Refiguring Tragedy: Studies in Plays Preserved in Fragments and Their Reception 3110659743, 9783110659740

Table of contents :
Frontmatter
Preface
Contents
Abbreviations
Introduction
‘All’s well that ends well’: Euripides’ response to Sophocles’ Antigone
Alope’s legend and its dramatic refigurations
Tragedy into Comedy: Euripides’ Alcmeon in Corinth as a source text of Menander’s Periceiromene
Exploring Aristotle’s Poetics as a source for lost tragedies
Aristotle’s reception of the lysis in Theodectes’ Lynceus: Remarks on Poet. 11, 1452a 27–29 and 18, 1455b 29–32
The representation of Euripides’ Dictys in South Italian painted pottery
The reception of Euripides’ Alexandros in Etruscan iconography
Euripides’ Alexandros in performance
Bibliography
General Index
Index of Passages Discussed

Citation preview

Ioanna Karamanou Refiguring Tragedy

Trends in Classics – Supplementary Volumes

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

Volume 80

Ioanna Karamanou

Refiguring Tragedy Studies in Plays Preserved in Fragments and Their Reception

ISBN 978-3-11-065974-0 e-ISBN (PDF) 978-3-11-066127-9 e-ISBN (EPUB) 978-3-11-066000-5 ISSN 1868-4785 Library of Congress Control Number: 2019938414 Bibliographic information published by the Deutsche Nationalbibliothek The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliografie; detailed bibliographic data are available on the Internet at http://dnb.dnb.de. © 2019 Walter de Gruyter GmbH, Berlin/Boston Editorial Office: Alessia Ferreccio and Katerina Zianna Logo: Christopher Schneider, Laufen Printing and binding: CPI books GmbH, Leck www.degruyter.com



In loving memory of my grandparents: Ioannis and Efrossini Karamanou Ioannis and Eleni Xanthaki

Preface The present book has grown out of my earlier and ongoing interest in fragmentarily preserved tragedies and their reception over the course of the last fifteen years. Despite the evergrowing attention which dramatic fragments have been attracting especially during the last two decades, the afterlife of fragmentary plays has still remained underexplored. Their Nachleben calls for further investigation, not least because it could add to the contemporary critical interest in tragic fragments and their literary appreciation and could shed light on those very aspects which have given rise to their later transformations, thus revealing their continuing cultural power. I am truly grateful to the General Editors of Trends in Classics Supplementary Volumes, Professor Franco Montanari and Professor Antonios Rengakos, for encouraging me to submit this book for publication in their renowned series and for their brilliant guidance throughout. Ever since the beginning of my scholarly research in the early 2000s, I have been extremely fortunate to have received the unstinted interest of my three supervisors, Professor Chris Carey, Professor Pat Easterling and Professor Richard Janko, with whom I have discussed several aspects of this material at the early stages of this work. I have also benefited significantly from the great expertise of Professor Lorna Hardwick in classical reception and from her warmly encouraging me to write on the afterlife of fragmentary plays. I am much indebted to Professor Stavros Tsitsiridis for his insightful criticism and thoughtful advice on several aspects of this book, as well as for kindly supplying me with essential bibliography on Aristotle’s Poetics. Warmest thanks are due to David Stuttard for discussing with me the challenges of the performance of Euripides’ Alexandros on the contemporary stage and to the two anonymous readers for their constructive criticism. At this point, I feel the need to express my everlasting gratitude to late Professors Daniel Jacob and Herman Van Looy, both of whom had read earlier versions of chapters of this book, offering me vigorous scholarly advice and unfailing support. Last but not least, I owe a huge debt to my family: to my children, Zoe-Georgia and George-Christos, for brightening my life; to my parents, Andreas and Georgia, and my brother, Yiannis, for always being there. This book is fondly dedicated to the memory of my grandparents for showing me the way. I.K. Nafplio and Thessaloniki, December 2018

https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110661279-202

Contents Preface | VII Abbreviations | XI Introduction | 1 

Part I: Inter-dramatic Dialogues ‘All’s well that ends well’: Euripides’ response to Sophocles’ Antigone | 15  Alope’s legend and its dramatic refigurations | 26  Tragedy into Comedy: Euripides’ Alcmeon in Corinth as a source text of Menander’s Periceiromene | 48

Part II: Tragedy through Aristotelian Spectacles Exploring Aristotle’s Poetics as a source for lost tragedies | 61  Aristotle’s reception of the lysis in Theodectes’ Lynceus: Remarks on Poet. 11, 1452a 27–29 and 18, 1455b 29–32 | 73 

Part III: Iconographic Reception The representation of Euripides’ Dictys in South Italian painted pottery | 85  The reception of Euripides’ Alexandros in Etruscan iconography | 97 

Part IV: Performing Fragments Euripides’ Alexandros in performance | 117 Bibliography | 129 General Index | 153 Index of Passages Discussed | 159

Abbreviations Abbreviations of names of Greek and Latin authors and their works follow LSJ9 and Lewis & Short respectively. Abbreviations of journals are cited after L’Année Philologique. APGRD

Archive of Performances of Greek and Roman Drama, University of Oxford, http://www.apgrd.ox.ac.uk

FGrH

F. Jacoby, Die Fragmente der griechischen Historiker, Vols. I–III (in 15 Parts), Berlin/Leiden 1923–58.

J.

H.D. Jocelyn, The Tragedies of Ennius, Cambridge 1967.

J. –v.L.

F. Jouan/H. Van Looy, Euripide: Fragments, Vols. I–IV, Paris 1998–2003.

K.

R. Kannicht, Tragicorum Graecorum Fragmenta, Vol. V 1–2: Euripides (TrGF V), Göttingen 2004.

K.–A.

R. Kassel/C. Austin, Poetae Comici Graeci (PCG), Vols. I–VIII, Berlin/New York 1983- .

LIMC

Lexicon Iconographicum Mythologiae Classicae, Vols. I–VIII, Zurich/Munich/Düsseldorf 1981–97.

LSJ 9

H.G. Liddell/R. Scott/H. Stuart Jones, A Greek English Lexicon (9th edition), Ox-

M.

G. Manuwald, Tragicorum Romanorum Fragmenta (TrRF), Vol. II: Ennius, Göttin-

M.-W.

R. Merkelbach/M.L. West, Fragmenta Hesiodea, Oxford 1967.

N.2

A. Nauck, Tragicorum Graecorum Fragmenta (TGF2), Leipzig 18892 (suppl. by B.

OCD4

S. Hornblower/A. Spawforth/E. Eidinow (eds.), The Oxford Classical Dictionary,

ford 1940 (rev. suppl. by P.G.W. Glare et al. 1996). gen 2012.

Snell, Hildesheim 1964). Oxford 20124. PEG R.

A. Bernabé, Poetae Epici Graeci, Vols. I–II 1–3, Berlin/New York 1987–2007. S. Radt, Tragicorum Graecorum Fragmenta, Vol. III: Aeschylus (TrGF III), Göttingen 2009 (with addenda to the first edition of 1985). S. Radt, Tragicorum Graecorum Fragmenta, Vol. IV: Sophocles (TrGF IV), Göttingen 1999 (with addenda and corrections to the first edition of 1977).

RE

A. Pauly/G. Wissowa (eds.), Real–Encyclopädie der classischen Altertumswissenschaft, Stuttgart/Munich 1893–1980.

W.2

M.L. West, Iambi et Elegi Graeci ante Alexandrum Cantata, Vols. I–II, Oxford 1989–922.

Euripides’ lost plays are abbreviated according to Collard, Cropp, Lee and Gibert (Euripides: Selected Fragmentary Plays, Vols. I–II, Warminster/Oxford 1995– 2004).

https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110661279-204

Introduction Wir kannten nicht sein unerhörtes Haupt, darin die Augenäpfel reiften. Aber sein Torso glüht noch wie ein Kandelaber, in dem sein Schauen, nur zurückgeschraubt, sich hält und glänzt. (Rainer Maria Rilke, ‘Archaïscher Torso Apollos’)

This book consists of eight chapters, most of which draw on aspects of my earlier research, now revisited from a fresh perspective, largely revised and bibliographically updated in the light of recent scholarship. It does not purport to be a fulllength analysis of the reception of fragmentarily preserved tragedies or comprehensive in its coverage of this whole topic. Rather, it brings together case studies delving into different, unstudied aspects of the Nachleben of selected lost plays either in their once extant form or in their fragmentary state in later periods of time. The reception of tragedies preserved in fragments is notably underexplored so far, and this series of case studies aims at investigating the ways in which the plays in question were reworked, discussed, represented or reperformed within varying frameworks.1 At the same time, I hope to show that the exploration of the routes through which the once extant and now fragmentary tragic material has been reconfigured in different contexts, such as dramaturgy, literary criticism, iconography and performance, could bring forward its continuing ideological and cultural power. A textual fragment is, to quote Glenn Most, “an incomplete textual citation, incomplete either because it was intended to be complete but its material bearer has been damaged (for example, it is transmitted only on a papyrus fragment) or because it always was intended as an incomplete citation (for example, a quotation or an excerpt in a later author) and by chance there happen to have survived no other, more complete citations of it”.2 The exploration of fragmentary material

 1 According to the key definition of classical reception studies set forth in Hardwick/Stray 2008, 1: “By ‘classical receptions’ we mean the ways in which Greek and Roman material has been transmitted, translated, excerpted, interpreted, rewritten, reimaged and represented”. For the objective and range of classical reception studies, see Hardwick 2003, 2–11; Porter 2008, 469– 477; Martindale 1993, ch. 1.5; Martindale/Thomas (eds.) 2006; Martindale 2007, 279–311; Woodman/Powell 1992, 210–215; more recently, Martindale 2013; Butler (ed.) 2016. 2 Most 2009, 10. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110661279-001

2  Introduction involves a degree of challenge, in that there is a significant variation in the nature of the sources and the information that they provide in both quantitative and qualitative terms. What needs to be investigated is how informative and how reliable a source is; how different pieces of evidence, e.g. textual, mythographic and iconographic, may complement each other to shed light on aspects of the lost dramatic plot. It is always tempting to deploy erudition towards the reconstitution of the lost whole, but at the same time caution is required for the avoidance of false inferences, not least because of the gaps that still remain even when there is ample material for a play.3 In this effort, commentary writing contributes to the close interrogation of the fragments, so that as much as possible is retrieved from each play and multiple possibilities of interpretation of the preserved evidence can be sketched.4 It is worth bearing in mind that fragmentation has been conditioned by the processes of canon formation. The reperformances of tragedies from 386 BC onwards (see IG II2 2318) formed an indicator of their popularity and were the first step towards the ‘selection’ of the plays liable to be preserved in the following centuries. The official Athenian copy of the plays belonging to the theatrical repertory implemented thanks to Lycurgus’ decree of ca. 330 BC ([Plu.] Decem Oratorum Vitae 841F) formed the basis for the Alexandrian edition of the surviving plays of the three great tragedians by Aristophanes of Byzantium towards the end of the third century BC (Galen in Hp. Epid. III Comm. 2.4).5 Subsequently, the production of Didymus’ hypomnemata on selected tragedies of the three poets evidently for educational purposes at the end of the first century BC entails that the annotated plays were given a far greater chance of long-term survival.6 At the same time, the fact that papyri of unannotated plays are dated as late as the fifth century AD is suggestive of a gradual process of canon formation.7 On the basis of the available evidence, non-select tragedies or excerpts from them continued to be performed at least until the third century AD (perhaps even until the fourth century —though the evidence is very limited) and were studied among literary

 3 See Collard 2017, 352–353; Mastronarde 2009, 63, 71; Most 1998, 14 and 2009, 18–19. 4 Cf. the balanced discussion about commentary writing in Stephens 2002, 67–88; Elliott 2016, 149–154; Kraus 2002, 1–2, 23–24; Kraus/Stray 2016, 8–10. 5 On Lycurgus’ decree, see especially Hanink 2014, 60–91. 6 Pfeiffer 1968, 277; Easterling 1997, 225; Zuntz 1965, 254–255; Dickey 2007, 32, 34, 36. 7 See e.g. the papyri of Euripides’ Oedipus (P.Oxy. 2459, 4th AD), Captive Melanippe (P.Berol. 5514, 4th/5th AD) and the palimpsest of the Phaethon (Paris. gr. 107B, fol. 162-163, 5th AD). See especially Carrrara 2009, 483–485, 492–494, 573–575.

Introduction  3

circles.8 Naturally enough, Christianity influenced the consolidation of the ‘selection’, as the parts of pagan tradition destined to be preserved were only those included in the school syllabus.9 The transcription of the plays of the ‘selection’ from uncial to minuscule in the tenth century determined the fate of the tragedies which came down to us in extant form, with the exception of the nine so-called ‘alphabetic’ plays of Euripides, which were discovered thanks to good fortune by Demetrius Triclinius in the fourteenth century.10 The direct evidence for non-extant tragedies comprises their surviving fragments, which may be either papyrus (or parchment) fragments coming from the plays as such or book fragments, namely excerpts or quotations in the works of later authors. The nature of a poetic quotation or excerpt in the work of another author and the manner in which the selected passage is cited depend on the author’s erudition, interests, style and the purpose for which it is quoted. For instance, the function of paratragic quotations in comedy is conditioned by the comic contexts and the targets of the comic poet, thus yielding insight into the varying effects of the quoted passage.11 Ancient scholia also form a valuable source of evidence, especially when excerpts are cited by the ancient commentator as parallels to the commented passages, in that they could indicate stylistic similarities or dramatic affiliations between plays.12 A great number of tragic quotations has been preserved by authors of the Second Sophistic, like Lucian, Plutarch and Dio of Prusa. Plutarch, for example, occasionally quotes from memory and usually displays first-hand knowledge of tragedy, but it is feasible that he also drew on earlier anthologies.13 In several  8 See TrGF I 21 (a tragic actor impersonating Telephus in ca. 400 AD, as mentioned in Synes. Aeg. 1.13: καθάπερ ἐπὶ σκηνῆς ὁρῶμεν τοὺς τῆς τραγῳδίας ὑποκριτάς· ὅστις καλῶς ἐξήσκησε τὴν φωνήν, ὁμοίως ὑποκρινεῖται τόν τε Κρέοντα καὶ τὸν Τήλεφον). Cf. similarly Turner 1963, 122–227 suggesting that the Cresphontes papyrus (P.Oxy. 2458, 3rd century AD) could have been used for dramatic representation. On the reperformance and readership of non-select tragedies in Late Antiquity, see also Di Gregorio 1976, 161–164; Kokolakis 1960, passim; Zuntz 1965, 254–255 and nn. 3, 4 and 7; Easterling/Miles 1999, esp. 96–97; Budelmann 2001, 221–222. 9 Reynolds/Wilson 19913, 53–54; on the process of the transmission of tragedy, see also Garland 2004, 13–94. 10 Arranged in an alphabetic sequence from E to K: Helen, Electra, Heraclidae, Heracles, Hiketides, Iphigenia in Tauris, Iphigenia in Aulis, Ion, Cyclops. See Zuntz 1965, 185, 192, 277; Mastronarde 2017, 20–21; Reynolds/Wilson 19913, 77. 11 See Van Looy 1964, 15–16; Robson 2009, 103–119; Farmer 2017, 67–113. 12 Cf. also Dickey 2007, 28–34 (with further bibliography) and 2015, 505–509; Van Looy 1964, 38–39; Tosi 1988, 59–86. 13 For Plutarch’s practice of quoting, see Van Looy 1964, 26–27; Russell 1973, esp. 26–27, 42– 47; Bowie 2008, 143–158; Mossman 2014, 438–444; Di Gregorio 1976, 151–174.

4  Introduction cases, the contexts of the quotation of the tragic source text could be suggestive of its critical reception, as in Ps.Longinus’ On the Sublime.14 On the other hand, tragic excerpts coming from gnomological sources, such as Stobaeus and Orion, have a generalizing character, which incurs problems of locating the fragments within the play. Moreover, preservation in gnomic anthologies bears implications for the state of the text, considering that several poetic quotations have been altered in the process of transmission.15 The least helpful sources in locating a fragment within a play are lexicographical works (e.g. the Suda, the lexica of Photius and Hesychius, etymological lexica), which preserve words completely isolated from their contexts.16 The preservation of papyrus fragments increases significantly the amount of fragmentary material, often by providing extensive passages and parts of episodes or choral odes. Moreover, unlike book fragments, which, as a rule, are cut off from their contexts, the larger papyrus fragments contribute to restoring the context of the attested lines, which is essential for the reconstruction of the dramatic plot. The preservation of a papyrus could also form a yardstick of the popularity of a play in a particular period, being suggestive of a reperformance or of its readership. The indirect evidence consists of all the ancillary information, including the testimonia for the plays, either textual or artistic. More specifically, textual testimonia (such as those deriving from Aristotle’s Poetics, mythographic narratives or scholia) and iconographic sources for lost tragedies (e.g. theatre-related painted pottery and reliefs) are similarly brought into play in this survey, so that as much information as possible can be extracted from a wide range of sources serving as evidence for non-extant dramas. In a broader sense, fragments can also be perceived as testimonies contributing to the recovery of the plot of lost plays.17

 14 On Pseudo-Longinian quotations, see Rhys Roberts 19072, 26–28, 225–226; Porter 2016, 58, 100-102. 15 See West 1973, 18; Campbell 1984, 56; Sider 2001, 277–280. 16 See Dickey 2007, 88–89, 97, 101 (with further bibliography); Van Looy 1964, 29, 46–48; Sandys 1906–1908, I 323–324. 17 On the nature and assessment of fragmentary material, see Most 1997, vi–viii; Most 1998, 1– 3; Most 2009, 10–19; Gill 2005, 151–158; Dionisotti 1997, 1–2; Laks 1997, 237–240. Οn the methodology of approaching the evidence for fragmentarily preserved tragedies, see Kannicht 1997, 67–77; Collard 2005, 49–51 and 2017, 348–349; Cropp 2005, 271–272; Mastronarde 2009, 63–76; Sommerstein 2003, 15–17; Wright 2016, xi–xxvi.

Introduction  5

The approach to fragmentary material presupposes a movement backwards, as well as forwards: on the one hand, the challenge is to perceive dramatic fragments not merely as disiecta membra, but as once extant plays reperformed, quoted, reworked and discussed until Late Antiquity. This is a main difference, I suppose, between dramatic and other kinds of poetic fragments, e.g. lyric fragments, which can be appreciated even detached from their original context. Conversely, tragic fragments need to be evaluated not only as poetic passages, but also contextualized within the particular dramatic plot from which they derive, that is, perceived as parts of an once extant whole. On the other hand, it is worth raising questions about aspects of fragmentation and its dynamics and, in turn, according to William Tronzo, “to see the fragment not simply as the static part of some once-whole thing but as itself something in motion”.18 This perspective emerges, for instance, from the reconstructed adaptation of fragmentary plays for contemporary reperformances, which forms an indicator of their vitality and continuing cultural power, as discussed in the last section. To be able to investigate effectively the Nachleben of fragmentarily preserved tragedies, one has to take into consideration the contexts of their reception in each case. I have purposefully selected the objective of each of these case studies, in order to elucidate different aspects in the process of the reception of non-extant plays within varying generic and cultural contexts. Context exploration is a key principle of classical reception studies and has been theoretically propounded by Charles Martindale in his fundamental monograph on the hermeneutics of reception.19 “Contexts”, he asserts, “are not single nor are they found ‘lying about’ as it were; we have to construct them from other texts, which also have to be interpreted (And by text I mean every vehicle of signification, so that in this extended sense a mosaic, or a marriage ceremony, is a ‘text’ as much as a book)”.20 This approach derives from Jauss’s theory of the aesthetics of reception stressing the ongoing interaction between the source text and the receiving work in conjunction with the receiver’s socio-cultural milieu.21 Reception is thus figured dialogically, in that the relation between the source text and the receiving work is reciprocal, therefore elucidating the former as much as the latter. At the same time, it is of crucial importance to look at the routes

 18 Tronzo 2009, 4; cf. also Elias 2004, 1. 19 Martindale 1993, 11–18; on the significance of this approach, cf. Hardwick 2003, ch. 3. 20 Martindale 1993, 13. 21 Jauss 1982. On reception as a ‘dialogic’ process, see also Gadamer 1975 and Iser 1978. For a discussion of these theories, see esp. Holub 20032, 57–63; Hardwick 2003, 6–9; Martindale 2006, 3–6.

6  Introduction through which the ancient source text has passed and at the manner in which generic and cultural conditions have defined later reworkings. Genre and culture are closely interrelated and both play a pivotal role in establishing the receiver’s ‘horizon of expectations’. This notion was introduced by Jauss to refer to the receiver’s mind-set defined by his/her literary and socio-cultural context and to frame the reciprocal relationship between source text and receiver.22 The concept of the ‘horizon of expectations’ particularly applies to matters of reader and audience response, is conditioned, among other factors, by the spectator’s/ reader’s paideia and forms an indicator of the cultural contexts of the reception process. The first section is divided into three chapters addressing facets of the intertextual or rather inter-dramatic dialogue involving plays now lost but extant in antiquity and the cultural processes shaping their refigurations in tragedy and comedy. The first chapter explores Euripides’ metapoetic dialogue with the Sophoclean Antigone in his homonymous lost play, in which, as I argue, the former is a recurring intertext. It seeks to bring forward the ways in which Euripides reworks and recapitalizes on the Sophoclean plot elements, in conjunction with the evolution of his tragic poetics and matters of cult and generic consciousness. In more specific terms, the younger dramatist revisits key aspects of Sophocles’ play, i.e. the burial conflict, and secondary elements, such as the romance of Haemon and Antigone which is given particular prominence in the Euripidean tragedy. Remarkably enough, these two ideas are brought together by Euripides, in that they are reworked and conjoined through the participation of Haemon (whom Antigone ultimately marries in this play) as an ‘accomplice’ in Polyneices’ burial. In turn, the tension between Antigone’s obligations to her natal family and her role as Haemon’s future wife, which pervades the Sophoclean tragedy and the closing scene of the Euripidean Phoenissae, is soothed in Euripides’ own Antigone featuring her ultimate rescue from death and her marriage to Haemon. It is observed that this dramatic treatment is consistent with the features of later Euripidean dramaturgy, considering that the element of romance is combined with the ‘catastrophe survived’ plot pattern to lead to a radically opposite plot-resolution. In aesthetic terms, this practice corresponds to the audience’s penchant for plays of mixed reversal, as pointed out by Aristotle (Poet. 13, 1453a 33–35); indeed, in a period of crisis, as that during the last decade of the Peloponnesian War, it is reasonable to infer that audience response was favourable towards mild plays inspiring optimism.  22 See Jauss 1982, 3–45. Cf. also the discussion in Hardwick 2003, 7–8; Holub 20032, 58–63; Mee/Foley 2011, 12–13; Wrigley 2013, 356–357; van Zyl Smit 2016, 2.

