 224, 270; see also sponger / kolax (in comedy) using tragic language: 212 paratragedy: 144, 146, 149, 150, 157, 209–212 parodos: 132, 141

331

pedagogue (in comedy): 172, 185 74, 190, 192, 260 Pegasus (winged horse): 175 Pegasus of Eleutherai: 77, 79–80 Peisander: 153 Peisistratus: 93 Peloponnesian War: 152, 153 Pericles: 148, 151, 152, 157 periodization of comedy: 16–34 and democracy: 30–32, 199–200 and Macedonian rule: 199 1 and oligarchy: 31, 199–200 based on political content: 200 3 in Peripatetic studies: 16 2, 30–34, 200 3 Old, Middle, New Comedy: 13–14, 200 3, 244–246, 248 periods, literary: 9–15 characteristics of: 10 consciousness of: 10 continuity between periods: 146 demarcation of: 10–12, 13, 160, 161 personality types: 155, 166–167 personification of abstract notions: 207 of Aristocracy: 170 of cities: 170 of Democracy: 170 phallic processions: 78, 79, 79–80, 85–87 phallophoroi: 85–86, 94, 131–132, 133 Phanodemos: 90 Pheidias: 152 Pherecrates (comic poet): 24, 149, 150, 156–157, 171 Agrioi: 146 Cheiron: 156 Doulodidaskalos: 156 Epilesmon or Thalatta: 156 Ipnos or Pannychis: 156 Korianno: 156, 171 Metalles: 146, 171 Persai: 146, 171 Petale: 156 Tyrannis: 156 Philemo (comic poet): 18, 25, 201 6, 204, 207, 209, 240, 241, 247

332

Indices

Adelphoi: 209 Europe: 158 cook figure: 222–223 Hyperbolos: 153 Daktylios: 207, 209 Io: 158 Encheiridion: 207, 209 Kleophon: 153 Hypobolimaios: 209 Nyx makra: 158, 177 Kolax: 209 Peisandros: 153 mockery of philosophers: 212 Perialges: 156 Myrmidones: 209 Zeus kakoumenos: 190 mythological titles: 209 Platonius Nyx: 210 De differentia comoediarum: 27, 30–31, Palamedes: 209 199 Philosophoi: 212 Plato (philosopher): 118–119, 153 Thesauros: 267–270 and Epicharmus: 110–111, 115–116, Philemo II (comic poet): 240, 241 118–119, 125 44, 145 Philemo III (comic poet): 240 as komodoumenos: 149, 169 Philetaerus (comic poet): 164 history of literature / music genres: 12, Korinthiastes: 172 109–111 Kynagis: 172 on comedy: 111 Philip II (king of Macedonia): 169, 170, Plautus: 209, 251, 253 214 47 Addictus: 256 Philippides (comic poet): 25, 204, 217 54, Amphitruo: 168, 177 220, 226 and Epicharmus: 121 Amphiaraos: 209 and his Greek models: 255–257 mythological titles: 209 Artemo: 256 Philadelphoi: 209 Asinaria: 164, 166 political satire: 154, 214–216 Astraba: 256 Philiscus (comic poet) Bacchides: 135, 265, 274 Philargyroi: 167 biography: 270–272 Philomela (sister of Procne): 174 Boeotia: 256 Philonides (comic poet) Cacistio: 256 Philetaerus: 156 Captivi: 274 philosopher (in comedy): 155, 169, Casina: 164 212–213, 214 47, 224 86 Commorientes: 256 Philyllius (comic poet): 17757 Condalium: 256 phlyakes: 133, 188 Curculio (Gorgylio): 166, 270, 274 Phocion: 154 Epidicus: 166 Photius (Byzantine scholar) Faeneratrix: 256 as source for comic fragments: 203 Fretum: 256 9 Phrynichus (comic poet): 24 Frivolaria: 256 Monotropos: 146, 156 Fugitivi: 256 Phrynichus (tragic poet): 81 64, 139 76, 143 84 Gemini lenones: 256 pimp / leno (in comedy): 167, 172, 216 Hortulus: 256 9 piper / pipe: 83, 85, 86, 87, 88, 103 Maccius: 272 Plato (comic poet): 32, 153, 177 57, 248 60 Menaechmi: 135, 164, 168, 274 Daidalos: 158 Mercator: 164