Introduction  7

The denouement of this play is conditioned by the reconfiguration of the Dionysiac element. It is argued that Dionysus as Antigone’s actual liberator in the Euripidean treatment is employed to define her gender role, in that she is rescued from punishment and is happily integrated into her conjugal household. This dramaturgical choice provides an eloquent inversion of the illusory expectation of Dionysus as liberator conveyed in the fifth stasimon of the Sophoclean play. The Euripidean tragedy probably served as the source text of Astydamas’ fourth-century Antigone, which seems to have similarly brought forward the maiden’s rescue from death after Polyneices’ burial and the consummation of her romance with Haemon. In such a case then, Euripides’ Antigone could form both a receiving text re-addressing key elements of Sophocles’ play and a source text reconfigured in fourth-century tragedy, according to the dramatic trends of that particular period. Likewise, the poetic predilections in different periods of dramatic production in conjunction with the development of the tragic genre are investigated in the second chapter, which delves into the dramatic transformations of the myth of Alope in the light of the ideological and cultural contexts of each era. The earliest known Alope was written by Choerilus and was probably conditioned by the historical and political circumstances of the late sixth century BC and, particularly, the Cleisthenic tribal reform of 508/7 BC. Choerilus appears to have brought forward Eleusinian cult through the relation of the eponymous Athenian hero Hippothoon, who was worshipped in Eleusis, to Triptolemus. This treatment could conform to Cleisthenes’ effort to reinforce Athenian cult by means of the institution of the ten eponymous heroes and could also enhance the Attic identity of Eleusis in a period in which it was challenged. At the same time, the cultic nuances of this play are congruent with the trends of early tragedy and its emphasis on ritual. Euripides evidently had a different dramatic agenda in his own Alope, as he chose to treat the motif of the ‘girl’s tragedy’ from the viewpoint of the oikos-polis nexus, so as to comment on female precariousness in classical Athens. At the same time, Hippothoon’s status as an eponymous hero of Attica and his relation to the political persona of Theseus presumably brought to the fore the Athenian tradition and democratic identity. This tragedy became Menander’s source text in the arbitration scene of the Epitrepontes, which is a reworking of the agon of its tragic forerunner. The intergeneric transformation of the serious tragic episode evidently served to draw attention to the significance of this scene for the evolution of the comic plot. As regards the ‘horizon of expectations’ of Menander’s audience, it is worth bearing in mind that the spectators of the Hellenistic period were well versed in classical tragedy, especially thanks to its reperformances, and

8  Introduction this would enable them to discern and appreciate the comic poet’s metadramatic interplay. The ideological forces shaping the dramatic refigurations of the Alope myth emerge also from Carcinus’ tragedy of the same title. This fourth-century play engages in a dialogue with the Euripidean Alope, by smoothing away the violence invoked by the repellent act of a murder which is enacted knowingly between blood kin. Carcinus chose to deviate from Euripides by transforming the persona of Alope’s father, Cercyon, from a cruel and oppressive figure into a sensitive and dignified character, who commits suicide being unable to avenge the hybris committed against his oikos. This dramatist’s predilection would be consistent with the tastes of the spectators for milder plots from late-fifth century onwards, as mentioned above. These three tragic treatments of the Alope myth thus demonstrate a shift of interest from an early penchant for cultic ritual (in Choerilus) to oikos-polis concerns (in Euripides) and then to a smoother, almost melodramatic approach to the tragic material (in Carcinus). A further case of intergeneric refiguration is discussed in the third chapter, which delves into Menander’s comic reworking of structural and thematic elements of the Euripidean Alcmeon in Corinth in the Periceiromene. The dramatist reconfigures the structural pattern of the tragic exemplum involving separation and recognition coupled with a reversal of action through fortune and misconception as key mechanisms of plot development. Moreover, the recognition scene of the comic play is distinctively equivalent to that of the tragic source text, while Menander’s debt to tragedy has been signposted with the use of tragic style and Euripidean quotations. Menander thus chose to appropriate the key structural pattern and the dramatic situation of this prize-winning tragedy, which had successfully been tested on stage and appreciated by audiences from the end of the fifth century BC onwards, and transfer them from the heroic sphere of serious drama to the everyday world of new comedy. The metatheatrical function of the reworking of the tragic source text in a comic milieu may further be assessed from the viewpoint of audience response. Menander’s reception of the tragic forerunner could give rise to a complex response on the part of the spectators, in that it would combine the comic amusement emerging from the use of farcical elements and exaggeration with a cognitive process pertaining to the metadramatic allusions, which are intricately interwoven in the plot. The spectators would be able to perceive ‘the play within the play’ on the basis of metadramatic signals, whilst the dramatic illusion is consistently kept. The audience’s reception of Menander’s intergeneric dialogue is thus conditioned by intellectual as well as emotional processes.

Introduction  9

The second section looks across strands in the critical reception of lost tragedies in Aristotle’s Poetics, which is the earliest known treatise of dramatic theory and a reliable source of evidence for several otherwise unknown fifth and fourthcentury plays. The degree and quality of information acquired about these tragedies are conditioned by Aristotle’s aesthetic evaluation of them. In more specific terms, he aims to set out the rules, according to which the dramatic plot should be constructed, on the basis of his conviction about the pre-eminence of plotconstruction (mythos) in tragic art. From this perspective, Aristotle approves of Agathon’s inventiveness to produce an innovative, fictitious and skillful plot in his Antheus (or Anthos). Likewise, he discusses the plot-outline and reversal of the fourth-century tragedy Lynceus of Theodectes and the effective anagnorisis in Polyidus’ treatment of the Iphigenia storyline alongside fifth-century plays of exemplary plot-structure, such as Sophocles’ Oedipus Tyrannus and Euripides’ Iphigenia in Tauris respectively. He thus appeals to a canon of fifth-century tragedies to evaluate his contemporary production. It is noteworthy that Aristotle introduces the factor of audience reponse in his theoretical evaluation of tragedy. He reflects on the impact of the spectators’ predilections for plays of mixed reversal upon dramatists, in that the latter choose to write untragic plays with a double structure, so as to please their audiences. He further pursues the idea of the spectators’ reception of tragedy, when discussing particular cases, such as the challenge of audience expectations in the anagnorisis of the Odysseus the False Messenger and the spectators’ fierce disapproval of the performance of Carcinus’ tragedy about Amphiaraus due to a contradiction between staging and dramatic plot. Aristotle’s reception of the plot of Theodectes’ Lynceus is further discussed in the next chapter. He cites this play twice, both as a model of tragic reversal and as involving an exemplary complication and denouement. His testimony offers crucial information for its plot-construction and, most importantly, it yields insight into his appreciation of this tragedy, not least because he discusses it alongside his model play, the Oedipus Tyrannus. As regards the ‘receptivity’ of Aristotle’s pupils, to whom this treatise was addressed, they would reasonably be familiar with this play not only in view of its contemporary date, but also because Theodectes was a friend of Aristotle and an orator, whose work is frequently cited in the Aristotelian corpus. The members of the Lyceum were thus likely to be well acquainted with Theodectes’ oeuvre, and this could determine their own evaluation of the play. In this chapter it is also argued that Aristotle’s testimony on the untying of the dramatic plot, which has given rise to much conjecture, could be supplemented with the evidence provided in an ancient scholium on Euripides’ Orestes.

10  Introduction The scholiast refers to a trial against Danaus for the murder of his sons-in-law, which could shed light on the manner in which the transition (metabasis) from bad to good fortune for Lynceus and Hypermestra was attained. In turn, this piece of information could suit Aristotle’s definition of metabasis as signposting the beginning of the denouement. This case could thus provide an eloquent example of how the combination and cautious assessment of the information provided by ancient sources may contribute to the recovery of plot elements of lost plays. This concept is also brought forward in the third section, which showcases the significance of iconographic evidence towards retrieving aspects of fragmentarily preserved plays, when approached with due caution. The first chapter of this section seeks to assess the implications of the iconographic representation of Euripides’ Dictys for the recovery of elements of its dramatic plot and to investigate the cultural processes shaping its reception in Apulian painted pottery. This piece of iconographic evidence in conjunction with the testimonies of Ps.Apollodorus’ Bibliotheca and Theon’s hypomnema on Pindar’s 12th Pythian Ode indicates that the play was constructed upon a central altar-scene, following the ‘supplication-return-rescue-revenge’ plot pattern. This element has now been confirmed by the newly published papyrus hypothesis of the play. At the same time, there are certain challenges in evaluating theatre-related iconography, especially when it comes to non-extant plays, in that South Italian vase paintings cannot be regarded as ‘scene-specific’ and as such they cannot be considered to illustrate a particular episode. Rather, they probably sought to provide a reminiscence of key themes of the play. When it comes to the cultural context of South Italian theatre-related pottery, it is worth exploring the routes through which the play was received by the artist and, in turn, by the viewer of the iconographic representation. Taking into account the importance of the visual element for artistic creation as well as the fact that performances were the chief means through which people became familiar with tragic myths, it seems reasonable to infer that the painters were acquainted with dramatic plots presumably through fourth-century revivals in Magna Grecia. Accordingly, the very experience of these reperformances could also have enriched the viewers’ appreciation of the artifact. The iconographic representation of the Dictys in Apulian pottery is thus highly suggestive of the popularity of the play beyond Athens during the fourth century BC. Likewise, the next chapter moves on to investigate the reception of Euripides’ fragmentarily preserved Alexandros in Etruscan art. Here again it is argued that the cautious combination of iconographic with mythographic sources could supplement the textual evidence for the play and yield insight into the episode of the attack launched by Deiphobus and Hecabe against Alexandros/ Paris and its

Introduction  11

staging. At the same time, this survey reflects on the multiple stages in the process of refiguration of this Euripidean episode by the receiving culture. The available evidence seems to reveal a complex reception process of this tragedy by Etruscan artists. The representation in the mirror-back reliefs dating to the late fourth and third century BC follows the typology of South Italian painted pottery and may have been modeled upon a vase-painting from Magna Grecia. A further group of later urn reliefs (second/ first century BC) may well represent the equivalent scene of Ennius’ Alexander, which is an adaptation of the Euripidean play. Hence, this long process of transformation is suggestive of the ongoing dramatic and artistic dialogue with this tragic episode. It is also worth asking how the representation of tragic scenes may have been perceived by Etruscan viewers. These artifacts were found in tombs, like South Italian tragedy-related vase-paintings. Most of them depict altar-scenes or other critical moments from tragic myths. The liminal condition of the suppliant between life and death would suit funerary contexts, whilst teaching the viewers awareness of human suffering through a recollection of prominent tragic exempla. From the ancient dialogues with Euripides’ Alexandros in its extant form we move on to the last section, in order to pursue the question of the modern reception of the play in its fragmentary state. Remarkably enough, the Nachleben of this tragedy involves a vibrant contemporary performance history, which has significantly been enhanced by the evergrowing scholarship on fragmentarily preserved tragedies making this field accessible to theatre practitioners. The Alexandros was first staged alongside the companion plays of the original trilogy as a rehearsed reading in 2007 and then separately as a semi-staged reading by the British theatre company ‘Actors of Dionysus’ in 2012. A full performance of the play by the same company was held in 2015. As would be expected, the contemporary performance of a fragmentarily preserved tragedy is a multifarious process. The reconstructed adaptation presupposes a reworking of the fragments in conjunction with the surviving evidence, thus entailing an ideological interpretation of the play by the adaptor. The adaptation is then ‘translated’ into performance under the influence of several agents involved in theatre production. From the perspective of modern audience response, it is tempting to assess how the reperformance of a non-extant and reconstructed tragedy could be deciphered by the spectators in cognitive terms. Moreover, its potential to bring forward dramatic conflicts and raise questions essential to contemporary discourses could form an indicator of its ongoing cultural power.

12  Introduction The mythical material treated by Euripides in the Alexandros has been transformed through the medium of other performing arts, such as opera and film. Michael Tippett’s King Priam is a free operatic adaptation of the exposure and recognition motifs pervading this legend, though there is nothing distinctively Euripidean in the plot of this opera. Conversely, certain key elements of the Alexandros, such as the youth’s athletic triumph, Cassandra’s prophecies, recognition and reversal, are employed in the American TV film Helen of Troy (2003) to enrich the filmic plot. The reception of these fascinating aspects of the Euripidean plot is suggestive of the impact of this storyline on popular culture. At the same time, this chapter aims at posing broader questions concerning the complex literary and cultural processes that determine the reconfiguration of the fragmentary material in contemporary performative contexts. The areas of inquiry which have been laid out showcase that research on the reception of tragic fragments could yield insight not only into the receiving work, but also into the facets of the source text that have attracted attention in its subsequent refigurations. Moreover, the investigation of metapoetic allusions, of the critical and artistic reception of the aforementioned tragedies in their once extant form could shed light on the ideological and cultural routes through which they were received by the poet, the scholar, the artist, the viewer, the reader and the spectator in each case. Furthermore, the complex process of ‘translating’ a fragmentarily preserved play into performance on the contemporary stage could form a yardstick of its cultural power, thus elucidating the dynamics of fragmentation in modern contexts.

‘All’s well that ends well’: Euripides’ response to Sophocles’ Antigone This chapter seeks to explore the reception of Sophocles’ Antigone by Euripides in his own, fragmentarily preserved, Antigone (dated between 412–406 BC on the basis of metrical criteria), which postdates the Sophoclean play (plausibly dated to 442/441 BC).23 It aims at investigating those aspects of the Sophoclean plot and characterization which were refigured, challenged and rather radically transformed by Euripides in his own play, thus yielding insight into the features of Euripides’ metapoetic dialogue with Sophocles and his own dramatic agenda. The Euripidean play reiterates the key theme of the homonymous Sophoclean tragedy, that is, Antigone’s choice to bury Polyneices and the ramifications of her decision. The main source for its plot-outline is the learned hypothesis to Sophocles’ Antigone by the Alexandrian critic Aristophanes of Byzantium (Aristoph. Byz. Argum. S. Ant. I, p. 69 Dain): κεῖται ἡ μυθοποιία καὶ παρὰ Εὐριπίδῃ ἐν Ἀντιγόνῃ· πλὴν ἐκεῖ φωραθεῖσα μετὰ τοῦ Αἵμονος δίδοται πρὸς γάμου κοινωνίαν· καὶ τέκνον τίκτει τὸν Μαίονα. Τhe same subject matter is treated in Euripides’ Antigone, except that in that play Antigone was detected at the burial together with Haemon and was given in marriage to him; and she gave birth to a son, Maeon.

According to this testimony (see also Sallust. Argum. S. Ant. II, p. 70 Dain, schol. vet. S. Ant. 1351), in the Euripidean play Antigone is caught in the act of burying Polyneices together with Haemon and instead of being put to death she is joined with him in marriage. For obvious reasons of dramatic economy, Maeon’s birth could not have been part of the dramatic plot and may have only been foretold at the end of the play; it is also conceivable that Aristophanes of Byzantium might have added this element in his hypothesis through reminiscence of Hom. Il. 4.394.24 In any case, it is worth noting that this testimony provides a fundamentally different plot-resolution than that in Sophocles’ Antigone. Another account of the story provided by Hyginus (fab. 72) has been associated from time to time with the Euripidean Antigone:

 23 On the date of Sophocles’ Antigone, see e.g. Griffith 1999, 1–2; Brown 1987, 1–2; Kamerbeek 1978, 36. On the date of Euripides’ Antigone, see Cropp/Fick 1985, 70, 74, 76; Zimmermann 1993, 161. 24 See Mesk 1931, 6–7. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110661279-002

16  ‘All’s well that ends well’: Euripides’ response to Sophocles’ Antigone Creon Menoecei filius edixit ne quis Polynicen aut qui una venerunt sepulturae traderet, quod patriam oppugnatum venerint; Antigona soror et Argia coniunx clam noctu Polynicis corpus sublatum in eadem pyra qua Eteocles sepultus est imposuerunt. quae cum a custodibus deprehensae essent, Argia profugit, Antigona ad regem est perducta; ille eam Haemoni filio, cuius sponsa fuerat, dedit interficiendam. Haemon amore captus patris imperium neglexit et Antigonam ad pastores demandavit, ementitusque est se eam interfecisse. quae cum filium procreasset et ad puberem aetatem venisset, Thebas ad ludos venit; hunc Creon rex, quod ex draconteo genere omnes in corpore insigne habebant, cognovit. cum Hercules pro Haemone deprecaretur ut ei ignosceret, non impetravit; Haemon se et Antigonam coniugem interfecit. at Creon Megaram filiam suam Herculi dedit in coniugium, ex qua nati sunt Therimachus et Ophites. (ed. Marshall 20022) Creon son of Menoeceus issued a decree stating that no one was to bury Polyneices or any of the others who had accompanied him, since they had come to attack their own country. Polyneices’ sister Antigone and his wife Argia under the cover of night secretly carried off Polyneices’ body and placed it on the same pyre where Eteocles was cremated. When guards caught them in the act, Argia escaped, but Antigone was led before the king, who handed her over to his son Haemon, who had been her fiancé, to be killed. But Haemon, smitten by love, ignored his father’s command and entrusted Antigone to some shepherds and deceitfully told his father that he had killed her. She gave birth to a son, and when he reached manhood, he went to Thebes for some athletic contests. Creon recognized him from the birthmark which all descendants of the Sparti have on their body. Hercules interceded on Haemon’s behalf, asking Creon to forgive his son, but he was not successful. Haemon killed both himself and his wife Antigone. As for Creon, he gave his daughter Megara to Hercules to marry, and she gave birth to Therimachus and Ophites. (transl. Smith/Trzaskoma 2007, 122 with adjustments)

The characters and the events of the Hyginian account are represented in two South Italian theatre-related vase-paintings (Ruvo, Museo Jatta J423: RVAp 15/41 = LIMC s.v. ‘Antigone’, fig. 14 and Berlin F3240: RVAp 18/23 = LIMC s.v. ‘Antigone’, fig. 15). This has led to the reasonable inference that Hyginus, who often reflects tragic plots,25 could be reproducing the plot-outline of an Antigone play diverging from Sophocles. Nonetheless, scholars are divided as to the Euripidean provenance of these pieces of mythographic and iconographic evidence.26 The main arguments against the association of these testimonies with the Euripidean

 25 On the association of several Hyginian accounts with tragic (especially Euripidean) plots, see esp. Huys 1996, 168–170 (with rich bibliography). 26 In favour of the relation of these testimonies to the Euripidean play, see Welcker 1839–1841, II 563–572; Mayer 1883, 73–76; Huddilston 1899, 190–220; Robert 1915, I 381–395 (followed by Rose 1934a, 56); Hughes 1980, 7; Scodel 1982, 40.

‘All’s well that ends well’: Euripides’ response to Sophocles’ Antigone  17

Antigone involve, first and foremost, their divergences from the testimony of Aristophanes of Byzantium about Euripides’ treatment of this phase of the legend. The Alexandrian critic states that Antigone was caught burying Polyneices’ corpse with Haemon’s assistance and that she was given in marriage to him, whereas in Hyginus she is mentioned to have been assisted by Argia and to have been handed over to Haemon by Creon, in order to be killed. Apart from the crucial inconsistency between the Hyginian elements and the evidence of Aristophanes’ hypothesis, these two testimonies concern two different temporal phases, namely the phase of the myth also treated by Sophocles in his own play (which, according to Aristophanes’ account, also formed the subject matter of the Euripidean play) and the next stage concerning the youth of the couple’s son Maeon (following Hyginus’ narrative). These different phases are irreconcilable within a single dramatic plot, unless Aristophanes’ hypothesis is taken to report the background of the play narrated in the prologue, as it has occasionally been suggested; however, this is based on mere assumption and does not derive from the hypothesis as such, which clearly states that Euripides’ play treated the same mythical topic as the Sophoclean tragedy (κεῖται ἡ μυθοποιία καὶ παρὰ Εὐριπίδῃ ἐν Ἀντιγόνῃ).27 Hence, it seems rather unlikely that the Hyginian account reflects the Euripidean plot. The other known Antigone, which could be consistent with the date of the vase-paintings, is the fourth-century play by Astydamas attested to have been staged and to have won the first prize in 342/341 BC (TrGF I DID A2a 6). This possibility would be attractive not least because the Roman mythographer’s narrative reproduces a recurrent motif in fourth-century tragedy: the couple’s clandestine relationship against the father’s will, its disclosure through the discovery of their child and the repercussions of this event, as in Theodectes’ Lynceus (for more detail about this play, see ch. 4 and 5).28 Such a dramatic treatment would thus be congruent with the trends of the tragedy of that era.

 27 Against the association of the Hyginian narrative and the relevant vase-paintings with the Euripidean Antigone, see Hartung 1843–1844, I 421–422; Weil 1889, 328–329; Paton 1901, 267– 276 (offering a full discussion of the divergences between Aristophanes of Byzantium and Hyginus); Séchan 1926, 274–290; Mesk 1931, 1–12; Webster 1954, 304–305; Aélion 1986, 72–73; Zimmermann 1993, 217–222; Huys 1997a, 18–19; Collard/Cropp 2008, I 158. 28 On the relation of Hyginus’ account and the iconographic evidence to Astydamas’ Antigone, see Paton 1901, 275–276; Séchan 1926, 289–290; Webster 1954, 305; Xanthakis-Karamanos 1980, 48–53 and 1986, 109–110; Zimmermann 1993, 177; Huys 1997a, 18; Collard/Cropp 2008, I 158. Nonetheless, Taplin (2007a, 185–186) does not exclude the relation of the two vase-paintings to the Euripidean play. Of the two vases, the Berlin amphora dated to the 340s aptly corresponds to the date of Astydamas’ Antigone, being produced shortly after this popular play. The Ruvo

18  ‘All’s well that ends well’: Euripides’ response to Sophocles’ Antigone If the tragic plot reflected in Hyginus’ account and in the relevant iconographic sources indeed derives from Astydamas’ Antigone, it is worth noting that it seems to appropriate key aspects of the Euripidean play, such as Antigone’s rescue from death after Creon’s edict and the love story of Haemon and Antigone, which is ultimately consummated.29 Hence, Euripides’ Antigone could be perceived both as the source text for a subsequent tragic plot and as a receiving text transforming main themes of the Sophoclean play, as we are now going to explore in detail. In more specific terms, the Aristophanic hypothesis and the preserved fragments indicate that the Euripidean treatment revisits pivotal elements of Sophocles’ Antigone, such as the burial conflict, and secondary themes, such as the love story of Haemon and Antigone. For instance, fr. 159 K. (ἐπὶ χρυσεόνωτον ἀσπίδα τὰν Καπανέως, ‘on the golden-backed shield of Capaneus’30) evokes the expedition of the Seven, which is reflected in the parodos of the Sophoclean play (Ant. 100–54). Moreover, fr. 176 K. brings forward the burial theme and comprises a powerful argument in favour of Polyneices’ burial, asserting the futility of punishing him post mortem, given that death is the end of all conflicts: θάνατος γὰρ ἀνθρώποισι νεικέων τέλος ἔχει· μαθεῖν δὲ πᾶσίν ἐστιν εὐμαρές. τίς γὰρ πετραῖον σκόπελον οὐτάζων δορὶ ὀδύναισι δώσει, τίς δ’ ἀτιμάζων νέκυν, εἰ μηδὲν αἰσθάνοιντο τῶν παθημάτων; Death is the end of their quarrels for men; and this is easy for everyone to understand. For who will inflict pain on a lofty crag, by wounding it with a spear? And who on a corpse, by dishonouring it, if these felt nothing of what they underwent?

 vase is approximately dated from 350 BC onwards (see Trendall/Cambitoglou 1978–1982, I 403) or even later, in 330/320 BC (Webster 19672, 165); this approximate dating may be roughly consistent with the production of Astydamas’ play. On the similarities between the Hyginian narrative and the plot of Theodectes’ Lynceus, see also Paton 1901, 275; Séchan 1926, 289; Webster 1954, 304–305; Xanthakis-Karamanos 1980, 55–57; Zimmermann 1993, 219. 29 Cf. also Zimmermann 1993, 219–220. 30 The translation of Euripidean fragments relies on Collard/Cropp 2008, I 161, 163, 165, 167, 169.

‘All’s well that ends well’: Euripides’ response to Sophocles’ Antigone  19

Τhe obvious intertext in these lines has to be S. Ant. 1029–1030 reiterating a concept occurring earlier in S. Ai. 1048–1049.31 Frr. 171–173 K. could be associated with Creon’s rule: Fr. 172 K.: οὔτ’ εἰκὸς ἄρχειν οὔτ’ ἐχρῆν †εἶναι νόμον † τύραννον εἶναι· μωρία δὲ καὶ θέλειν *** ὃς τῶν ὁμοίων βούλεται κρατεῖν μόνος. It is neither reasonable to rule, nor ought there to be a king †law† It is folly for a man even to want who wishes to hold sole power over his peers.

The criticism of absolute rule evidently reflecting Creon’s edict recalls S. Ant. 736– 739.32 The tyrant metaphor occurring in fr. 171 K. (δεῖ τοῖσι πολλοῖς τὸν τύραννον ἁνδάνειν, ‘The king must please the many’) was widely employed in fifth-century Athenian political discourse. It was also used of demagogues as usurpers of the people’s sovereignty through flattery, which might provide an allusion to the gradual degeneration of democratic politics in Post-Periclean Athens.33 Fr. 173 K. (οἰκεῖος ἀνθρώποισι γίγνεσθαι φιλεῖ/ πόλεμος ἐν ἀστοῖς, ἢν διχοστατῇ πόλις, ‘Men usually have internal feudings occur among citizens, if their city is divided’) is expressing the fear for internal conflict, presumably due to the absence of obedience, as in S. Ant. 672–676. Fr. 163 (ἀνδρὸς φίλου δὲ χρυσὸς ἀμαθίας μέτα/ ἄχρηστος, εἰ μὴ κἀρετὴν ἔχων τύχοι, ‘Gold coupled with ignorance in a friendly man is useless, unless he should happen to possess virtue too’) and fr. 166 K. (τὸ μῶρον αὐτῷ τοῦ πατρὸς νόσημ’ ἔνι·/ φιλεῖ γὰρ οὕτως ἐκ κακῶν εἶναι κακούς, ‘His father’s folly is a weakness in him; bad men usually come from bad this way’) seem to reiterate the concept of μωρία brought forward in S. Ant. 220 and 469–470. In fr. 166.1, in particular, it would be tempting to read αὐτῇ instead of αὐτῷ (as proposed by Süvern),34 not least because the idea of hereditary folly recalls S. Ant. 471–472, which stresses Antigone’s savage breeding from her savage father. It is noteworthy that μωρία

 31 Cf. Collard/Cropp 2008, I 169; see also Finglass 2011, 508–509. 32 On this Sophoclean passage, see Griffith 1999, 248–249. 33 On the tyrant metaphor and its association with demagogues, see Henderson 2003, 167–170. For the degeneration of democracy and the rise of demagogues after Pericles, see Th. 2.65.7–10; cf. Ober 1989, 92–94, 122–124 and Rosenbloom 2012, 408–416 with further bibliography. 34 See Kannicht’s critical apparatus: TrGF V1, 267.

20  ‘All’s well that ends well’: Euripides’ response to Sophocles’ Antigone also occurs in the aforementioned fr. 172.2–3 probably with regard to Creon’s regime. Euripides thus refigures pivotal concepts of the Sophoclean treatment, such as the perception of Creon’s rule and the polarity between foolishness and good sense with regard to the burial conflict.35 Antigone’s resolve to bury Polyneices’ body, as in Sophocles, showcases her potent ties with her natal family; this idea was refigured by Euripides also in Ph. 1626–1672.36 Nevertheless, his startling innovation in the Antigone saga consists in Haemon’s own involvement in Polyneices’ burial and the unexpectedly happy ending in the couple’s romance in his Antigone. It is noteworthy that Euripides provides a reworking of the love theme, which formed a secondary idea in the Sophoclean play (see esp. Ant. 781–800, 1220–1241), bringing it into special prominence in his own dramatic treatment. More specifically, a number of fragments coming from the Euripidean Antigone focus on the romance of Antigone and Haemon. Fr. 161 K. (ἤρων· τὸ μαίνεσθαι δ’ ἄρ’ ἦν ἔρως βροτοῖς, ‘I was in love; and love, it turns out, is madness for mortals’) refers to love as folly, thus echoing S. Ant. 790–792.37 Likewise, fr. 162 K. alludes to the youths’ tendency to become overwhelmed by love: ἀνδρὸς δ’ ὁρῶντος εἰς Κύπριν νεανίου ἀφύλακτος ἡ τήρησις, ὡς κἂν φαῦλος ᾖ τἄλλ’, εἰς ἔρωτα πᾶς ἀνὴρ σοφώτατος. †ἢν δ’ ἂν προσῆται Κύπρις ἥδιστον λαβεῖν† When a young man looks to Cypris, there is no watch that can be kept on him, for even if he is bad at other things, every man is very clever at the pursuit of love. †If Cypris approves love, it is very sweet to seize it.†

Fr. 162a K. (ἐγὼ γὰρ ἕξω λέκτρ’ ἅ τοι καλῶς ἔχειν/ δίκαιόν ἐστιν οἷσι συγγηράσομαι, ‘For I shall have a marriage, which it is right should do well, I tell you, with a wife with whom I shall grow old’) is likely to have been delivered by Haemon asserting that he wishes to have a wife, i.e. Antigone, with whom he will reach old age. Accordingly, fr. 160 K. (νέοι νέοισι συννοσοῦσι τἀφανῆ, ‘Young share their faults

 35 On this pair of concepts, see Sullivan 1999, 89–120; Foley 1996, 57–68; Coray 1993, 58–80; Griffith 1999, 36–37, 41–43; Nussbaum 1986, esp. 51–82. 36 On Antigone’s stance in the exodos of the Phoenissae, see Mastronarde 1994, 590–591; Papadopoulou 2008, 30–32, 70–71; Lamari 2010, 110–118. 37 On this Sophoclean passage and its ideological nuances, see Griffith 1999, 255, 259; Nussbaum 2002, 55–73; Oudemans/Lardinois 1987, 140–144; Calame 1999, 146–148; Thumiger 2013, 36–37 and n. 32.

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with young in their uncertainties’) referring to the youths’ solidarity in what the speaker (conceivably Creon) seems to regard as foolishness may well be suggestive of Haemon’s agreement with Antigone’s stance regarding Polyneices’ burial.38 Euripides thus revisits and develops further the burial conflict and the love theme of the Sophoclean play, by bringing them together, in that these two ideas are conjoined through the participation of Haemon as an ‘accomplice’ in the burial. In turn, the tension between Antigone’s obligations to her natal family and her role as Haemon’s future wife is soothed in this play. It is worth bearing in mind that, due to her attachment to her blood kin, her marriage to Haemon ends up in Hades in Sophocles (1240–1241) and is resolutely rejected in Euripides’ Phoenissae (1672–1682). Conversely, in Euripides’ own Antigone her duties to her natal and to her future conjugal oikos are reconciled, as the title-character performs the burial rites on her brother with the support of Haemon, whom she marries, thus ensuring the continuity of his household through Maeon’s birth. This particular dramatic treatment conforms with the trends of later Euripidean drama, as it combines the element of romance, which is employed in later plays, as in the Andromeda, with the ‘catastrophe survived’ pattern (as in the Helen, Iphigenia in Tauris, Ion, Antiope, Hypsipyle and Captive Melanippe) featuring a rescue and a happy ending, unlike ‘typical’ tragedies ending in misfortune.39 In all these plays fortune holds a pivotal position as a mechanism of the dramatic plot. Accordingly, the first couple of lines of the Antigone (frr. 157–158 K.), which were parodied in Ar. Ra. 1182–1195,40 comment on the shifts of human fortune (ἦν Οἰδίπους τὸ πρῶτον εὐδαίμων ἀνήρ/ εἶτ’ ἐγένετ’ αὖθις ἀθλιώτατος βροτῶν, ‘Oedipus was at first a man of happy fortune; then, he became in turn the most wretched of mortal men’). This statement on the mutability of human

 38 For proposed reconstructions of this fragmentary evidence, see Kannicht TrGF V1, 261–273; Collard/Cropp 2008, I 156–159; Jouan/Van Looy 1998–2003, I 193–201; Zimmermann 1993, 162– 171; Webster 1967, 181–184; Cairns 2016, 118–119. 39 The term ‘catastrophe survived’ was coined by Burnett 1971. Euripides’ penchant for the dramatic treatment of hindered actions was observed as early as Friedrich 1953, 58–60. On the date of the Andromeda (412 BC), see TrGF V1, test. ii a–c; Helen was produced alongside the Andromeda (see the scholium on Ar. Ra. 53 in combination with schol. Ar. Th. 1012 Regtuit); for the date of the Iphigenia in Tauris (ca. 414 BC), see Diggle 1981–1994, II 242; for the Ion (ca. 413 BC), op.cit. II 306; on the date of the Antiope (near 410 BC), see, for instance, the discussion in Collard/Cropp 2008, I 175; on the Captive Melanippe (close to 412 BC), op.cit. I 589; on the Hypsipyle (after 412 BC), op.cit. II 254. 40 See Lucas 1937, 239–240; Erbse 1984, 1; Dover 1993, 336.

22  ‘All’s well that ends well’: Euripides’ response to Sophocles’ Antigone fortune, which challenges the Sophoclean image of Oedipus as ill-fated by nature, might pave the way for the final reversal of fortune in favour of Antigone. It is also noteworthy that, unlike the much earlier Sophoclean Antigone presenting the collapse of Creon’s household (spatially suggested through Eurydice’s suicide at the household altar in Ant. 1301–1305), Euripides in his own Antigone chooses to rescue Creon’s oikos, as well as reconciling the tension emerging from the contradiction between the title-character’s natal and future marital household. The pattern of the rescue of the household after a major crisis is systematically represented in the aforementioned group of later Euripidean plays (Ion, Helen, Iphigenia in Tauris, Antiope, Hypsipyle and Captive Melanippe), which were staged during the Athenian crisis caused by the Peloponnesian War especially from 413 BC onwards. The significance of the continuity of the oikos emerges from its pivotal role as an essential component of the polis, according to Aristotle’s theoretical foundation of this idea in Pol. 1252a 24–1253b 23. The household was protected by the Athenian law as the economic and social foundation of the city-state as early as Solon (fr. 4.26–29 W.2).41 The continued existence of the household was considered to be essential to the stability of the city-state, and the fate of the oikos in fifth-century Athens was intrinsically interwoven with the fate of the polis. Hence, Euripides’ recurrent experimentation with this plot-pattern in that troubled period may bring forward the idea that the safety of the domestic hearth could serve as the basis for the reaffirmation of the integrity of the city-state. In a time of social dissolution and moral uncertainty the protection of the oikos as the backbone of the polis could contribute to the restoration of social order.42 The iambic fr. 177 K. (ὦ παῖ Διώνης, ὡς ἔφυς μέγας θεός,/ Διόνυσε, θνητοῖς τ’ οὐδαμῶς ὑποστατός, ‘O son of Dione, Dionysus, how great a god you are, and in no way to be resisted by mortal men’) praising Dionysus’ overwhelming power may suggest that the god emerged ex machina, presumably in order to ensure Antigone’s rescue and her marriage to Haemon. The tone of this fragment revealing human submission to the divine will is a recurring feature in lines delivered by characters addressing a deus ex machina (see Andr. 1274–1276, Supp. 1227, IT 1475–1476, Ion 1606–1608, Hel. 1680–1683, Or. 1666–1670), and this could further tell in favour of Dionysus’ appearance at the exodos of the play. It is also noteworthy that in this fragment Dionysus is addressed as son of Dione, who was Aphrodite’s mother, according to a branch of the mythical tradition going back to  41 See Nagle 2006; Hansen 2006, 109–112; Lacey 1968, 84–150; Patterson 1998, esp. 85–91; Pomeroy 1997, 36–39. On the Solonian passage, see Noussia-Fantuzzi 2010, 254–256. 42 On the possible socio-political connotations of these plays, see Karamanou 2012.

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Homer (Il. 5.370–417, [Apollod.] 1.3.1). Euripides’ choice to present the god as Aphrodite’s brother seems to further relate him to the love theme of the play, that is, the romance of Antigone and Haemon, which he leads to a happy ending.43 Maeon’s birth, which is reported in the Aristophanic hypothesis, as mentioned above, may have been foretold in this divine speech. The manner in which Dionysus’ role is (re)shaped in the dramatic treatments of the Antigone saga is worth exploring. Notably enough, Dionysus is employed in association with features that define Antigone’s gender role. The excited hymn to Dionysus in the fifth stasimon of Sophocles’ Antigone (1115–1154) is an ‘ironic illusion of hope’,44 expressing a misguided optimism for Antigone’s return from the grave, where she has been enclosed alive. This song brings forward the polarity between life and death, between hope and calamity and between ritual, as represented by Bacchus, and the rationalism of Creon’s rule. Above all, however, it seems to be a cletic hymn to Dionysus as liberator of women from confinement, though, ironically enough, this liberation does not ultimately occur in the Sophoclean play. The transformation of the Dionysiac element takes a different turn in Euripides’ Phoenissae. In her threnetic monody (Ph. 1485–1538) Antigone no longer appears as a sheltered maiden; she has removed her veil and unfastened her robe, like a maenad, describing herself as a ‘bacchant of the dead’ (1489–1490). The notion of Dionysiac liberation seems to be refigured here in a symbolic manner, in order to bring forward Antigone’s ‘new self’.45 The ‘bacchic’ status which Antigone assumes —both with regard to her physical appearance and in metaphorical terms— may well open the way to her inner liberation, which emerges from her subsequent defiance of Creon (Ph. 1626–1672). In turn, she seems to be symbolically ‘liberated’ by Dionysus, in that the maenadic ‘emancipation’ that she displays in her confrontation with Creon sets her free to make her own choices as against the power exerted upon her by the king. Unlike the Sophoclean play, Euripides in his own Antigone chooses a radically different plot-resolution, in that he seems to present Dionysus, if he indeed appeared ex machina, as an actual liberator of Antigone, who is thus rescued from punishment and integrates herself into her marital oikos. This Dionysiac  43 Cf. also Weil 1889, 331. The possible emergence of Dionysus ex machina has been favoured by Collard/Cropp 2008, I 157; Jouan/Van Looy 1998–2003, I 200–201; Webster 1967, 182. 44 So Brown 1987, 214. Cf. also Kamerbeek 1978, 25, 186–187; Cairns 2016, 24–25, 175, n. 75. 45 On the evolution of Antigone’s character in the course of the Phoenissae, see MuellerGoldingen 1985, 221–225; Zimmermann 1993, 152–156; Mastronarde 1994, 180, 591; Papadopoulou 2008, 30–32, 70–71; Burian 2009, 27–32; Lamari 2010, 111, 134. On the implications of bacchic imagery for Antigone’s stance in that play, see Karamanou 2018, 135–137.

24  ‘All’s well that ends well’: Euripides’ response to Sophocles’ Antigone quality is similarly exploited in later Euripidean plays, such as the Hypsipyle and the Antiope, leading to the rescue of a household after a serious crisis and to a happy ending, as mentioned above.46 Hence, the ironic idea of the ultimate futility of Dionysus’ role as liberator, who does not respond to the cletic hymn addressed to him by the chorus in the fifth stasimon of the Sophoclean play, seems to be overturned in Euripides’ own Antigone through the god’s possible epiphany, which would have led to the play’s denouement. More Dionysiac associations may emerge from fr. 178 K. mentioning that the Sphinx was sent to the Thebans by Dionysus, which could be suggestive of the god’s further involvement in the play. Moreover, a papyrus fragment (P.Oxy. 3317= fr. 175 K.), the text of which coincides with two lines of a book fragment ascribed by Stobaeus (4.44.14 Hense) to the Euripidean Antigone, presents a woman who is dressed as a maenad and is seized by her opponents. Considering, however, that the titles Antigone and Antiope are easily confused by ancient scribes, it is feasible that this fragment might belong to the latter play, in which Dirce is attested to have appeared as a maenad accompanied by a subsidiary chorus of bacchants and to have been captured and punished by Antiope’s sons.47 Added to this, there is no evidence for a maenadic appearance of Antigone in the homonymous play,48 though, admittedly, such a possibility may complement her aforementioned symbolic bacchic features in the Phoenissae, thus enriching the reading of both plays. Οn the whole, Euripides in his own Antigone revisits the subject matter of the Sophoclean play, that is, the burial conflict, whilst bringing into prominence the love theme, which played only a secondary role in Sophocles. Euripides succeeds in conjoining the burial with the love motif, by introducing Haemon as Antigone’s ‘accomplice’ in Polyneices’ burial. At the same time, his metapoetic dialogue with his predecessor involves the reworking of particular Sophoclean passages, which bring forward aspects of Creon’s rule and key concepts, such as the polarity between prudence and foolishness, as well as the romance of Antigone  46 On Dionysus’ role in the Hypsipyle, see esp. Collard/Cropp/Gibert 2004, 173–176; for his involvement in the Antiope, see Zeitlin 1993, 173–177; Joyce 2001; Jouan/Van Looy 1998–2003, I 232. 47 On Dirce’s maenadic entrance in the Antiope, see schol. vet. E. Hipp. 58 (Schwartz) and Hyg. fab. 8. 48 Collard/Cropp 2008, I 157–158 regard this papyrus fragment as likelier to belong to the Antiope than the Antigone (this ascription was favoured as early as Luppe 1981 and then in Luppe 1989 and 1994). On the other hand, Scodel 1982, 39–42, Kannicht 1992a, 252–255 and Zimmermann 1993, 168–170 explore Antigone’s possible presentation as a maenad in Euripides’ homonymous tragedy.