Index personarum et rerum Mostellaria: 265 Nervolaria: 256 Parasitus medicus: 256 Parasitus piger: 256 Persa: 166 Pseudolus: 166, 252, 265, 274 Satyrio: 256 Sitellitergus: 256 Stichus: 274 Trigemini: 256 Trinummus: 267–270 Truculentus: 274 plot (μῦθος) in comedy: 106–108, 110, 111–112, 128, 131–134, 136–145, 148 7, 152 14, 227 Plutarch as source for comic fragments: 203, 204 poets (in comedy): 146, 162–163 political comedy: 146–154, 169–170, 213–221; see also mockery / satire political function of comedy: 33, 217 54, 219–220 Pollux: 22–23 and Middle Comedy: 22–23 as source for comic fragments: 203 Polyzelus (comic poet) Demotyndareos: 158 Dionysou gonai: 158 pompe: 70–71, 71, 76–77, 258–259 aetiological myth of: 77 as carnival: 69–70 as sacrificial procession: 77–79, 93 distinct from eisagoge: 72 participation of allied cities: 94 phalloi in: 71, 79, 94 processional route: 95–102 songs and dance in: 77–79 through Agora: 94–102 Poseidon (in comedy): 186 Poses (comic poet): 238 Posidippus (comic poet): 25, 241 Metapheromenoi: 212 mockery of philosophers: 212 Paidion: 209

333

political satire: 214 47 poverty (in comedy): see wealth / poverty processions metics in: 69 of City Dionysia: see pompe of Panathenaea: 66, 67, 67–70, 69, 96, 98–100, 104 representing the polis: 67–69 Procne (sister of Philomela): 174 production of plays in Attic demes: 149, 229–236, 248 in Rome: 251 outside Attica: 188–190, 248 outside competition: 237, 239 of satyr plays: 239 re­production of older plays: 234, 237, 238–239, 239, 241, 250 Prolegomena de Comoedia and periodization of comedy: 23–25, 26–27 prologue divine prologue: 206–207, 210 in Euripides: 206 in New Comedy: 206–207 in Roman adaptations: 205, 266 introduction of prologues in comedy: 110 protos heuretes: 224 Pythionice (hetaera): 183 rape (in comic plots): 158, 165, 173, 176, 216, 258, 259 reconstruction of Greek plays from Roman adaptations: 205, 255 of lost comedies from fragments: 35–65 revision of comedies: 124 Rhinon (politician): 153 riddle­games: 163 rival in love (in comedy): 166, 172–173 rivalry among comic poets: see comic poets Roman adaptations of Greek plays: 204–205, 209, 250–274 elimination of chorus: 253–254

334

Indices

Greek setting: 253, 256–257 Roman comedy context of performance: 251, 252–253 Hellenistic paradigm: 266–272 language: 253 metres: 253–254 Saturnalian paradigm: 266–272 similar to opera: 254 Roman tragedy chorus in: 253 Rural Dionysia: 229 at Anagyrous: 231–233 at Eleusis: 229–231 at Halai Aixonides: 233–234 at Thorikos: 74 production of dramas: 229–236, 247 rustic (in comedy): 123, 167, 169 31, 179 Sannyrion (comic poet): 33 Danae: 156, 158 Io: 158 Sappho (in comedy): 162 satire: see mockery / satire satire, Roman: 250, 251 2 satyr play: 92 108, 143 84, 157, 158, 239 parody of in comedy: 146, 149 satyrs / silens in processions: 76, 83, 85–86, 86, 88, 91, 94 Satyrus Life of Euripides: 158 Seleucus I Nicator: 217 Sicilian comedy: 108, 109–145 Sinope (hetaera): 184 slapstick / horseplay: 195, 197 in Epicharmus: 122 slave (in comedy): 155, 165, 166, 177, 179, 195–196, 219, 265 mask of: 195 talking about philosophy: 212–213 using tragic language: 211 slave girl (in comedy): 166 soldier (in comedy): 139 77, 156, 172, 179, 209–210 33, 219, 219–220 66, 222 74, 273 Solon (in comedy): 163 son (in comedy): 155, 156, 165, 260; see

also father (in comedy), man (in comedy) Sophocles (tragic poet): 229–231, 233 Amphitryon: 158 Daidalos: 158 Danae: 158 Kamikoi: 158 Minos: 158 Tyro: 158, 211 Sophocles the younger (tragic poet): 229–231, 234 Sophron (author of mimes): 114 10, 133 sponger / kolax (in comedy): 139 77, 155, 157 stage objects fish on stage: 182, 185 moveable altar: 194 porch over a stage door: 194 portable temple: 193–194 roasting birds on stage: 186 stasimon (stationary song): 98, 101–106, 107 Stephanus of Byzantium (scholar) source for comic fragments: 203 stingy miser (in comedy): 167 Stobaeus source for comic fragments: 202, 203, 204, 225, 242 sources of: 242 Stratocles (politician): 154, 215–216, 226 Strattis (comic poet): 157, 177 57 Kinesias: 146 superstitious character (in comedy): 167 Susarion: 23, 33, 90 symposium in comedy: 40, 47, 48, 50, 147, 163, 165 synchoregia: 229–231 Tanagra, Sarapeia performance of comedy: 239 Technitai Dionysou: 267, 270–271 Teisamenus (politician): 153 Teleclides (comic poet): 26 Amphiktyones: 146 Hesiodoi: 146, 163 Terentius: 209, 251, 253

Index personarum et rerum Andria: 164 Heauton timorumenus: 166, 272 Hecyra: 164 Phormio: 166, 274 Tereus (in comedy): 173–174 terracotta statuettes: 166 theatre (building) in Rome: 251 stone theatres in Greece: 236 theatre in Agora: 82 theatre of Dionysus in Athens: 82, 105–106, 106–107, 107 Theophrastus (Peripatetic philosopher) definition of comedy: 220, 221 Theopompus (comic poet): 153, 177 57 Hedychares: 156 Teisamenos: 153 Thespiai, Musea (festival) performance of comedy: 239 Thespis (tragic poet): 90, 91–92 Timocles (comic poet) Daktylios: 209, 213 Demosatyroi: 213 Heroes: 170 Ikarioi Satyroi: 170 political comedy: 154, 169–170, 213 46 Sappho: 162 Timostratus (comic poet) Pan: 209 Timostratus of Phaleron (comic poet): 238 Timotheus (tragic poet): 234 titles of comedies in New Comedy: 209–210 plural titles: 135, 274 speaking names: 270, 274 titles of Plautus: 272–274 tragedy: 18; see also paratragedy and Epicharmus: 137 73, 141–143 and Menander: 210–212 compared to comedy: 17 influence on comedy: 149, 157–158 origins of: 90, 92, 107, 133, 137 73 performance at the Rural Dionysia: 229–236

335

transmission of comic fragments: see also Athenaeus. bias: 49–50, 204, 224–225, 225 of Latin comedy: 251 of New Comedy: 201–205 trochaic tetrameter: 41, 112 7, 114 11, 121 27, 124, 132, 135, 139 septenarii: 254, 258, 259, 260 Trojan War: 152 twins / lookalikes (in comedy): 168; see also errors, comedy of variety, synchronic: 146, 161, 162, 170–171, 198, 200 3 Varro on origins of Greek comedy: 92 109 on Roman comedy: 264 Plautine canon: 256, 272–274 Plautus’ biography: 271–272 vase paintings depicting comedy: 188–197 depicting Dionysiac processions: 83–89 Vergilius Romanus (poet of comedies and mimes): 250 victors lists (inscriptions) of Dionysia in Athens: 81, 88, 236, 242–243 of Heraea on Samos: 237–239 of Lenaea in Athens: 242–243 outside Athens: 236, 242 Volcacius Sedigitus (Roman poet and scholar) canon of Roman comic poets: 264 wealth / poverty (in comedy): 216, 217 woman (in comedy): 155, 156–157; see also citizen girl (in comedy), slave girl (in comedy), hetaera (in comedy) old woman: 184 71 wife: 155, 262–263 women in group: 155 wordplay: 183, 184, 223 in Epicharmus: 138 in Plautus: 255 Xenarchus (comic poet) Didymoi: 168

336

Indices

Zenobius (grammarian and paroemiographer): 18 as source for comic fragments: 203 Zenon (Stoic philosopher): 212

Zeus: 152, 157, 176–177, 177, 177–178, 190–192 love affairs in comedy: 158