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and Haemon. Furthermore, in the Euripidean play Dionysus seems to emerge as an actual liberator of Antigone, and this could provide a remarkable ‘inversion’ of the fifth stasimon of the Sophoclean tragedy. The refiguration of these features within a radically different type of plot-structure leading to a diametrically opposite denouement is consistent with the trends of later Euripidean drama, being suggestive of the novelty, dynamics and vitality of Euripides’ metapoetic response to the Sophoclean Antigone.

Alope’s legend and its dramatic refigurations This chapter aims at exploring the dramatic treatments of the myth of Alope based on the fragments of the homonymous Euripidean tragedy and on the testimonia for the plays of the same title by Choerilus and Carcinus.49 It aims to investigate the manner in which the myth is shaped in these three tragedies, each one of which belongs to a different age of dramatic production, and attempts to explore the ‘dialogue’ of each play with the socio-cultural conditions of its own era. At the same time, it will be argued that the study of the available material could give rise to questions regarding the predilections of each dramatist in conjunction with the particular features of the tragic genre in each period. The tale of Alope belongs to the tradition of Eleusis. She was the daughter of Cercyon, a famous wrestler50 who ruled in Eleusis and was said to be a son of Poseidon51 or Hephaestus52 or of Branchus and a Nymph named Argiope.53 The main source for this myth is Hyginus (fab. 187): Alope Cercyonis filia formosissima cum esset, Neptunus eam compressit. qua ex compressione peperit infantem, quem inscio patre nutrici dedit exponendum. qui cum expositus esset, equa venit et ei lac praestabat. quidam pastor equam persecutus vidit infantem atque eum sustulit, qui veste regia indutum cum in casam tulisset, alter compastor rogavit ut sibi eum infantem donaret. ille ei docavit sine veste; cum autem inter eos iurgium esset, quod qui puerum acceperat insignia ingenuitatis reposceret, ille autem non daret, contendentes ad regem Cercyonem venerunt et contendere coeperunt. ille autem qui infantem donatum acceperat, repetere insignia coepit, quae cum allata essent, et agnosceret Cercyon ea esse ex veste scissa filiae suae, Alopes nutrix timens regi indicium fecit infantem eum Alopes esse, qui filiam iussit ad necem includi, infantem autem proici. quem iterum equa nutriebat; pastores iterum inventum infantem sustulerunt, sentientes eum deorum numine educari, atque nutrierunt, nomenque ei imposuerunt Hippothoum. Theseus cum ea iter faceret a Troezene Cercyonem interfecit; Hippothous autem ad Theseum venit regnaque avita rogavit, cui Theseus libens dedit, cum sciret eum Neptuni filium esse, unde ipse genus ducebat. Alopes autem corpus Neptunus in fontem commutavit, qui ex nomine Alopes est cognominatus. (ed. Marshall 20022)

 49 This is a largely revised, enlarged and bibliographically updated version of Karamanou 2003. 50 Schol. Hom. Il. 23.726a (Erbse); Pl. Lg. 796a. On this myth, see Toepffer 1894, 1596; Gantz 1993, 253; Kron 1981, 572–573. 51 Paus. 1.14.3; schol. E. Ph. 150 (Schwartz). 52 Hyg. fab. 38, 238. 53 Schol. Pl. Lg. 796a (Greene); [Apollod.] Ep. 1.3. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110661279-003

Alope’s legend and its dramatic refigurations  27

Neptune slept with Cercyon’s daughter Alope, because she was extraordinarily beautiful. From their union she gave birth and without her father’s knowledge gave the infant to her nurse to expose. When the baby had been exposed, a mare came and offered it milk. A shepherd, who was following the mare, saw the infant and took it home. When he arrived at his cottage carrying an infant swaddled in royal clothes, another shepherd asked that the child be given over to him. He gave him the child, but not the royal clothes, and when a quarrel broke out between the two—the one who had gotten the child demanded the tokens of his noble birth, but the other refused—the arguing pair took their case to king Cercyon and began to argue in front of him. The one who had been given the child demanded the tokens. When the swaddling-clothes in question were brought in as evidence, Cercyon realized that they had been cut from his daughter’s dress. Out of fear Alope’s nurse confessed to the king that the infant was indeed Alope’s child. The king ordered his daughter to be locked up until she died and the infant to be exposed. Once again the mare came and nourished the baby, and once again the shepherds found the child and took him in, feeling that it was the will of the gods that he be nurtured and they raised him, giving him the name Hippothous. Theseus killed Cercyon as he passed by there on his way from Troezen. Hippothous approached Theseus and asked to be given his grandfather’s throne. Theseus willingly granted his request, since he knew that Hippothous was the son of Neptune, from whom he too was born. Neptune turned Alope’s body into a spring, which was named after Alope. (transl. Smith/Trzaskoma 2007, 160 with adjustments)

The baby’s second exposure and Alope’s imprisonment are also reported in Hyg. fab. 238. The nursing of the infant by a mare is mentioned in several sources and is represented in a late fourth-century vase-painting, which nonetheless does not display any theatrical features and depicts the myth in general (LIMC I 1, s.v. ‘Alope’, fig. 1).54 At the end of Hyginus` account, it is attested that Alope`s corpse was transformed by Poseidon into a spring in Eleusis, which, according to Hesychius, was alternatively called Φιλότης.55 If we also take the Amymone of Aeschylus into account, it seems that girls seduced by Poseidon were related to the creation of

 54 Cf. also Ael. VH 12.42; EΜ s.v. Ἱππιόθων (473, 46–48 Gaisford): ἵππος δὲ αὐτὸν ἐξέθρεψεν; Hyg. fab. 252. 55 Hesych. s.v. Ἀλόπη (α 3239 Latte). This lexicon mentions that Alope was also the name of a town in Thessaly, which first occurs in Homer (Il. 2.682). Pherecydes is confusingly reported to associate this town with the mythical figure of Alope (fr. 147 Fowler/FGrH 3 F147); for more detail about this matter, see Fowler 2000–2013, II 485.

28  Alope’s legend and its dramatic refigurations springs.56 Moreover, in mythology the transformation of people into springs often comes as the result of unfortunate love-stories, as in the case of Alope.57 Pausanias refers to Alope’s grave in Eleusis, which was possibly the place where she was enclosed alive.58 He attests that her tomb was close to a spot called παλαίστρα Κερκυόνος, where Cercyon forced the passers-by to wrestle with him and ended up killing them. He was one of the brigands killed by Theseus on his way to Athens.59 Aeschylus wrote a satyr play entitled Cercyon, where he must have presented Cercyon’s defeat by Theseus. This theme is suggested by the use of the term ἀμφωτίδες (fr. 102 R.: ‘ear-guards’; transl. Sommerstein 2008, 117), which according to Hesychius (α 4171 Latte) describes ἃς ἔχουσιν οἱ παλαισταὶ περὶ τοῖς ὠσίν, in order to protect their ears from injury (Plu. Mor. 38b).60 Apart from technical terms of wrestling, the sole possibly informative fragment may be fr. 104 R. (ἀπεψύχη, LSJ9: ‘to leave off breathing’, ‘to expire’, ‘to die’), which may refer to Cercyon’s death or perhaps to his murdering one of the passers-by. Hippothoon was worshipped in Eleusis61 and became the ἐπώνυμος hero of the Athenian tribe Hippothoontis.62 There is also a later version of the story, told

 56 According to [Apollod.] 2.1.4, the spring of Lerna gushed out at the spot where Poseidon guided Amymone to throw his trident and brought to an end the drought that plagued Argos. Cf. Hyg. fab. 169, 169a, Myth. Vat. 1.45. Cf. also TrGF III ad loc. and Sutton 1980, 14–15; Sommerstein 2008, 8–9; Papadopoulou 2011, 23–24. 57 Other typical cases are those of Kleite, Acis, Aura, Selemnus, Pyramus and Thisbe; cf. Forbes Irving 1989, 299–305. 58 Paus. 1.39.3; cf. Seaford 1990a, 81. 59 Bacch. Dith. 4.26–27 and Maehler 1997, ad loc., Luc. J.Tr. 21, D.S. 4.59.5, Hyg. fab. 38, Cratin. Drapetides fr. 53 K.–A., Isoc. 10.29, Ov. Met. 7.439. Theseus is said to have killed Cercyon by applying a new wrestling technique. Cf. Paus. 1.39.3, schol. Pl. Lg. 796a (Greene), schol. Luc. J.Tr. 21.13 (Rabe), [Apollod.] Ep. 1.3. Callimachus in the Hecale probably presented Cercyon as having killed Hecale’s son (fr. 49 Hollis); cf. Hollis 1990, 200 and Barigazzi 1958, 462–471. Vian (1952, 145–151) observed that ‘spirits of passages’ such as Cercyon, Sinis and Skiron were sons of Poseidon and fathers of nymphs of water or woods, who often perish because of these evil spirits. The story of these brigands was also associated with benign sons of Poseidon, such as Theseus and Hippothoon. 60 Cf. also Lasserre 1989, 269; Wessels/Krumeich 1999, 150–151; Podlecki 2005, 4; Simon 1989, 375. For the use of ἀμφωτίδες in particular, see Weiler 1981, 178. See also the discussion of this satyr play in Sutton 1980, 17 and Mette 1963, 41–42. 61 IG II2 1149, 1153, Paus. 1.38.4, Hesych. s.v. Ἱπποθοώντειον (ι 830 Latte). Hippothoon’s connection with the tradition of Eleusis is attested in Hes. fr. 227 M.–W. 62 Paus. 1.5.1, Harp. s.v. Ἀλόπη (α 81 Keaney), Hellanic. fr. 43 Fowler/FGrH4 F 43 and Jacoby ad loc., EM s.v. ἐπώνυμοι (p. 369, 15–22 Gaisford), D. 40.31. On Hippothoon’s cult in Eleusis and the Hippothoontis, see Kron 1976, 181–182. For archaeological evidence regarding Hippothoon as tribe-hero, cf. Kron LIMC V 1 s.v. ‘Hippothoon’, 472.

Alope’s legend and its dramatic refigurations  29

by Istros and later by Plutarch,63 according to which Hippothoon’s father was not Poseidon but Theseus. This was probably invented for political reasons, in order to demonstrate the Athenian control over Eleusis, considering that this significantly decreased at the end of the fourth and the first half of the third century BC.64 Despite the lack of evidence for dramatic treatments of this legend after the fourth century BC, the aforementioned references coming from sources such as Pausanias, Plutarch and Hyginus indicate that the myth of Alope was known even until Late Antiquity. The myth of Alope has been refigured by three dramatists, who, as it will be observed, brought forward different aspects of the story, in accordance with their particular dramatic goals and their contemporary ideological, political and cultural conditions. The Alope is the sole surviving title of Choerilus’ plays (TrGF I 2 F1). The Suda (s.v. Φρύνιχος, φ 762 Adler = TrGF I 3T1) mentions that γυναικεῖα πρόσωπα (denoting female masks/characters) were introduced by Phrynichus,65 who gained his first victory in 511/508 BC. This testimony may provide, according to Snell, a rough terminus post quem for the use of female personages in tragedy.66 I would argue that two specific events may further contribute to an approximate dating of the play. Firstly, taking into consideration that the ten Athenian tribes, including the tribe Hippothoontis, to which Eleusis belonged, were established by Cleisthenes in the place of the original four tribes in 508/507 BC, it is reasonable to infer that Choerilus’ treatment of the story of Hippothoon’s birth would postdate this reform.67 In addition, I would suggest that Cleomenes’ unsuccessful attack against Eleusis in 507/506 BC (Hdt. 5.74–76, schol. vet. Ar. Lys. 273 Hangard) might have provided the dramatist with an incentive to reaffirm the Attic identity of this town. Consequently, these factors in combination make it likely that 506

 63 Istros FGrH 334 F10 and Jacoby ad loc., Plu. Thes. 29. 64 Cf. Kron LIMC I 1 s.v. ‘Alope’, 572. Mylonas (1961, 152) mentions that in the Hellenistic period Macedonian garrisons were installed in Athens and Eleusis, while the rules of the Mysteries were adjusted to the new status quo. Eleusis` bonds with Athens were restored by Antigonus Gonatas (ca. 255 BC); cf. Lohmann 1997, 985 with further bibliographical references. 65 See the discussion in Zelenak 1998, 6, 41 (cf. earlier Pickard-Cambridge 19622, 64 and 19682, 190). 66 TrGF I 67. 67 For this possibility, see also Mills 1997, 228 and n. 18. On the Cleisthenic reform, see Hdt. 5.66, 69; cf. Hornblower 2013, 196–198, 207–208; Nenci 1994, ad loc.; Garland 1992, 43–45. See also Arist. Ath. Pol. 21.1–2. On this play, see most recently Wright 2016, 13–14.

30  Alope’s legend and its dramatic refigurations BC could be a terminus post quem for the production of the play. It has been suggested that it could be a satyr play, but there is no sound evidence pointing towards this direction.68 The sole source for this play is Pausanias (1.14.3), who attests that Choerilus presented Cercyon as son of Poseidon and brother of Triptolemus from the same mother. We are not in a position to know if and in what way Cercyon’s blood kinship with the famous Eleusinian hero may have affected the dramatic plot or if Triptolemus was one of the dramatis personae.69 In any case, Triptolemus’ pivotal position in the rituals of Demeter associated with Hippothoon’s attested relation to Eleusinian cult70 may have given a religious dimension to the play, being consistent with the strong cultic associations of earlier tragedy.71 Although the Mysteries belonged to the Athenian sacred rites even from Solon’s time (And. 1.111), the foundation of Hippothoontis —apart from serving political purposes— would have reinforced the religious ties between Athens and Eleusis, especially since the assignment of the ten tribes to ten heroes aimed to foster Attic cult.72 As far as our evidence goes, the figure of Triptolemus does not seem to appear in the Alope

 68 Steffen 1952 tended to classify as satyr plays dramas which are not demonstrably satyric. Sutton (1974, 114) and Pechstein (1989, 416) doubt the satyric character of the play. On the features of satyr plays, see Sutton 1974, 109–110. Moreover, one should not deduce from Pausanias’ vague description of it as a δρᾶμα (1.14.3) that it was a satyr play, since he uses this term for plays which were actually tragedies, e.g. the Pleuroniae of Phrynichus (10.31.4). On the use of the term δρᾶμα, see Calder 1958, 139–140; Richards 1900, 393. 69 It seems likely that Triptolemus played a certain role, otherwise Pausanias would have no reason to mention Choerilus’ play in a context focusing on Triptolemus. On the figure of Triptolemus, cf. Schwarz LIMC VIII 1 s.v. ‘Triptolemos’, 56–68. 70 Hippothoon was chosen by Cleisthenes as eponymous hero, because he was deeply rooted in the cult of Eleusis; see Kron LIMC V 1, 468. Schwarz (1987, 109–110, 391) describes a crater in Palermo (ca. 470 BC) presenting Triptolemus, Demeter, Persephone, Keleus and Hippothoon as participating in libations in Eleusis. Although Hippothoon`s participation in the Mysteries is attested by fourth-century evidence (IG II2 1672), his early involvement in Eleusinian cult emerges from the aforementioned vase-painting and from further iconographic sources (figg. 93, 94, 99, 100 and 108 in LIMC VIII s.v. ‘Triptolemos’) dating from 470 BC; see also Kron LIMC V1, 470– 471. 71 On early tragedy and ritual, see, for instance, Sourvinou-Inwood 2003, esp. 106–120, 197– 200. The close connection of earlier tragedy with cult emerges from plays such as Aeschylus’ Eumenides and the fragmentarily preserved Edonoi, Bassarae, Hieriae and Toxotides. Moreover, Sophocles’ Triptolemus (possibly his earliest play, ca. 468 BC) was evidently associated with Eleusinian cult. 72 Cf. Kearns 1989, 80, 82–83. Although the new tribes served primarily political and military purposes, they received religious expression through the institution of the eponymous heroes; see Parker 1996, 102–104, 118–121.

Alope’s legend and its dramatic refigurations  31

tragedies of Euripides and Carcinus, which suggests that Choerilus could have offered a distinctive version of the myth by writing a play with possible religious overtones. Moreover, it is worth noting that the Alope of Choerilus is the only tragedy in which it is clearly attested that Cercyon was Poseidon`s son. The contact of Alope with Poseidon would have thus been incest, since he was also her grandfather, but one cannot know whether Choerilus focused on this theme, and perhaps it is unlikely that he did, considering that criticism towards gods was not—so far as we know—a feature of earlier tragedy.73 Bearing in mind that the Alope is the only title preserved among Choerilus’ plays, Pausanias’ testimony could indicate that the theme of this tragedy was roughly known in the age of the Second Sophistic, though the complete lack of quotations makes it unlikely that the play was preserved by that time. More evidence survives for Euripides’ Alope, which gives more scope for the exploration of its pivotal ideas and objectives. The metrical evidence for the date of the Euripidean Alope (or Cercyon)74 is inconclusive, in view of the small sample of fragments, which is inadequate to enable the dating of the play on the basis of resolution rates.75 A clue to its date may be provided by a passage in Ar. Av. 558– 559 referring to the seduction of maidens by gods: ὥσπερ πρότερον μοιχεύσοντες τὰς Ἀλκμήνας κατέβαινον/ καὶ τὰς Ἀλόπας καὶ τὰς Σεμέλας (‘as they descended before, for the purpose of seducing their Alcmenas, their Alopes and their Semeles’).76 It is worth noting that Alope’s myth was not as popular and widely known as the legends of Alcmene and Semele.77 Nonetheless, the Aristophanic reference to Alope without any further specification, as if her story was equally known as the other two, entails that the Athenian audience was well acquainted with this tale. It is thus reasonable to infer that the popularity of Alope’s story during the fifth century could be attributed up to a certain extent to the Euripidean treatment

 73 Cases of conscious incest appear in Sophocles’ Thyestes in Sicyon between Thyestes and his daughter Pelopia (cf. Lloyd-Jones 1996, 106–107) and in Euripides’ Aeolus between Macareus and his sister Canace (see Jouan/Van Looy 1998–2003, I 15–27, Collard/Cropp 2008, I 12–15). Both cases are criticized in Pl. Lg. 838c; cf. scholium (Greene) ad loc. 74 This title is attested by Eustathius on Il. 6.474 (fr. 106 K.) and on Od. 21.79 (fr. 107 K.). 75 See Cropp/Fick 1985, 73; Jouan/Van Looy 1998–2003, I 139. Webster (1967, 4) classified the Alope among the metrically ‘severe’ plays of the early period of Euripides (455–428 BC); cf. also Webster 1966, 119. 76 According to Dunbar (1995, 376), it is possible that Aristophanes may be alluding to the Euripidean Alope in this passage. 77 See, for instance, LIMC s.v. ‘Alope’ (I 1, 572–573), ‘Alkmene’ (I 1, 552–556) and ‘Semele’ (VIII 1, 718–726).

32  Alope’s legend and its dramatic refigurations of this legend, as it seems rather improbable that the Aristophanic audience could readily recall Choerilus’ homonymous play, which had been staged about a century before. Hence, the performance of the Birds in 414 BC may well provide a terminus ante quem for the date of Euripides’ Alope, which, even more specifically, is likely to have been produced before 415 BC, as this is the attested date of the Euripidean tetralogy comprising Alexandros, Palamedes, Trojan Women and the satyr-play Sisyphus (Ael. VH 2.8, Ar. V. 1326b Koster). Due to the limited number of preserved fragments, the reconstruction of the play is tantalizing and to a certain extent based on speculation. Moreover, several fragments come from later lexicographical works and Stobaeus’ compilation, thus being isolated from their context, which makes their location within the dramatic plot even more difficult. Nevertheless, most of the available fragments seem to be consistent with the account of Hyginus (fab. 187), who is very likely to have had this dramatic plot in mind, not least because he regularly reproduces elements going back to Euripidean tragedies.78 On the other hand, it is quite improbable that the plot of Choerilus’ play was so popular in the era of Hyginus, as to be reflected in his narrative, whereas the tragedy of Carcinus presents crucial differences from Hyginus’ account in terms of the treatment of the story.79 But even if the mythographer does provide elements of the Euripidean plot, his narrative is not as accurate as a hypothesis. For instance, the doubling of the motif of the baby’s nursing by a mare and of his discovery by shepherds would not be consistent with dramatic economy.80 It is feasible that the prologue-speech could have been delivered by Alope herself or by her nurse, since, according to Hyginus’ account, she was the one who undertook the task of exposing the infant. Following Euripidean practice, the prologue-speaker would have set out the προπεπραγμένα (for the term, see Arist. Poet. 18, 1455b 30).81 Fr. 106 K. describing Poseidon’s impregnation of Alope, which belongs to the background of the play (γέμουσαν κύματος θεοσπόρου, ‘being heavy with the god-sown offspring’), could suitably be accommodated in

 78 On Hyginus as a source for Euripidean plots, see Huys 1996, 170–178 and 1997, 11–29. Cf. also n. 25 above. 79 On the likelihood that Hyginus could be reproducing this Euripidean plot, see Toepffer 1894, 1596; Schmid/Stählin 19612, 592–593, Jouan/Van Looy 1998–2003, I 141–142; Guidorizzi 2000, 467; Kannicht 2004, I 128–129; Collard/Cropp 2008, I 116. 80 Cf. Rose 1934a, 131–132 and Borecky 1955, 84–85 similarly noting the implausible doubling of this motif. 81 For the function of the prologue in Euripides, see, for instance, Schmidt 1971, 34–38 and Erbse 1984, 291.

Alope’s legend and its dramatic refigurations  33

the expository prologue. Her abandonment by the god is described in strong language in fr. 107 K. (πλήσας δὲ νηδὺν οὐδ’ ὄναρ κατ’ εὐφρόνην/ φίλοις ἔδειξεν αὑτόν, ‘Having filled her womb, he did not show himself to his loved ones even as a dream in the night’). This fragment may have either been located in the narrative prologue or later, in the course of the dramatic plot.82 In particular, the complaint over Poseidon’s desertion of Alope recalls key themes of Creusa’s impassioned monody against Apollo in Ion 859–922 (see esp. 880: λέκτρων προδότας ἀχαρίστους, 912: ἰὼ κακὸς εὐνάτωρ).83 This seems to be a recurring theme in plays treating the motif of theogamy, as it also emerges from Amphion’s plea to Zeus to do his duty towards his beloved ones in Antiope fr. 223.11–14 K. ([σοὶ δ’ ὃς τ]ὸ λαμπρὸν αἰθέρος ναίεις πέδον/ [λέγω τ]οσοῦτον· μὴ γαμεῖν μὲν ἡδέως,/ [γήμαν]τα δ’ εἶναι σοῖς τέκνοις ἀνωφελῆ·/ [οὐ γὰρ κ]αλὸν τόδ’, ἀλλὰ συμμαχεῖν φίλοις, ‘But to you who dwell in heaven’s bright expanse, I say this much: do not lie with a woman for pleasure and after doing so fail to help your children; for this is not honourable, but it is right to aid one’s beloved persons’).84 Moreover, the appearance of a beloved person even in a dream, though insubstantial on its own, may provide help and encouragement to deserted women, as expressed in fr. 107 of the Alope and in Megara`s appeal to Heracles (HF 495: ἅλις γὰρ ἐλθὼν κἂν ὄναρ γένοιο σύ, ‘for your arrival even in a dream would be enough’).85 The formulaic phrasing of fr. 105 K. includes an announcement of the entry of the chorus, which consists of athletes, presumably companions of Cercyon (ὁρῶ μὲν ἀνδρῶν τόνδε γυμνάδα στόλον/ στείχονθ’ ἑῷον ἐκ τρόχων πεπαυμένον, ‘I see coming here in the early morning this group of men, stripped for exercise after having finished at the track’).86 The chorus is frequently announced by the prologue-speaker in Euripides, as in Hipp. 54–57, IT 63, Or. 136–139, Ba. 55–63, Cyc. 36–40. Nonetheless, the composition of the present chorus prompts the question: how could a chorus comprising companions of Alope’s punishing father be sym-

 82 These fragments have also been placed in the prologue-speech by Kannicht 2004, I 230. The translation of the Euripidean fragments follows Collard/Cropp 2008, I 121, 123 with adjustments. 83 On Creusa’s monody, see, for instance, Lee 1997, 256–264; Martin 2018, esp. 359–362; Rabinowitz 1993, 197–200; Larue 1963, 126–136; Schadewaldt 1966, 217–218. 84 Cf. also Collard/Cropp/Gibert 2004, 315. 85 Cf. Barlow 1996, ad loc. and Halleran 1985, 85. 86 See also Kannicht 2004, I 229. This conventional announcement consisting of a verb of perception and the participle of a verb expressing motion in predicate position is regularly employed to signpost the entry of a new character: see Hourmouziades 1965, 142–144; Jacob 1976, esp. 340; Mannsperger 1971, 145; Belardinelli 1994, 130.

34  Alope’s legend and its dramatic refigurations pathetic to the maiden’s plight? It is noteworthy that the main choruses in Euripidean drama tend to support the suffering character, and it is for this reason that the gender of the main chorus often coincides with that of the leading character.87 I could thus not exclude the possibility that the chorus of Cercyon’s fellow athletes may have been a secondary chorus accompanying Alope’s father. Subsidiary choruses in Euripides tend to be closely connected to the dramatic character accompanied in each case, conveying certain qualities or beliefs of this person. Eloquent parallels of secondary choruses occur in Hipp. 54–112 (the chorus of Hippolytus’ fellow huntsmen), in Phaethon fr. 781.227–244 K. (girls singing the hymenaios and led by king Merops) and, according to schol. E. Hipp. 58 (Schwartz), in the Alexandros (consisting of Alexandros’ fellow herdsmen) and in the Antiope (comprising maenads, who accompany Dirce arriving as a bacchant).88 Accordingly, the chorus of athletes could indicate Cercyon’s status as wrestler and, in turn, allude to this male activity and to the male sphere of action, as opposed to the female, private space of the household, to which Alope is attached. The purpose and implications of female segregation will be further discussed below. The next preserved piece of evidence comes from the arbitration scene about the infant's garments. Notably enough, Hyginus reports that the two shepherds contendentes ad regem Cercyonem venerunt et contendere coeperunt. I would observe that the v. contendo (OLD, Lewis and Short: ‘to dispute’, ‘to vie with’) encompasses the notions of conflict and competition, thus being suggestive of an agon, which could have taken place between the two shepherds before the king Cercyon as judge, like the formal debates in Heracl. 120–287, Hec. 1109–1292 and Tr. 895–1059.89 This likelihood is further enhanced by the reception of this episode in Men. Epitr. 218–375, where a shepherd and a charcoal burner are arguing over some trinkets found with an exposed child in the presence of an arbitrator, who is coincidentally the baby’s grandfather, as in the Alope. The arbitration scene, after which Menander`s play is named, holds a pivotal position in the dra-

 87 Hose 1990–91, I 18; Arnold 1878, 52. 88 For the dramatic function of secondary choruses, see also Carrière 1977, esp. 15–17, 51–19, 77–79; Rehm 1992, 121–129; Taplin 1977, 236–237 and 20032, 100–101; Arnott 1962, 114–115; Swift 2010, 262–265, 307; Barrett 1964, 167; Dimock 1977, 248–249 and n. 3; earlier Lammers 1931, which, nonetheless, needs to be approached with much caution. 89 The possibility that this arbitration-scene could be a formal debate was raised by Duchemin 19682, 83.

Alope’s legend and its dramatic refigurations  35

matic plot, since the judge, Smicrines, just like Cercyon, is unknowingly determining the fate of his own grandson.90 Moreover, it promotes, as in the Alope, the reversal of action and a potential recognition, which yet occurs gradually in the course of the play. The tragic situation is thus remodeled in the idiom of comedy, being infused with verisimilitude, as it is transformed from the divine/mythical to the human/urban level.91 Even more interestingly, the comic scene is constructed as a formal debate, following the conventions of the Euripidean agon. Apart from the points made by Cusset,92 I would observe that it starts with an intense dialogue between the opponents (vv. 218–249) and includes forensic vocabulary signposting this scene as a formal debate. In more specific terms, the v. ἀντιλέγομεν (v. 225) is indicative of opposing argumentative speeches, which are, at the same time, a key feature of Euripidean rhetorical contests (parodied in Ar. Ra. 775). Added to this, the evaluation of the verbal performance of the opponents (v. 236) is suggestive of the rhetorical character of this confrontation, whereas the use of the v. δικάζω (v. 238) and the distinction between plaintiff and defendant (v. 218: φεύγεις τὸ δίκαιον— συκοφαντεῖς) are congruent with the forensic nature of Euripidean formal debates.93 Considering that Menander tends to shape his tragic intertexts in such a way as to acknowledge subtly his dramatic debts (either in stylistic terms or by means of structural correspondences between scenes), it is quite likely, I think, that this scene could allude to the agonistic structure of its tragic forerunner, that is, the possible formal debate in the Alope. At the same time, the structural and stylistic reception of the serious tragic scene in the comic play may well alert the audience to the significance of this episode for the development of the comic plot. Audience familiarity with classical tragedy, which became the dominant cultural  90 The correspondences between the two scenes have been studied in detail by Cusset 2003, 168–187; see also Gomme/Sandbach 1973, 302–317; Hunter 1985, 134–135; Katsouris 1975a, 148; Webster 1974, 57–58; Fountoulakis 2004, 58–59; Scafuro 1997, 160–161; Wiles 1991, 6; Walton/ Arnott 1996, 120; Arnott 1968, 10. 91 See also the remarks made by Cusset 2003, 183–187; Hunter 1985, 135; Webster 1950, 169; Fraenkel 1922, 382–383; Petrides 2014, 79–82. On Menander’s realism and secularization of tragic myths, cf. Zagagi 1994, ch. 5. 92 On the possible debts of this scene to the Euripidean agon, see Cusset 2003, 169–183. On the conventional structure of Euripidean formal debates, see Lloyd 1992, 5–6; Dubischar 2001, 39– 42 (offering an overview of earlier bibliography), 53–58; Collard 1975a, 60; Duchemin 19682, 167– 178. 93 For the forensic associations of formal debates, see e.g. Lloyd 1992, 13–16; Dubischar 2001, esp. 58–59, 96–97; Duchemin 19682, 12–14. On the forensic character of this Menandrean scene, see Scafuro 1997, 154–161; Martina 1997–2000, II 120–121; Cohoon 1914; Gomme/Sandbach 1973, 303–304, 306.

36  Alope’s legend and its dramatic refigurations form in that era mainly due to revivals, enabled Menander to ‘flag’ his affiliations with tragedy in a sophisticated manner liable to be perceived and appreciated by the spectators.94 If the arbitration scene was indeed constructed as an agon, it would have the form of an ‘Abrechnungsagon vor einem Richter’, according to Dubischar’s classification of Euripidean formal debates.95 According to Hyginus, the baby's garment, torn from Alope’s dress, raised the suspicions of Cercyon, who must have found out the truth by interrogating the nurse. The gnome referring to the natural alliance between women in fr. 108 K. (γυνὴ γυναικὶ σύμμαχος πέφυκέ πως, ‘A woman is by nature a woman’s ally’) seems to involve a comment on the nurse’s role as Alope’s confidante96 and could either belong to this scene or to an earlier part of the dramatic plot, such as the prologue-speech. It is also conceivable that the admonition of fr. 105a K. (μηδὲ σκυθρωπὸς ἴσθι, ‘Do not be sullen’) could be addressed either to one of the quarreling herdsmen or to Cercyon after the disclosure of his daughter’s motherhood.97 In fr. 113 K. the rare verb ὁδῆσαι (LSJ 9: ‘to sell’, ‘to be carried away and sold’)98 may refer to the exchange of the baby between the herdsmen. It has been suggested that the arbitration scene might be represented in a relief of a Roman sarcophagus dated to the second century AD, but the identification of the depicted characters is very insecure.99 Alope’s confrontation with her father must have been the climactic scene of the play, as it bears crucial implications for the further development of the dramatic plot, especially with regard to the maiden’s plight and the fate of her baby son. Cercyon’s words in fr. 110 K. seem to constitute a formal proem; this could be an indicator of the agonistic character of the father-daughter altercation, which presumably had the form of a trial-debate: ἐγὼ δ’, ὃ μὲν μέγιστον, ἄρξομαι λέγειν/ ἐκ τοῦδε πρῶτον· πατρὶ πείθεσθαι χρεὼν/ παῖδας νομίζειν τ’ αὐτὸ τοῦτ’

 94 On the familiarity of Hellenistic audiences with tragedy, see Webster 1974, 23, 59–67; Katsouris 1974, 175–204; Goldberg 1980, 13–24; Furley 2009, esp. 4–5; Wiles 1991, 5–6. 95 Dubischar 2001, 96–97, 125–126. 96 Cf. Webster 1967, 94; Hartung 1843–1844, II 177; Welcker 1839–1841, II 714; Kannicht 2004, I 231. 97 Cf. also Webster 1967, 94. 98 Hesych. s.v. ὁδῆσαι (o 79 Latte): πρίασθαι, ἀποδόσθαι, ὠνήσασθαι. This verb is employed in E. Cyc. 12 to describe Dionysus being sold by pirates; cf. Seaford 1984 and Ussher 1978, ad loc. According to Cusset (2003, 178–179), it may refer to the baby’s trinkets. 99 See Kron 1981, 572–573 (LIMC I 1, s.v. ‘Alope’, fig. 2).

Alope’s legend and its dramatic refigurations  37

εἶναι δίκην (‘I shall start my argument first of all with this, the main point: children should obey their father and consider this in itself to be right conduct’).100 According to lawcourt practice, which is regularly mirrored in Euripidean trialdebates, Cercyon is likely to have spoken first as the plaintiff and Alope second as the defendant, not least because she is the suffering and sympathetic character, and thus her speech should be the prevailing one and placed second, in climactic order.101 The preserved fragments indicate that the king strongly reproached Alope (fr. 109 K.: οὐ μὴν σύ γ’ ἡμᾶς τοὺς τεκόντας ᾐδέσω, ‘You did not show any respect for us, your parents’), drawing emphasis on the futility of guarding women (fr. 111 K.: τί δῆτα μοχθεῖν δεῖ γυναικεῖον γάμον/ φρουροῦντας; αἱ γὰρ εὖ τεθραμμέναι πλέον/ σφάλλουσιν οἴκους τῶν παρημελημένων, ‘Why should we strive to safeguard a woman’s marriage? For the well-raised ones do their households more damage than those who have been neglected’). Taking into account Cercyon’s disparagement of Alope’s motherhood, it is quite likely that he did not believe that she was seduced by a god; similarly, in Ion 1523–1527 and Ba. 26–31 the divine paternity of the child is contested. If Hyginus can be trusted, Cercyon must have immured her and ordered a second exposure of the baby. The hapax legomenon adjective ἀπρόσειλος102 (fr. 112a K.: ‘unsunned’) may refer to Alope’s prison.103 The meaning of this word could suggest that she was enclosed alive in her tomb, like Antigone. According to Hyginus, Hippothoon was vindicated by Theseus, who assigned him the kingdom of Eleusis. This event would presuppose his growing up first, which could not have happened within the course of one play.104 It has been suggested that a deus ex machina, perhaps Poseidon,105 could have appeared, foretelling Alope’s transformation into a spring, Cercyon’s punishment by Theseus and the exposed baby’s future, namely his being named Hippothoon, his undertaking the kingdom of Eleusis and his becoming the eponymous hero of the Athenian tribe Hippothoontis. The latter element is attested by Harpocration (Lexicon on the Ten Orators, α 81 Keaney) to have derived from the Euripidean Alope.

 100 On the formality of the proems of the set-speeches in Euripidean debates, see Lloyd 1992, 26; Collard 1975a, 62–64. On the agon-scenes of the Alope, see Duchemin 1968, 83. 101 For the order of speakers in Euripidean agones, see Schlesinger 1937, 69–70; Collard 1975a, 62; Lloyd 1992, 101. 102 According to Hesychius (s.v. ἄειλα πεδία: α 1285 Latte): εἵλη γὰρ τοῦ ἡλίου αὐγή. 103 Cf. Jouan/Van Looy 1998–2003, I 146. 104 Cf. Séchan 1926, 250; Mills 1997, 256. 105 Cf. Welcker 1839–1841, II 717; Séchan 1926, 250; Borecky 1955, 84–85; Webster 1967, 94; Jouan/Van Looy 1998–2003, I 141–142; Rose 1934a, 132.

38  Alope’s legend and its dramatic refigurations Apart from being Alope’s seducer and Hippothoon’s father, Poseidon seems to me to have been an appropriate deus ex machina, not least because he was closely related to Athens, being worshipped as Hippios and Poseidon Erechtheus.106 Alternatively, it is also feasible that Athena may have appeared, as in other ‘Athens-focused’ plays (see Supp. 1183ff., Ion 1553ff., Erechtheus fr. 370.55 K.), in order to underscore the significance of Hippothoon’s fate for the Athenian tradition.107 The god’s rhesis could have provided two kinds of aetiologies:108 a local αἴτιον for the spring in Eleusis named after Alope, as well as Hippothoon’s future role as an ἐπώνυμος hero of Attica. It is also possible that the god may have provided the paretymology of Hippothoon’s name, which could similarly bear an aetiological function, as often in Euripidean epilogues.109 Hyginus refers to the pivotal role played by Theseus in the retribution of justice. It is hard to imagine that Euripides would have missed the opportunity to employ Theseus as a dramatic character, in view of the powerful implications of his appearance as a symbol of the Athenian democratic tradition, into which Hippothoon will be integrated. Theseus’ onstage appearance, therefore, may have been a dramatic asset as against a simple reference to his punishing Cercyon in the rhesis of a deus ex machina. He could also make a suitable recipient of the god’s speech. In such a case, his killing Cercyon may have been announced in a messenger-speech preceding the emergence of the god. This would have satisfied the audience’s feeling of justice110 and would be congruent with the typical image of Theseus as the benevolent hero rescuing the powerless from cruelty. In Euripides’ Suppliant Women and even before then, in the Eleusinians of Aeschylus, his ἐπιείκεια and persuasion serve justice for the benefit of the weak.111 It is thus conceivable that the hero may have been addressed by the deus ex machina, being  106 In favour of Poseidon’s appearance as deus ex machina, see Welcker 1839–1841, II 717; Séchan 1926, 250; Borecky 1955, 84–85; Webster 1967, 94; Jouan/Van Looy 1998–2003, I 141–142; Collard/Cropp 2008, I 116. On the god’s Athenian cult, see Burkert 1985, 136, 138–139, 221; Schachermeyr 1950, 15–18, 26–29, 35–36, 156–157, 162; Eaverly 1995, 56–59. 107 On the implications of Athena’s appearance in these tragedies, see Collard 1975b, II 406– 407; Morwood 2007, 236; Collard/Cropp/Lee 1995, 149, 190; Lee 1997, 315. 108 On Euripides’ predilection for aetiologies in the epilogues of his plays, see Dunn 1996, 46– 63; Scullion 1999–2000, 219–227; Wilson 1968, 69–71; Rehm 1992, 70–71; Grube 19612, 78–79. 109 For the paretymology of the boy’s name, see n. 54 above. On the aetiological meaning of paretymologies in Euripidean closing scenes, see especially Van Looy 1973, 354–358. 110 Cf. Arist. Poet. 13, 1452b 36–1453a 1 and Else 1957, 369–371. 111 On Theseus’ figure in the Suppliant Women, see Collard 1975b, I 30, II 207–212. For the ἐπιείκεια of Theseus also in the Heracles and in the Oedipus at Colonus, cf. Mills 1997, 140–159 and 164–185 respectively. See further Euripides’ Theseus: Mills 1997, 252–255; Jouan/Van Looy 1998–2003, II 145–165; Collard/Cropp 2008, I 415–427.

Alope’s legend and its dramatic refigurations  39

induced to accomplish in the future the god`s will concerning Hippothoon. An eloquent parallel is provided at the end of Euripides` Suppliant Women (1183– 1227). The political implications of the association between Hippothoon and Theseus in the Alope are worth exploring. Hippothoon is son of a god strongly related to Athens and survives miraculously, twice nursed by a ἵππος, Poseidon`s animal (for which, see for instance Paus. 7.21.8–9).112 His vindication is attained with the help of Theseus, another son of Poseidon, who is regularly presented in tragedy as a symbol of Athenian virtue and a fighter against cruel and unjust forces. To assess the possible connotations of Theseus’ role, one may wish to address the parallel between this hero and Cleisthenes, as drawn by Kearns.113 Theseus had unified Attica by establishing the συνοικισμός,114 just as Cleisthenes did later through his democratizing tribal reform.115 Moreover, Hippothoon’s role in the tradition of Athens is defined by Theseus in myth and tragedy and by Cleisthenes in historical reality. Theseus, the Athenian hero par excellence, undertakes the task of re-integrating Hippothoon, an exposed child and an outcast, into the polis, by making him part of the Athenian democratic and cultic tradition. It thus seems quite tempting to infer that the figure of Theseus in the Alope may have been a dramatic equivalent of Cleisthenes’ historical persona. Though the tribal reform had taken place much earlier than Euripides` time, it is not unlikely that the dramatist may have wished to praise such a significant event for the democratic institutions of Athens. Likewise, at the closing scene of the Ion (1571–1594), which possibly postdated the Alope,116 if the aforementioned approximate dating of the latter is correct, Athena foretells the title-character’s destiny as king of Athens and father of the founders of the four early Athenian tribes, thus enhancing civic coherence and power through reminiscence of the city’s foundation myths.117 Accordingly, I would suggest that the epilogue of the Alope could have aimed to glorify the unity of the polis within the framework of the ten tribes. Moreover, I would observe that  112 On the protection of the exposed child by Nature, see Jung/Kerenyi 1951, 120–121. The miraculous suckling of infants by animals is often said to occur in founders` myths; cf. McCartney 1924, 38–39. 113 Cf. Kearns 1989, 119. 114 Th. 2.15. Cf. Gomme/Andrewes/Dover 1945–1981 and Hornblower 1991–2008, ad loc. See also Simms 1983, 197, 206–208 and Padgug 1972, 140–143. 115 On the democratic character of Cleisthenes’ tribal reform, see e.g. Wallace 2007, 76–77; Ober 2007, 96–97; Cartledge 2007, 142–146; Rhodes 2004, 305–308; Sinclair 1988, 3–4, 52–53. 116 On the date of the Ion, see n. 39 above. 117 Cf. Zacharia 2003, 44–55; Lee 1997, 34–36; Swift 2008, 69–85; Owen 1939, 179–180.

40  Alope’s legend and its dramatic refigurations these two tragedies display a further crucial, ideologically nuanced similarity. Both Hippothoon and Ion are exposed children, whose quest for an identity eventually leads to their integration into the polis and to their acquisition of an Athenian identity. In both cases, this is attained through the intervention of a character (Theseus and Athena respectively) seamlessly associated with the Athenian polis. Hence, the exodos of this play, as that of the Ion, may have illustrated Athenian civic ideology based on the traditions that defined the very profile of the polis. The implications of Alope’s illicit motherhood may similarly be investigated in the light of polis ideology. To address this issue, it is worth considering that Euripides reiterates the motif of seduction, illicit motherhood and infant exposure and their cruel repercussions upon the seduced maiden and her offspring throughout his career, as early as the Danae, in the Melanippe the Wise possibly belonging to the 420s and as late as the Auge.118 The reverse pattern treating the mother’s reunion with her long-lost, grown-up offspring is represented in the Ion, Captive Melanippe, Antiope and Hypsipyle, which are recognition-plays written in the last decade of Euripides’ career during the acute socio-political crisis which occurred from the Sicilian expedition onwards (for more detail, see previous chapter).119 Apart from the motif of seduction and infant exposure, there are notable similarities in the plot-structure of this group of tragedies. The infant is either exposed (in the Alope) or hidden by his mother (in the Melanippe the Wise, the Auge) or even presented as someone else’s offspring (in the Danae)120 and when the truth comes out, it is either persecuted by its grandfather (Melanippe the Wise) or  118 On the basis of metrical evidence, the Danae belongs to Euripides’ earlier production (staged between 455–425 BC; cf. Cropp/Fick 1985, 70, 78), the Melanippe the Wise to the 420s (see e.g. Collard/Cropp/Lee 1995, 247), while the Auge is dated towards the end of his career (between 414–406 BC; Cropp/Fick 1985, 77). The daughter’s punishment by her father due to her illicit motherhood also occurs in the Aeolus, whose main deviation from this group of plays lies in the poet’s probable focus on the father-son (rather than father-daughter) confrontation. 119 The distinction between these two groups of plays was first made by Borecky (1955, 86–89) and more systematically by Huys (1995, 40–41). On the implications of the rape and impregnation of Danae, Alope, Melanippe and Auge, see also the discussion in Scafuro 1990 and Sommerstein 2006, esp. 237–241. A similar theme was treated by Sophocles in his two Tyro plays, at least one of which was closer to the group of the ‘mother-offspring reunion’ tragedies; cf. Pearson 1917, II 272–273; Sutton 1984, 152–153; Clark 2003, 85; Moodie 2003, 122–127. For the date of the Antiope, Hypsipyle and Captive Melanippe, see n. 39 above. 120 In the Danae, in particular, the newly published hypothesis (P.Oxy. 5283, col. iv, 25–31) reports that Danae’s mother presented Perseus to Acrisius as her own child and thus as Acrisius’ own legitimate son.

Alope’s legend and its dramatic refigurations  41

exposed by him alone (Alope) or with its mother (Danae and Auge: in both cases mother and child are enclosed in a chest and cast adrift).121 The baby survives, in some cases nursed by a friendly animal, after which it is named.122 Nevertheless, unlike Melanippe, Danae and Auge, whose ultimate survival may have been foretold at the end of each tragedy, Alope is left to die. Her death-sentence by her own father constitutes a deliberate act of murder of a blood kin and thus a μιαρόν, known especially from early plays of Euripides, such as the Medea.123 The outline of these tragedies thus follows a plot typology consisting of the royal daughter’s intrigue to protect her baby, her father’s discovery of her illicit motherhood and the maiden’s confrontation with her father, which culminates in her conflict with her natal oikos, leading to a cruel penalty imposed on her (seclusion sometimes combined with exposure, as in the cases of Danae and Auge) and on her illegitimate offspring (exposure). It is worth noting that discovery and its repercussions seem to have been focal points in these plots, bringing the ‘girl’s tragedy’ to the fore.124 Euripides’ preoccupation with this story-pattern seems to have been motivated by contemporary Athenian life. Female chastity before marriage would ensure the production of legitimate offspring, which would preserve the integrity of the oikos (Lys. 1.33) and, in turn, that of the polis, as any male child of a married Athenian woman would receive the rights of Athenian citizenship.125 Hence, socio-political norms seem to have imposed sexual segregation (Lys. 3.6–7) and presumably the exposure of illegitimate offspring, though the latter is not safely attested by fifth-century evidence.126

 121 On the plot of these plays, see especially Van Looy 1964, 196–244 and Collard/Cropp/Lee 1995, 240–242 (on the Melanippe the Wise); Collard/Cropp 2008, I 323–325 and Karamanou 2006, 22–29 (on the Danae); Jouan/Van Looy 1998–2003, I 313–318 and Collard/Cropp 2008, I 259–263 (on the Auge). 122 Apart from Hippothoon, who was named after the mare who suckled him, one of Melanippe’s twins was named Boeotus, because it was suckled by a cow, when their mother hid them in the cowshed (fr. 489 K.: τὸν δ’ ἀμφὶ βοῦς ῥιφέντα Βοιωτὸν καλεῖν). 123 Arist. Poet. 14, 1453b 27–29, 38–39; see Belfiore 2000, 3–20, 131–132. 124 This term was coined by Burkert (1979, 6–7) to describe mythical paradigms and was further developed by Scafuro 1990 and 1997, 274–278 with a focus on dramatic plots. 125 Cf. Scafuro 1990, 127, 136, 151; Seaford 1990b, 160; Blundell 1995, 125–126, 135–136; Syropoulos 2003, esp. 3–5. Accordingly, Solon is known to have introduced a law allowing fathers to sell into slavery their unmarried daughters, who had lost their virginity (Plu. Sol. 23.2); this law, however, seems unlikely to have been put into effect in the fifth and fourth centuries BC (see MacDowell 1978, 80). 126 On female segregation, see Heracl. 43–44 (and Allan 2001a, ad loc.), 476–477, Ph. 93–95 (and Craik 1988, ad loc.), Or. 108, fr. inc. 1061 K., Lys. 3.6 (and Carey 1989, ad loc.), D. 47, Is. 3.13– 14, Men. Dysc. 222–224. Cf. Ogden 1997, 25–36; Cohen 1991, 140–141 and 1993, 7–8; Des Bouvrie

42  Alope’s legend and its dramatic refigurations The gravity of the accusations against the maiden for sexual misconduct emerges from the strongly condemnatory words of Acrisius, Cercyon and Aeolus upon discovering their daughters’ unmarried motherhood. In more specific terms, the seduction of these girls is perceived as a disgrace brought upon their oikos (Alope frr. 109–111 K.), as indicative of female uncontrollable sexuality (Alope fr. 111, Danae fr. 320 K.) and as bearing a huge social threat, which should be stopped before spreading into the behaviour of a larger group of women (fr. 497 K. probably belonging to the Melanippe the Wise).127 Likewise, Heracles admits to Auge’s father, Aleos, that his rape of Auge is a crime against Aleos’ oikos (fr. 272b K.). Hence, considering that male honour assumed the responsibility of defending the chastity of unmarried women under his tutelage, it may not be surprising that in all these cases the father, the kyrios, chooses to punish his seduced daughter by seclusion as a means of his reasserting control over her.128 The girl’s failure to comply with the norms of her paternal household thus results to her clash with her natal oikos, which entails a clash with the polis as a whole, since the oikos preserves the interests of the latter (Arist. Pol. 1252a 24–1253b 23, Solon fr. 4.26– 29 W.2).129 Therefore, mother and offspring are brutally cast out from both the oikos and the polis by imprisonment and exile. By making the girl the suffering figure, Euripides might have aimed to allude to the precarious position of women in Classical Athens in the light of the powerful oikos-polis nexus and the measures taken to maintain the legitimacy and stability of the citizen body. Despite the fragmentary state of this group of plays, it might be possible to make a few basic inferences about issues of audience response. According to the fundamental source for tragic emotion, Aristotle’s Poetics, the audience’s empathy is dependent on the sufferer’s deservingness or undeservingness (Poet. 13, 1453a 4–5); this entails that the theme of ‘the girl’s tragedy’ represented in the Alope must have aroused the spectators’ pity for the title-character’s undeserved misfortune. At the same time, it is worth bearing in mind that audience reception

 1990, 44–48, 51–52; Blundell 1995, 135–138; Walcot 1996, 91–93; Clark 1989, 17–19, 24; Murnaghan 2015, 266–269. On infant exposure, see Huys 1995, 13–15 and 1989, 190–197; Kudlien 1989, 30–35. 127 For the allocation of this fragment, see Collard/Cropp/Lee 1995, 277. 128 Cf. Seaford 1990a, 81, 84. Likewise, Aeschines (1.182 and schol. ad loc.) mentions how a father imprisoned his seduced daughter in a deserted house together with a horse. For the control exercised by the woman’s guardian, cf. Harrison 1968–1971, I 108–115; Gould 1980, 43–46; Cohen 1994, 140–142; Foley 1981, 129–131; Des Bouvrie 1990, 44–48, 51–52; Walcot 1996, 91–93. 129 On the oikos-polis interrelation, see above, n. 41. For its representation in tragedy, see e.g. Hall 1997, 104–110 and Goldhill 1986, 114.

Alope’s legend and its dramatic refigurations  43

of tragic suffering is a complex process attained in emotional as well as in cognitive terms. The latter aspect stems from an intellectually conditioned structure of action leading to the spectators’ cognitive evaluation of the play.130 From this viewpoint, it is also conceivable that the girl’s precariousness and plight could have given rise to the spectators’ consideration of their contemporary circumstances, by allusively offering insight into crucial ideological issues and the practices employed to safeguard the integrity of the polis. The third known tragic version of this legend was provided by Carcinus (TrGF I 70 F1b) during the fourth century BC. The main source for this tragedy is EN 1150b 6–10: οὐ γὰρ εἴ τις ἰσχυρῶν καὶ ὑπερβαλλουσῶν ἡδονῶν ἡττᾶται ἢ λυπῶν, θαυμαστόν, ἀλλὰ συγγνωμονικὸν εἰ ἀντιτείνων, ὥσπερ ὁ Θεοδέκτου Φιλοκτήτης ὑπὸ τοῦ ἔχεως πεπληγμένος ἢ ὁ Καρκίνου ἐν τῇ ᾿Αλόπῃ Κερκύων. For there is nothing surprising in a person’s succumbing to violent and excessive pleasures or pains: indeed, it is excusable if he succumbs after a struggle, like Theodectes’ Philoctetes when bitten by the viper or Carcinus’ Cercyon in the Alope. (transl. Crisp 2000 with adjustments)

In this passage Aristotle points out that suicide is pardonable only when it comes as the result of a struggle against excessive pain. He then presents two similar cases of humans succumbing to extremely painful situations, which are congruent with the Aristotelian definition of πάθος in Poet. 11, 1452b 11–12 (πρᾶξις φθαρτικὴ ἢ ὀδυνηρά): in Theodectes’ Philoctetes the title-character yields to the insufferable physical pain caused by the snakebite and in Carcinus’ Alope Cercyon’s unendurable mental suffering leads him to renounce life.131 Further information is provided by the scholia on this Aristotelian passage. The testimony of the anonymous scholiast on Arist. EN ad loc. (ed. Heylbut) runs as follows: καὶ ὁ Καρκῖνος τραγικὸς ἦν, ὁ δὲ Κερκύων εἶχε θυγατέρα τὴν ᾿Αλόπην. μαθὼν δὲ ὅτι ἐμοιχεύθη ἡ αὐτοῦ θυγάτηρ ᾿Αλόπη ἠρώτησεν αὐτήν, τίς ἦν ὁ μοιχεύσας, λέγων εἴ μοι τοῦτον εἴποις, οὐδ' ὅλως ἂν λυπηθῇς. εἶτα εἰπούσης τῆς ᾿Αλόπης τὸν αὐτὴν μοιχεύσαντα, οὐκέτι ὁ Κερκύων ὑπὸ τῆς λύπης ἔφερε ζῆν, ἀλλὰ καὶ τὸ ζῆν ἀπελέγετο. οἷον καὶ ὁ Κερκύων, ὁ ὑπὸ τοῦ Καρκίνου παραγόμενος, ἡττηθεὶς ὑπὸ τῶν λυπῶν οὐ μαλακὸς ῥηθῇ. ὥσπερ καὶ ὁ πειρώμενος κατέχειν τὸν γέλωτα, εἶτα ἀθρόον ἐκκαγχάζει, οὕτως καὶ ὁ Κερκύων μέχρι μὲν πολλοῦ πρὸς τὴν λύπην ἀντέτεινεν, εἶτα ἡττήθη.

 130 See Else 1957, 449–450; Lada 1993, 106–109, 122–125 and 1996, 406–409; Easterling 1996, 173–180. 131 Cf. also Dirlmeier 1979, ad loc.

44  Alope’s legend and its dramatic refigurations Carcinus was a tragic poet as well; Cercyon had a daughter named Alope. When he found out that his daughter Alope was seduced, he asked her who her seducer was, telling her that ‘if you tell me his name, you will not regret it at all’. Then, when Alope told him who seduced her, Cercyon could no longer live under distress and renounced life. Likewise, Cercyon as presented by Carcinus will not be described as soft, having been defeated by his pains. As one trying to restrain laughter bursts out laughing, similarly Cercyon struggled with his sorrow to a great extent and then he was defeated.

According to the scholiast, Cercyon asked Alope to name her seducer, reassuring her that she would not be harmed. But after finding out that it was Poseidon, he struggled with his grief, but could not live with it and committed suicide. This piece of information, however brief it may be, raises some interesting questions about dramatic action and characterization. First and foremost, the figure of Cercyon appears here to be diametrically opposite to his Euripidean equivalent. As far as our evidence goes, not only is Alope not sentenced to death by her father, but she does not even seem to be blamed for her seduction. Instead, Cercyon insists on finding out the name of her seducer, presumably in order to avenge the offence. The notion of μοιχεία that appears repeatedly in the text of the scholia signifies unauthorized sex with a citizen’s wife, widowed mother, unmarried daughter or sister; according to Attic law, the seducer could be prosecuted either for seduction or for rape and be killed on the spot by the offended party, if caught in flagrante, provided that he admitted to the charge.132 The testimony of this scholium is further enhanced by the evidence provided in a Byzantine paraphrase of the Nicomachean Ethics attributed to Heliodorus of Prusa (p. 149.23 Heylbut): ἢ ὃν εἰσάγει Καρκῖνος ὁ ποιητὴς Κερκύονα ἐπὶ τῇ ὕβρει τῆς θυγατρὸς ᾿Αλόπης καρτεροῦντα μέχρι τινός, εἶτα ἡττηθέντα τῆς ἀλγηδόνος. Or Cercyon, whom the poet Carcinus presented as enduring to an extent the assault committed against his daughter Alope and then as being defeated by his pain.

It is noteworthy that the paraphrase describes Alope’s seduction as hybris, which on the human level involves a serious assault on the honour of another, causing shame and leading to anger and to the desire for revenge.133 Rape is a form of hybris, and the relevant sources underscore the gravity of the offence committed

 132 Lys. 1.28, Aeschin. 1.90, Plu. Sol. 23, D. 23.53–55; see MacDowell 1963, 72, 77, 80 and 1978, 124–125; Scafuro 1990, 133–135; Carey 1995, 412; Dover 1974, 209; Blundell 1995, 125. 133 Arist. Rh. 1378b 23–26, VV 1251a 34–36, [Pl.] Def. 415e 12. See Fisher 1992, 7–19.

Alope’s legend and its dramatic refigurations  45

against the kyrios of the woman who has been a victim of rape or seduction.134 Hence, reasonably enough, Cercyon asks to find out the identity of his daughter’s seducer, with the purpose of punishing the offender of his oikos. It is worth wondering whether Cercyon was presented in the play as Poseidon’s son, as in Choerilus, since in such a case the god’s contact with Alope would have been incest, making Cercyon’s suffering even more unbearable. One cannot judge Carcinus` tragedy regardless of the moral beliefs of his own era. Aristotle’s critical reception of the tragic deed performed by Cercyon suggests that taking one’s own life due to a severe disgrace or extreme grief cannot be perceived as softness.135 Similarly, Plato in Lg. 873c 2–7 accepts suicide under the pressure of an unavoidable misfortune or of an irremediable disgrace that one cannot live with. In fifth-century tragedy, especially in Sophocles and Euripides, suicide is usually committed due to unbearable grief as well as a fear of humiliation and δύσκλεια.136 Carcinus’ deviation from the Euripidean plot and characterization is quite clear; the cruel and oppressive figure of Cercyon, who violently kills his own daughter in Euripides, is substituted for a human and dignified person struggling against his misfortune and finally succumbing to it. Similarly, Medea appears in Carcinus’ tragedy of the same title (TrGF I 70 F1e) as having hidden her children possibly to protect them, instead of killing them. In both cases, the violence emerging from the conscious murder of blood kin in the Euripidean versions is smoothed away by Carcinus, and this feature seems to be suggestive of a trend towards sensitivity and mildness characterizing the tragedy of his own era. Although the available sample from fourth-century tragedy is not too extensive to allow us to draw any definite conclusions, it is noteworthy that this trend emerges from Aristotle’s critical reception of his contemporary tragic production. For instance, in his evaluation of tragic deeds Aristotle does not think highly of willful murders occurring between close relatives, as presented in fifth–century tragedy (Poet. 14, 1454a 2). Instead, he reckons that tragic deeds committed unknowingly between blood kin are preferable to deliberate acts, since there is nothing repellent in them, and the recognition is astonishing, as in the Alcmeon of the fourth 134 Arist. Rh. 1373a 34–35, EE 1221b 23, D. 23.55–56, Lys. 1, Dissoi Logoi DK 90 2.5. See Fisher 1992, 104–111; Dover 1974, 209–210; Lacey 1968, 113–116; Blundell 1995, 125–126. 135 Arist. EN 1150b 6–10; cf. the scholia of Aspasius and Heliodorus ad loc. (ed. Heylbut). 136 See e.g. S. Ai. 854–865, E. Hipp. 392–430, 716–721, 767–775. However, in HF 1351 suicide is opposed to ἐγκαρτέρησις. On the suicide-motif in Sophocles, see Opstellten 1952, 120–121, 195 and in tragedy in general, Garrison 1995 esp. ch. 2 and 4; Katsouris 1976, 5–36; Faber 1970. On suicide due to disgrace, see Dover 1974, 18, 168, 236–237. For views on suicide from classical to modern times, cf. Noon 1978, 371–386 and much earlier Hirzel 1908, 417–476.

46  Alope’s legend and its dramatic refigurations century tragedian Astydamas (Poet. 14, 1453b 29–34, cf. 1454a 3–4).137 Aristotle also stresses the preference of fourth-century audiences for milder plots (Poet. 13, 1453a 33–35), which entails that they were less willing to attend ‘typical’ tragedies involving harsh dramatic situations, presumably due to the critical socio-political changes that took place after the Athenian defeat in the Peloponnesian War.138 Carcinus’ dramatic predilections thus seem to reflect his contemporary ideology as well as the tastes of his audience. Notably enough, the available sources for Carcinus’ play do not provide any hint at Alope’s motherhood. This could be attributed to the possibly selective character of the Aristotelian scholia. But it is worth wondering whether and to which degree Hippothoon had a role in Carcinus’ tragedy. Taking into account the decrease in the political engagement of fourth-century tragedy,139 it is conceivable that Carcinus may have not been concerned to focus on an Attic hero. Instead, he seems to have drawn emphasis on the ethical and social implications of a girl’s seduction, by writing a play infiltrated with sensitivity and emotion. Moreover, he evidently chose to bring forward Cercyon’s struggle for self-mastery, which could have been theatrically effective, as it may have given scope for histrionic virtuosity, thus being consistent with the prominence of actors from the fourth century onwards.140 Hence, while Euripides’ play must have focused on ‘the girl’s tragedy’, Carcinus appears to have transposed the dramatic interest from Alope to Cercyon, delineating the latter’s pathos. The lines of inquiry which have been sketched out focus on the exploration of the dramatic reworkings of Alope’s legend within varying socio-political and cultural contexts. It could reasonably be argued that Choerilus’ play cannot be perceived regardless of the socio-historical conditions of the late sixth century BC. The dramatist’s choice to deal with the birth of an eponymous Attic hero may have well been related to the Cleisthenic tribal reforms and presumably also to the required corroboration of the Attic identity of Eleusis in a period in which it was placed under threat. Moreover, Choerilus’ possible emphasis on the Eleusinian cult through the attested association of Hippothoon with Triptolemus could  137 On Aristotle’s evaluation of tragic deeds, see the discussion in Else 1957, 450–452; Lucas 1968, 152–155; Janko 1987, 107–108; Belfiore 1992b, 359–375. 138 On these particular features of fourth-century tragedy, see the discussion in Webster 1954, 300–301; Xanthakis-Karamanos 1980, 35–46; Easterling 1993, 559–563; Belfiore 2000, 215–219; Wright 2016, 111. 139 On the less political character of fourth-century tragedy, see Xanthakis-Karamanos 1980, 3–5 and Kuch 1993, 548, 551–552. 140 See Arist. Rh. 1403b 33. Cf. also Ghiron-Bistagne 1976, 154–171; Easterling/Hall (eds.) 2002 and especially Easterling 2002, 327–341; Csapo/Slater 1995, 223–224; Green 1994, 62.

Alope’s legend and its dramatic refigurations  47

be consistent with the cultic purposes of the institution of the ten eponymous heroes. At the same time, the ritual nuances of this play seem to conform to the trends of early tragedy. Euripides’ refiguration of this myth evidently brought forward ‘the girl’s tragedy’ and the fortune of her son from the viewpoint of polis ideology. As argued, the implications of the maiden’s seduction and, in turn, female precariousness may effectively be grasped in the light of the oikos-polis nexus. Likewise, Hippothoon’s role as an eponymous hero of Attica in conjunction with his close association with the politically nuanced persona of Theseus could serve to highlight the Athenian democratic tradition through the unifying force of the ten tribes. The Nachleben of the Euripidean play is equally interesting. The inter-generic transformation of the arbitration scene of the Alope by Menander in the Epitrepontes does not solely consist in the reception of the dramatic situation of the source text. The Menandrean scene seems to appropriate its tragic forerunner also in structural terms, in that it is constructed as a formal debate, following basic stylistic and structural conventions of the Euripidean agon. As I observed above, Menander may be acknowledging his debt to the Euripidean play, by refiguring this scene in such a manner as to recall the possible agonistic structure of its source text. Carcinus’ homonymous tragedy provides a further case which could shed light on the ideological forces shaping the tragic transformations of this legend. The fourth-century dramatist chose to underscore the moral repercussions of a girl`s seduction, without making the spectators experience the repellent actuality of the deliberate murder of a blood kin. At the same time, he seems to have shifted the dramatic interest from Alope to the suffering figure of Cercyon, by presenting him as struggling with the disgrace brought upon his household and finally succumbing to it. These features must have produced dramatically effective scenes congruent with the tastes of fourth-century audiences and the sensitivity of that era. The investigation of the known dramatic transformations of this legend could thus provide a case study elucidating the varied strategies through which the mythical material is reshaped and the complex dialectic between the dramatic work and its socio-cultural conditions. This exploration may also yield insight into each poet’s dramatic agenda, as well as into the ‘horizon of expectations’ of the audiences of each different period. At the same time, the dramatic and ideological trends pervading these three reworkings of the same legend could form further indicators of the development of the tragic genre from the sixth to the fourth century BC.

Tragedy into Comedy: Euripides’ Alcmeon in Corinth as a source text of Menander’s Periceiromene The present chapter aims to point out key thematic and structural elements of Euripides’ Alcmeon in Corinth which have been refigured by Menander in the Periceiromene and to investigate the metadramatic function of the reworking of the tragic source text in a comic milieu.141 The Alcmeon in Corinth, which has come down to us in a fragmentary state, belongs to Euripides’ last trilogy, was staged posthumously alongside the Iphigenia in Aulis and the Bacchae after the poet’s death in 406 BC142 and won the first prize at the City Dionysia.143 A rough account of its dramatic plot is preserved in [Apollod.] 3.7.7: Εὐριπίδης δέ φησιν ᾿Αλκμαίωνα κατὰ τὸν τῆς μανίας χρόνον ἐκ Μαντοῦς Τειρεσίου παῖδας δύο γεννῆσαι, ᾿Αμφίλοχον καὶ θυγατέρα Τισιφόνην, κομίσαντα δὲ εἰς Κόρινθον τὰ βρέφη δοῦναι τρέφειν Κορινθίων βασιλεῖ Κρέοντι, καὶ τὴν μὲν Τισιφόνην διενεγκοῦσαν εὐμορφίᾳ ὑπὸ τῆς Κρέοντος γυναικὸς ἀπεμποληθῆναι, δεδοικυίας μὴ Κρέων αὐτὴν γαμετὴν ποιήσηται. τὸν δὲ ᾿Αλκμαίωνα ἀγοράσαντα ταύτην ἔχειν οὐκ εἰδότα τὴν ἑαυτοῦ θυγατέρα θεράπαιναν, παραγενόμενον δὲ εἰς Κόρινθον ἐπὶ τὴν τῶν τέκνων ἀπαίτησιν καὶ τὸν υἱὸν κομίσασθαι. καὶ ᾿Αμφίλοχος κατὰ χρησμοὺς ᾿Απόλλωνος ᾿Αμφιλοχικὸν ῎Αργος ᾤκισεν. (ed. Wagner 19262) Euripides says that in the time of his madness Alcmeon begot two children, Amphilochus and a daughter Tisiphone, by Manto, daughter of Teiresias, and that he brought the babies to Corinth and gave them to Creon, king of Corinth, to bring up; and that on account of her extraordinary beauty Tisiphone was sold as a slave by Creon’s spouse, who feared that Creon might make her his wedded wife. But Alcmeon bought her and kept her as a handmaid, not knowing that she was his daughter, and coming to Corinth to get back his children he recovered his son as well. And Amphilochus colonized Amphilochian Argos in obedience to oracles of Apollo. (transl. Frazer 1921 with minor adjustments)

As a rule, Ps.-Apollodorus’ narratives concentrate on the events essential for the continuation of the legend,144 here referring mainly to the background of the story of Alcmeon’s children and to the hero’s final recovery of them, without revealing  141 This is an enlarged and bibliographically updated version of Karamanou 2005. 142 Schol. vet. Ar. Ra. 67 (Chantry). 143 Suda s.v. Εὐριπίδης (ε 3696 Adler). 144 See e.g. Huys 1997b, 319. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110661279-004

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any details or complications of the dramatic plot. The play enumerates only five certain fragments: one from a papyrus commentary (fr. 73a K.), two quoted in Ioannes Stobaeus’ gnomic anthology dating to the fifth century AD (frr. 75 and 76 K.), another one by the twelfth-century Byzantine scholar Ioannes Tzetzes (fr. 74 K.) and a single-word fragment attested in the Byzantine Lexicon of Hesychius (fr. 77 K.). The possibility that more lines of this tragedy could have been preserved is open to speculation, since another group of fragments (frr. 78–87a K.) is vaguely ascribed to an Alcmeon play by Euripides without any specification as to whether they derive from the Alcmeon in Corinth or the earlier Alcmeon in Psophis produced by the dramatist along with the Cretan Women, Telephus and Alcestis in 438 BC. Despite the small amount of lines preserved, most of the available fragments are quite informative. Fr. 73a K. is delivered by Apollo, who was evidently the prologue-speaker. The god is reporting that Alcmeon begot twins, Amphilochus and Tisiphone, by Apollo’s priestess Manto: κἀγὼ μὲν ἄτεκνος ἐγενόμην κείνης ἄπο· ᾿Αλκμέωνι δ’ ἔτεκε δίδυμα τέκνα παρθένος. And I myself was childless by her; but the unmarried girl bore Alcmeon two children.145

Interestingly, these lines attest that a god’s union with a mortal woman failed to produce offspring; these words contradict the traditional rules of mythical theogamy, according to which a woman being seduced by a god always conceives (see, for instance, Od. 11.248–250). This has to be a Euripidean deviation in the treatment of the legend, considering that mythographic sources, such as [Apollod.] 3.7.4, attest that Apollo actually begot a son by Manto named Mopsus. A similarly desacralized treatment of the motif of theogamy was provided by Euripides in the Auge, in which the princess bears a child not to a god, but to Heracles presented as a humanized hero. In the present case, however, the dramatist goes as far as presenting a god’s union as barren and a mortal’s union with the same woman as fertile. This situation may be interpreted in the light of the scepticism often expressed by Euripidean characters towards divine births. This critical approach of theogamy is prominent in Ba. 26–31, 245, being articulated in the disbelief of Pentheus and his family towards Dionysus’ divine origin, and constitutes a sub-topic in IA 794–800 with reference to Helen’s divine descent (see also HF 353–354, Ion

 145 The translation is based on Collard/Cropp 2008, I 91, 93.

50  Tragedy into Comedy 338–341, 436–451, Hel. 17–21).146 It is noteworthy that this fragment indicates that the scepticism towards theogamy was a shared theme in all three tragedies of this Euripidean production. Sadly, the scanty evidence for the Alcmeon in Corinth does not give scope for a further investigation of the specific reasons for this divergence from the tradition. As in all divine prologue-speeches, Apollo must have set out the background of the story, that is, Alcmeon’s separation from his offspring and Tisiphone’s reduction to slavery. The god is expected to have identified Alcmeon’s children from the very beginning, as Hermes identifies the temple boy as the son of Apollo and Creusa in Ion 78, so that the spectators have a superior knowledge of events to that of the stage characters and can clearly discern the instances of tragic irony. We are informed by fr. 74 K. that the chorus consisted of Corinthian women asking for the provenance of a stranger who has just arrived at Corinth: φίλαι φίλαι, πρόβατε, μόλε· τίς ὅδε, ποδαπὸς ὁ ξένος Κορινθίοις ἔμολεν ἀγχιάλοις; Friends, friends, come forward, do come! Who is this stranger here, from what country has he come to Corinth by the sea?

On the basis of the available evidence, the stranger of this fragment cannot be anyone other than Alcmeon. Stylistically and thematically speaking, these lines closely resemble the beginning of the parodos in Heracl. 73–74 and in S. OC 118– 122 (probably also in E. Aegeus frr. 1 and 2 K.) presenting the chorus as entering ‘on the run’ and asking about the identity of a dramatic character or about a particular situation.147 If this fragment indeed preserves the opening of the parodos, the chorus’ ‘discovery’ of Alcmeon could also indicate that the hero is already onstage (as the characters in the Heraclidae and Oedipus at Colonus), having entered presumably in the second part of the prologue after Apollo’s monologue; as a rule, gods deliver their detached prologue-speeches and then leave upon the appearance of an incoming mortal (see Hipp. 51–53, Hec. 52–54, Ion 76–78).148 Fr. 76 K. describes king Creon as a childless old man being punished for his arrogance with exile:

 146 On Euripides’ critical approach of divine births, see especially Huys 1995, 90–92, 120–121; Collard/Morwood 2017, II 443–444 with further bibliography. 147 See Kannicht 2004, I 213 on this fragment; Wilkins 1993 on Heracl. 73–74. 148 For this conventional practice, see, for instance, Halleran 1985, 8 and n. 18.

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ὁρᾶτε τὸν τύραννον ὡς ἄπαις γέρων φεύγει· φρονεῖν δὲ θνητὸν ὄντ’ οὐ χρὴ μέγα. See how the king is fleeing into exile, childless in old age; one who is mortal should not think proudly.

On the other hand, fr. 75 K. involves an address to someone as ‘son of Creon’: ὦ παῖ Κρέοντος, ὡς ἀληθὲς ἦν ἄρα, ἐσθλῶν ἀπ’ ἀνδρῶν ἐσθλὰ γίγνεσθαι τέκνα, κακῶν δ’ ὅμοια τῇ φύσει τῇ τοῦ πατρός. Son of Creon, how true then it has proved, that from noble fathers noble children are born, and from base ones children resembling their father’s nature.

The latter reference clearly clashes with Creon’s description as childless in fr. 76 K. The reasonable inference is that Amphilochus is the person regarded as the king’s son in these lines and that Creon naturally remains childless after Alcmeon’s recognition with his children. Fr. 75 K. comprises a comment on heredity of character; due to its gnomic nature and the loss of context we cannot recover the exact tone of these lines, but, in any case, the misconception of Amphilochus’ paternity involves a strong tragic irony. Fr. 76 K. referring to Creon’s sentence to exile must be placed towards the end of the play. Its strongly didactic tone makes it likely to have been delivered by a deus ex machina. The same concluding divine speech could have comprised the foundation myth of Amphilochian Argos, which is attested by Ps.-Apollodorus to have derived from the Euripidean play; this would be consistent with the dramatist’s predilection for aetiologies at the epilogues of his plays connecting the tragic legend to the contemporary world of the audience.149 This fragment explicitly attests that Creon is an unsympathetic character punished with exile at the end of the play. He could have played a malicious role, perhaps by preventing Alcmeon from getting his children back; he would not like to lose Amphilochus, whom he raised as his own son, and could wish to regain Tisiphone, who was sold as slave by Creon’s jealous wife because of the king’s desire for her.150  149 On this Euripidean technique, see Scullion 1999–2000, 219–227; Wilson 1968, 69–71; Dunn 1996, 46–63. 150 For this dramatic plot, see Collard/Cropp 2008, I 87–89; Jouan/Van Looy 1998–2003, I 98– 100; Webster 1967, 265–268; cf. Van Looy 1964, 103–131 also providing a critical approach of Zielinksi’s (1922, 309–323) highly conjectural reconstruction. On the reception of the play in modern performance, see Hall 2010, 341–343. See also below, p. 118 and n. 358.

52  Tragedy into Comedy Overall, the dramatic plot is expected to have had several complications, the details of which cannot be restored, until Alcmeon’s final recognition with his twin children and Creon’s punishment. On the basis of its plot-structure, the Alcmeon in Corinth is a play of mixed reversal ending in good fortune for the sympathetic characters and in misfortune for the unsympathetic ones. This double structure is not commended by Aristotle, who nevertheless admits that it corresponds to the tastes of the audiences (Poet. 13, 1453a 30–36). In view of its plotpatterns, the Alcmeon in Corinth is generically affiliated with other Euripidean plays treating the motif of 'family reunion', which consists in the recognition between long-separated close kin and the restoration of their household after a major crisis threatening their oikos (Iphigenia in Tauris, Helen, Ion, Antiope, Hypsipyle, Captive Melanippe). The approximate dating of this group of plays indicates that the development of this typology occurs in later Euripidean production from 415 BC onwards. It does not seem to be a coincidence that all these plays were staged in a period of socio-political crisis in Athens culminating in the last decade of the Peloponnesian War. The aforementioned penchant of the spectators for plays of mixed reversal could quite reasonably have emerged from their preference for ‘mild’ plays inspiring optimism during this troubled period. Still, ‘typical’ tragedies ending in misfortune, such as the Bacchae, continued to be produced and were staged alongside ‘milder’ plays, such as the Alcmeon in Corinth.151 In Euripides’ ‘family reunion’ plays fortune and misapprehension hold a significant role as mechanisms of the plot;152 Alcmeon has coincidentally bought his own daughter as a slave, while the hero and his children all ignore each other’s identity. The Euripidean typology of the complex plot involving an effective recognition-scene between separated kin, coupled with a reversal of action and leading to a happy ending repeatedly provided a thematic and structural model for the poets of New Comedy,153 particularly Menander, and the novel.154 Menander’s debt to the Euripidean tragedy in terms of structure (see, for instance, the  151 The term ‘mixed reversal’ was established in Euripidean criticism by Burnett 1971. On the date of the Iphigenia in Tauris, Helen, Ion, Antiope, Hypsipyle and Captive Melanippe, see n. 39 above. The Alexandros (dated with certainty to 415 BC) also shares this plot-pattern, but the hero’s reunion with his natal family has, in this case, sinister repercussions, as it leads to the Trojan War. 152 See Burnett 1971, 49–50, 67–69, 111–112; Wright 2005, 202–337; Quijada 1991, 239–242; Karamanou 2012, 243–244; Garzya 1962, 76–78. 153 Satyrus Vita Euripidis P.Oxy. 1176, fr. 39.7; Quint. Inst. 10.1.69. 154 See esp. Trenkner 1958, 33–43, 77; Krappe (1924, 57–58) observed certain common patterns between the Alcmeon in Corinth and the Romance of Apollonius.

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narrative prologues in the Dyscolos, Aspis, Sicyonioi), situations (e.g. the recurrence of the dramatic situation of Euripides’ Auge and the remodeling of the arbitration-scene from the Euripidean Alope in Epitr. 218–375) and style (Per. 768– 827, Sic. 176–271) has widely been studied.155 I shall come back to these cases later, with reference to Menander’s mechanism of the reception of tragic models. I shall now turn to the exploration of pivotal thematic and structural patterns of Euripides’ Alcmeon in Corinth which are likely to have been refigured by Menander in the Periceiromene. Menander’s play is almost certainly set in Corinth,156 as the Euripidean tragedy, and its plot runs as follows: Pataecus is an old man, who in the past exposed his twin children, a boy and a girl, being unable to raise them after his wife’s death and the loss of his fortune. The twins were found by a poor woman, who raised the girl herself and gave the boy to a wealthy lady. When the girl, named Glycera, grew up, her foster-mother gave her as παλλακή to a Corinthian soldier, Polemon, providing her also with the garments in which she was exposed as a baby and informing her of her unknown brother, Moschion. The latter fell in love with Glycera in ignorance of her true identity and one evening seeing her by the door, he ran straight up and hugged her. Glycera did not try to escape, knowing that he was her brother. The soldier, Glycera’s lover, was informed of this happening and, blinded by jealousy, humiliated Glycera by cutting her hair short. The latter abandoned him and, to win her back, the soldier asked for Pataecus’ help, whom the girl held in high esteem, being unaware that he was her father. During the conversation between Pataecus and Glycera, it just happened that the girl brought the garments in which she was exposed as a baby. Pataecus immediately recognized them, thus recovering his lost daughter. At the same time, Moschion happened to be eavesdropping at their conversation, therefore discovering the whole truth, and emerged to join Pataecus and Glycera. The play ends with Glycera’s recovery of her proper citizen status following her recognition with the citizen Pataecus and her marriage to the soldier Polemon, after being convinced by her father to forgive him for his outburst. The comic play follows the same structural pattern of separation and recognition coupled with a reversal of action, as the Alcmeon in Corinth and other Euripidean ‘family reunion’ plays. The goddess Ἄγνοια (‘Misconception’) delivers  155 See Katsouris 1975a and 1975b; Cusset 2003; Hurst 2015, 73–103; Hunter 1985, 114–136; Gutzwiller 2000; Webster 19602, 153–194; Vogt-Spira 2001, 197–222; Arnott 1972, 73–75 and 1986, 1– 8; Sommerstein 2013, 36–40; Blanchard 2007, 63–70; Omitowoju 2002, 183–186 and 2010, 125– 145; Petrides 2014, 49–83; Lanza 1993, 509–510, 513–516; Nervegna 2013, 9–10, 209–210. Further bibliography concerning individual plays under discussion is cited in the notes that follow. 156 See Gomme/Sandbach 1973, 470; Lamagna 1994, 20–21; Furley 2015, 9; Walton/Arnott 1996, 29.

54  Tragedy into Comedy the expository prologue, thus assuming a role equivalent to that of the Euripidean divine prologue-speaker (e.g. Apollo in the Alcmeon in Corinth); she reports the background of the story, namely the exposure of the twins, their different raising, Glycera’s cohabitation with Polemon and her brother’s unknowing desire for her, in order to inform and at the same time alert the audience to instances of dramatic irony.157 Moreover, the ideas of fortune and misconception as mechanisms of the plot of the Periceiromene also follow later Euripidean drama. The very appearance of the prologue speaking goddess Ἄγνοια involves an abstract force producing the complications of the dramatic plot through ignorance of identity; it is conceivable, as has been suggested, that the personification of ignorance may be consistent with the Aristotelian theory of anagnorisis as a shift ἐξ ἀγνοίας εἰς γνῶσιν, not least because the goddess of misconception is assigned with the role of directing the plot.158 At the same time, fortune is responsible for the exposure of the twins by Pataecus and their divergent upbringing, as well as for their final reunion, as it is by chance that Pataecus catches a glimpse of Glycera’s garments, which leads to his recognition with his lost children.159 The plot-outline of the Periceiromene and elements of dramatic technique, such as fortune and misapprehension, thus follow later Euripidean production in general. In terms of particular themes and dramatic situation, however, the similarities between the comic play and the Alcmeon in Corinth are significantly more specific. The background of both plays deals with the exposure of a pair of twins by their father, in view of particularly difficult circumstances (Alcmeon’s pollution because of the matricide; Pataecus’ loss of his wife and fortune). In both cases, the twins are split and have divergent fates. Moschion, as Amphilochus, grows up in wealth, while Glycera is raised humbly, like Tisiphone, and is regarded as socially inferior, in view of her status as a noncitizen concubine.160 In fact, Glycera’s condition may be likened to slavery—the status to which Tisiphone is reduced—considering that the brutal cutting of Glycera’s hair must have given her the appearance of a slave,161 and, as she possibly notes in the partially  157 On the function of Menandrean prologues, see Miles 2014, 75–89; Zagagi 1994, 142–168; Ireland 1981, 179–181; Dworacki 1973, 33–47. 158 See Dworacki 1966, 53; Gutzwiller 2000, 116–117; Furley 2015, 90–91. 159 On Menander’s treatment of fortune, see Vogt-Spira 1992, 92–120; Garzya 1966, 79–82; Lamagna 1994, 54–56. 160 On the status of pallakē, see esp. Sommerstein 2014, 11–23; Konstan 1987, 122–139; Furley 2015, 9–12. 161 See also Webster 19602, 6; Sommerstein 2014, 9; Furley 2015, 13 and n. 57; Lamagna 1994, 22, n. 7; Capps 1910, 133; Lape 2009, 175 and n. 11. For the outlook of slaves, see e.g. Schumacher 2001, 75. In Pollux 4.151 a slave’s mask is described as περίκουρος.

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surviving v. 725,162 only slaves suffer this kind of treatment. Both plays also share the motif of jealousy linked with the figure of the importunate lover. Tisiphone is desired by king Creon, while Glycera is amorously chased by her brother, who ignores their blood-ties, and, as a result, both girls fall victims of jealousy, the former being reduced to slavery by the queen and the latter suffering the humiliation of a slave by her lover. After recognizing their fathers, both girls recover their proper status. The effective recognition-scene between Pataecus and Glycera in the fourth act of the play, thanks to which Moschion also realizes the truth about his birth, is written in tragic style including quotations from Euripides, as has widely been observed.163 Particular elements of this scene, such as the type of recognition-tokens (embroidered garments), of which the child demands a detailed description, are traced back in Euripides’ Ion.164 Nevertheless, the ἀναγνώρισις in the Periceiromene shares the particularity of the recognition in the Alcmeon in Corinth, in that three parties, a father and his twin children, are all recognizing each other.165 Due to the complete loss of the recognition-scene in the Euripidean play, there is no scope for the exploration of any further similarities between the two dramatic events. The probable setting of Menander’s play in Corinth has been attributed to the turmoil caused in the city by Alexander’s successors at the end of the fourth century, bringing into prominence the type of military man which Polemon represents.166 This socio-political explanation seems plausible, but in the light of the recurrence of key thematic patterns of the Alcmeon in Corinth in the Periceiromene, I would add that the setting of Menander’s play in Corinth could also allude to the Euripidean play. Hence, the notable thematic and structural correspondences between the Euripidean and the Menandrean play (the exposure of the twins by their father, their divergent fates and the subsequent reunion of all three parties leading to a swift development of the plot and a happy ending) make it quite likely that Menander used the Alcmeon in Corinth as a source text for his Periceiromene, transferring these patterns from the heroic sphere of tragedy to the everyday world of new comedy. Likewise, in the Epitrepontes Menander seems to have appropriated the general situation of Euripides’ Auge (a drunken act of rape at a festival resulting  162 See Lamagna 1994, 33; Gomme/Sandbach 1973, ad loc. 163 Koerte 1908, 169–180; Gomme/Sandbach 1973, 519–520; Katsouris 1975a, 128–130; Furley 2014, 109–110 and 2015, 155; Hurst 2015, 96; Hunter 1985, 133–134; Sandbach 1970, 124–128, Webster 19602, 160; Goldberg 1980, 53–55; Zagagi 1994, 51–52. 164 See Katsouris 1975a, 128–129; Andrewes 1924, 5–6; Hurst 2015, 96. 165 The similarity of situations in the recognition-scenes of the Periceiromene and the Alcmeon in Corinth was only passingly observed by Webster 1974, 63, n. 11. 166 Walton/Arnott 1996, 29; Lape 2009, 185. For the turmoil in Corinth, see Per. 124–125.

56  Tragedy into Comedy to the maiden’s pregnancy, the victim and the rapist ignore each other’s identity, recognition by means of the ring left by the rapist in the night of the seduction). In Epitr. 1123–1126 Menander employs the gnomic quotation from the Auge (fr. 265a K.) to appeal to tragedy as an authority for traditional wisdom, whilst acknowledging his own debt to this Euripidean play.167 In the Periceiromene, however, no reference to the Alcmeon in Corinth has been preserved, so far as our evidence goes, apart perhaps from the setting of the comic play in Corinth, which may have been a metadramatic indicator, serving as a subtle reminiscence of Menander’s source of inspiration. The pivotal structural pattern of the tragic forerunner, the value of which had already been successfully tested on stage, as it belonged to a prize-winning Euripidean production and was expected to have been appreciated by later audiences at its revivals, seems to have been ‘digested’ by Menander and refigured to enrich his comic plot.168 Moreover, the particularity and distinctiveness of the recognition between a father and his twin children in the Periceiromene seems to be an even stronger echo of the parallel situation of the Euripidean play. Similarly, what comes to mind is the conspicuous analogy of situations in the arbitration-scenes in Epitr. 218–375 and the Euripidean Alope (as attested in Hyg. fab. 187),169 as well as in the messenger-speeches in Sic. 176–271 and E. Or. 866–956. The messenger’s rhesis in the Sicyonioi involves verbal echoes of the Orestes (Sic. 176–177, 182, 188) evidently calling attention to the analogous situations.170 Likewise, the scene of the Epitrepontes, apart from the reference to a reperformance of Sophocles’ Tyro pinpointing a tragic exemplum (vv. 325–333), has the form of a Euripidean agon, thus recalling its model, namely the formal debate in the Alope (for more detail, see previous chapter). The lack of evidence for the recognition-scene in the Alcmeon in Corinth does not enable us to detect any verbal reminiscences of this play in the equivalent scene of the Periceiromene; nonetheless, the use of tragic diction, in conjunction with the recognition-tokens from the Ion and the Euripidean quotations (Per. 788, 809) which are brought into play, seem to signal the affiliations of this comic scene with tragedy. All the same, in this particular scene the solemnity of the situation and its tragic guise do not get out of hand, thanks to  167 See Hunter 1985, 135–136; Arnott 1968, 10; Webster 19602, 155; Andrewes 1924, 5 and n. 4. 168 On the familiarity of audiences with classical tragedies through their revivals, see esp. Katsouris 1974, 175–204; Hanink 2015, 286–290 and 2017, 37–41. 169 See Wilamowitz-Moellendorff 1925, 170; Anderson 1982, 171–177; Cusset 2003, 168–187; Gutzwiller 2000, 111–113; Scafuro 1997, 160–161; Lennartz 1999, 109–114; Martina 1997–2000, II 583, 614; Furley 2009, 143–144, 159; Porter 1999–2000, 158. 170 See Belardinelli 1984, 396–402 and 1994, 54–56, 158–160; Katsouris 1975a, 29–54; Handley 1970, 22–23; Hurst 2015, 82–83.

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the element of farce created by Moschion’s presence and to the comic exaggeration in the utterance of weighty Euripidean lines unsuitable to the circumstances.171 The tragic forerunner is thus assimilated and remodeled to meet the needs of comic art. As a final point, it may also be worth addressing issues of audience response towards Menander’s appropriation of tragic paradigms. It has aptly been reckoned that the creative interplay of tragic and comic elements aims to rouse a complex response from the spectators, involving emphasis on the significance of the received tragic scene for the development of the comic plot along with amusement, as expected in a comedy.172 I would further suggest that the audience’s metadramatic experience emerging from the generic ‘hybridity’173 of Menandrean comedy is attained in cognitive as well as emotional terms.174 In more specific terms: from an intellectual standpoint, the spectators’ awareness of the drama as drama relies on metadramatic signals, such as the use of tragic diction or further indicators alluding to the tragic forerunner. Menandrean comedy is thus ‘masked’ as tragedy (to quote Kathryn Gutzwiller 2000), whilst keeping the consistent use of dramatic illusion. From the viewpoint of the audience’s ‘horizon of expectations’, it is to be presumed that the spectators’ familiarity with classical tragedy, based on the regular reperformances of παλαιαὶ τραγῳδίαι, would enable them to grasp Menander’s exploitation of tragic paradigms; and the most erudite members of the audience would presumably be in a position to discern the comic playwright’s interplay with the particular source text in each case. This generic cross-fertilization could aim to alert the audience to the dramatic complications instigated by the exploitation of the tragic exemplum, as, for instance, in the case of the recognition in the Periceiromene, which paves the way for the denouement. In emotional terms, the dramatic feelings are aroused on the one hand by the crucial situation of the recognition between longlost kin and on the other by the comic result emerging from the use of farcical elements and hyperbole, which seek to raise a laugh. The spectators’ response towards Menander’s generic interplay thus involves multifarious emotional and intellectual processes.

 171 See also Sandbach 1970, 126–127; Goldberg 1980, 54–55. 172 Sandbach 1970, 127–128; Hunter 1985, 134. 173 On this term, see esp. Petrides 2014, 49–83. 174 In a corresponding manner, see the observations of Lada 1993, 106–109, 122–125 and 1996, 406–409 on the intellectual and emotional processes shaping audience response towards tragedy.

58  Tragedy into Comedy This case study sought to bring forward one further instance of Menander’s refiguration of Euripidean drama, posing questions about the mechanisms of the transformation of his tragic models and the (meta)dramatic meaning that they may acquire within the contexts of Menandrean dramaturgy and of Hellenistic audience reception.

Exploring Aristotle’s Poetics as a source for lost tragedies In the Poetics Aristotle consistently draws examples from fifth and fourth-century plays and constitutes the sole source of information for several lost tragedies. This case study sets out to investigate the evidence for the lost tragedies attested only in the Poetics and explore from which viewpoint Aristotle chose to refer to these particular plays. I hope to show that the criteria applied by Aristotle in his evaluation of these lost tragedies could yield insight into his own response to fifth and fourth-century tragedy, as well as into the theatrical trends of his era.175 The first case to be explored is Agathon’s Antheus or Anthos, whose plot is commended by Aristotle (11, 1451b 19–23): οὐ μὴν ἀλλὰ καὶ ἐν ταῖς τραγῳδίαις ἐν ἐνίαις μὲν ἓν ἢ δύο τῶν γνωρίμων ἐστὶν ὀνομάτων, τὰ δὲ ἄλλα πεποιημένα, ἐν ἐνίαις δὲ οὐθέν, οἷον ἐν τῷ ’Αγάθωνος ’Ανθεῖ· ὁμοίως γὰρ ἐν τούτῳ τά τε πράγματα καὶ τὰ ὀνόματα πεποίηται, καὶ οὐδὲν ἧττον εὐφραίνει. Yet even in some tragedies there are only one or two familiar names, while the rest are invented; and in certain plays no name is familiar, for example in Agathon’s Antheus: in this work events and names alike have been invented, yet it gives no less pleasure for that.176

This is a tragedy of invented theme and characters, cited as an example of an innovative type of plot. Aristotle’s statement that Agathon’s fictitious plot gives pleasure (εὐφραίνει), which may suggest that it succeeds in arousing tragic emotions, indicates his own approval of the dramatist’s experimentation. There is no reference to the subject-matter of this play.177 Rostagni suggested that ἄνθει (‘Flower’) transmitted in mss A and B could be preferable to Welcker’s ’Ανθεῖ (adopted in Kassel’s edition), assuming that the title, which in such a case would be Ἄνθος, bears a symbolic meaning without referring to a particular character. Radt revived this reading, on the basis that it excludes any known name, according to Aristotle’s testimony.178 A tale which has been considered to reproduce this

 175 This is an enlarged and updated version of Karamanou 2010. 176 I am following the edition of Kassell 1965 and the translation of Halliwell 1995 with minor adjustments. 177 Considering that the characters are reported to be fictitious, this play is unlikely to have treated the story of Antheus, son of Antenor, who was unwittingly killed by Paris (for this story, see Lyc. 134 and schol. Lyc. 132 Scheer). 178 Rostagni 19452, 55; Radt 1971, 192 and n. 2, 193–195. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110661279-005

62  Exploring Aristotle’s Poetics as a source for lost tragedies plot is provided by Antoninus Liberalis (Myth. Gr. II I 7) about a boy named Anthos, who was killed by horses and turned into a bird;179 this flat narrative, however, appears to lack intrigue, and it is hard to imagine how it could have been shaped into a tragic plot. If, on the other hand, the proper name ’Ανθεῖ is accepted, then one would have to suppose that the play was named after an otherwise unknown character called Antheus. There is a story reported by Parthenius (Narr. Amat. 14) to go back to Aristotle (fr. 556 R.) and the Milesiaca (‘Milesian Tales’), according to which an Antheus from Halicarnassus was deviously murdered by his host’s wife, who vainly loved him.180 This version reproduces the ‘Potiphar’s wife’ motif, which was quite popular in fifth-century tragedy; apart from the extant Hippolytus of Euripides,181 this story-pattern is represented in several lost plays, as in his Veiled Hippolytus, Stheneboea, Phoenix, Peleus and in Sophocles’ Phaedra. From this viewpoint, this storyline could have given scope for a tragic plot. The crucial question that arises concerns the origin of this story, since Agathon is explicitly attested to have been the one to invent the plot of the Antheus. The earliest source of the tale mentioned by Parthenius is Aristotle, though there is no particular reference to the Poetics,182 which leaves it open as to whether this testimony could point to Agathon’s play or not. Notably enough, Parthenius also reproduces the theme of other lost tragedies, such as the Euryalus of Sophocles (Narr. Amat. 3), which might be another factor telling in favour of the tragic provenance of this account. The Milesian Tales were bold love stories authored by Aristeides of Miletus in the second century BC. Ewen Bowie has plausibly argued that the material of the Milesian Tales seems to go back to the last three decades of the fifth century BC,183 which in temporal terms could be congruent with the date of the Antheus story

 179 See Pitcher 1939, 145–169; Lévêque 1955, 55. 180 Rose 1934b, 208; Corbato (1948, 164–168) and Janko (1987, 92) suggested that it could reflect Agathon’s plot. 181 Corbato (1948, 168) pointed out the thematic affiliation of Parthenius’ story with the Hippolytus, but left out the lost plays treating this pattern, which help demonstrate its popularity in fifth-century drama. On the ‘Potiphar’s wife’ story-pattern, see Tschiedel 1969, 9–21; Trenkner 1958, 64–66. 182 Lightfoot (1999, 454) assumes that Parthenius may be referring to an unattested Aristotelian Μιλησίων Πολιτεία. 183 Bowie 2013, 252–258. On the character of the Milesian Tales, see Faraklos 2003, esp. 24–34 (including earlier bibliography). This story became known in the Hellenistic Age, as it also inspired an elegy by Alexander Aetolus (fr. 3 Powell); see Meineke 1964, 219–225.

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introduced by Agathon. Overall, this is a possibility worth considering, though the preserved evidence does not enable us to make any further inferences. What may be even more interesting for the development of the tragic genre is Agathon’s choice to construct a fictitious plot, which is consistent with his tendency towards dramatic experimentation. Although he is commended by Aristotle for his inventiveness in the plot of the Antheus, he is criticized for a few other innovations, such as his introduction of the embolima (‘throw-ins’, i.e. choral songs unrelated to the dramatic action) in tragedy (Poet. 18, 1456a 25–29) and his composition of a plot of an epic structure incorporating a large amount of material (18, 1456a 18–20); both of these features are regarded as endangering the much-desired coherence of a tragic plot.184 Be that as it may, Agathon’s preference for a wholly invented plot may be better understood against the backdrop of latefifth century approaches to the mythical tradition. Aristotle stresses that by his time tragedies were drawn from a limited repertoire of legends concerning a few famous families (Poet. 13, 1453a 18–22), and this would eventually have led to restrictions in the available material for the construction of tragic plots.185 Euripides himself opted for less known mythical versions, as in the Iphigenia in Tauris, the Helen and the Melanippe plays, to mention but a few.186 Aristotle also commends a fourth-century play by Theodectes entitled Lynceus, which he cites alongside Sophocles’ Oedipus Tyrannus (11, 1452a 22–29): ἔστι δὲ περιπέτεια μὲν ἡ εἰς τὸ ἐναντίον τῶν πραττομένων μεταβολή καθάπερ εἴρηται, καὶ τοῦτο δὲ ὥσπερ λέγομεν κατὰ τὸ εἰκὸς ἢ ἀναγκαῖον, οἷον ἐν τῷ Οἰδίποδι ἐλθὼν ὡς εὐφρανῶν τὸν Οἰδίπουν καὶ ἀπαλλάξων τοῦ πρὸς τὴν μητέρα φόβου, δηλώσας ὃς ἦν, τοὐναντίον ἐποίησεν· καὶ ἐν τῷ Λυγκεῖ ὁ μὲν ἀγόμενος ὡς ἀποθανούμενος, ὁ δὲ Δαναὸς ἀκολουθῶν ὡς ἀποκτενῶν, τὸν μὲν συνέβη ἐκ τῶν πεπραγμένων ἀποθανεῖν, τὸν δὲ σωθῆναι. Reversal of action is a change to the opposite direction of events, as already stated, and one in accord, as we insist, with probability or necessity: as when in the Oedipus the person who comes to bring Oedipus happiness, and intends to rid him of his fear about his mother, effects the opposite by revealing Oedipus’ true identity. And in the Lynceus the one figure is led off to die, while Danaus follows with the intention of killing him, yet the upshot of events is Danaus’ death and the other’s survival.

 184 See Wright 2016, 78–82; Janko 1987, 122–123; Lowe 2000, 66–67. 185 See e.g. Burian 1997, 178–181, 183–186. 186 On Euripides’ mythological inventiveness, see Anderson 2005, 129–133; Stephanopoulos 1980, 21–41; Allan 2000, 10–11 and 2008, 24–28; Michelini 1999/2000, 41–43.

64  Exploring Aristotle’s Poetics as a source for lost tragedies The Lynceus is mentioned within the same context as the Oedipus Tyrannus as an exemplary case of reversal of action, according to probability and necessity. Hypermestra was the only Danaid to spare the life of her husband Lynceus, despite her father’s order. Her disobedience was not discovered till she had born Lynceus a son, Abas. Danaus commanded Lynceus’ execution, but in consequence of some unknown events, which brought about the shift of action, he was ultimately the one to get executed. We learn more about the plot-outline in 18, 1455b 24–32: ἔστι δὲ πάσης τραγῳδίας τὸ μὲν δέσις, τὸ δὲ λύσις, τὰ μὲν ἔξωθεν καὶ ἔνια τῶν ἔσωθεν πολλάκις ἡ δέσις, τὸ δὲ λοιπὸν ἡ λύσις· λέγω δὲ δέσιν μὲν εἶναι τὴν ἀπ’ ἀρχῆς μέχρι τούτου τοῦ μέρους ὃ ἔσχατόν ἐστιν ἐξ οὗ μεταβαίνει εἰς εὐτυχίαν ἢ εἰς ἀτυχίαν, λύσιν δὲ τὴν ἀπὸ τῆς ἀρχῆς τῆς μεταβάσεως μέχρι τέλους· ὥσπερ ἐν τῷ Λυγκεῖ τῷ Θεοδέκτου δέσις μὲν τά τε προπεπραγμένα καὶ ἡ τοῦ παιδίου λῆψις καὶ πάλιν ἡ αὐτῶν **, λύσις δ’ ἡ ἀπὸ τῆς αἰτιάσεως τοῦ θανάτου μέχρι τοῦ τέλους. Every tragedy has both a complication and a denouement: the complication comprises events outside the play and often some of those within it; the remainder is the denouement. I define the complication as extending from the beginning to the furthest point before the transformation to prosperity or adversity; and the denouement as extending from the beginning of the transformation till the end. Thus, in Theodectes’ Lynceus the complication covers the preceding events, the seizure of the child and then their **, while the denouement runs from the accusation of murder to the end.

The play is cited here as an example of artistic tying and untying of the plot.187 The tying concerns the background of the story (Lynceus’ rescue by Hypermestra and their son’s birth) and the capture of the child Abas possibly by Danaus, which would have brought to light his parents’ secret marital relations.188 The untying of the plot is signposted with the shift from bad to good fortune for the couple, which is attained with the reversal of action, according to the previous passage. The ‘accusation of murder’, which marks the shift of fortune, has raised a series of conjectures as to what it may have involved.189 In the next chapter I am addressing this matter in the light of the ancient scholium on E. Or. 872: the scholiast mentions a version of the story, according to which Lynceus brought Danaus into trial for the murder of his sons-in-law. Following this testimony, the ‘accusation of murder’ would be interpreted as Danaus’ trial for murder, which is likely to have resulted to his execution (as mentioned by Aristotle), considering that the

 187 See the useful discussion in Gudeman 1934, 314–315. 188 Cf. also Webster 1954, 304. 189 See Else 1957, 521–522; Webster 1954, 304; Vahlen 1911–1923, I 36; Gallavotti 1974, 164.

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sentence for bouleusis of homicide in attic law was capital penalty. The accusation against him would thus be the beginning of the shift from bad to good fortune for Lynceus and Hypermestra, which fits precisely Aristotle’s definition of the lysis as starting with the metabasis (from bad to good fortune in the case of the Lynceus). A dramatic trial would be consistent with Theodectes’ practice of presenting legal scenes in his plays, as in the Orestes (TrGF I 72 F5), Alcmeon (F2) and possibly in his Helen (F3). The plays to follow are mentioned by Aristotle in his evaluation of tragic recognition-scenes: 16, 1454b 37 – 1455a 2: ἡ τρίτη διὰ μνήμης, τῷ αἰσθέσθαι τι ἰδόντα, ὥσπερ ἡ ἐν Κυπρίοις τοῖς Δικαιογένους, ἰδὼν γὰρ τὴν γραφὴν ἔκλαυσεν, καὶ ἡ ἐν ’Αλκίνου ἀπολόγῳ, ἀκούων γὰρ τοῦ κιθαριστοῦ καὶ μνησθεὶς ἐδάκρυσεν, ὅθεν ἀνεγνωρίσθησαν. The third kind is through memory, when the sight of something brings awareness, like the case of Dicaeogenes’ Cyprians—for he cried on seeing the painting—and the one in Odysseus’ tale to Alcinous—on hearing the singer he was reminded and wept; whence they were recognized.

The Cyprians of the fourth-century tragic poet Dicaeogenes evidently took its title from the chorus; despite the diminution of the role of the chorus from the fourth century BC onwards, there were still plays named after it, to judge also from Moschion’s Pheraioi. The theme of the play is unknown; it has been assumed to involve Teucer’s settlement in Cyprus.190 Another character attested to have moved to this island is Demophon, or according to other sources, his brother Acamas, having abandoned his wife Phyllis.191 In either case, the recognition based on memory was attained in a similar manner as in Od. 8, which is mentioned within the same context; the hero saw a painting or a written text, such as a letter (γραφή),192 probably reminding him of a past event and burst into tears. To judge from the Homeric parallel, he could have been asked for the reason of his emotional outburst, and this questioning would have led to the recognition. A case of recognition by inference is provided in Polyidus’ treatment of the reunion of Iphigenia and Orestes (16, 1455a 6–8):

 190 See Lucas 1968, 170; Webster 1954, 298; Liapis/Stephanopoulos 2019, 28. 191 TrGF I 52, note on F1. For the Demophon/Acamas story, see esp. [Apollod.] Ep. 6. 16, schol. Lyc. 495 (Scheer), Hyg. fab. 59, Serv. on Verg. Ecl. 10; for more sources, see Pfeiffer 1949 on Call. fr. 556. 192 See Wright 2016, 146.

66  Exploring Aristotle’s Poetics as a source for lost tragedies καὶ ἡ Πολυίδου τοῦ σοφιστοῦ περὶ τῆς ’Ιφιγενείας· εἰκὸς γὰρ ἔφη τὸν ’Ορέστην συλλογίσασθαι ὅτι ἥ τ’ ἀδελφὴ ἐτύθη καὶ αὐτῷ συμβαίνει θύεσθαι. And the recognition used by Polyidus the sophist in Iphigenia’s case: it was probable, he said, that Orestes should reason that his sister had been sacrificed, and his fate was to be sacrificed too.

In the next chapter, when discussing the expected lay-out of an Iphigenia play on the basis of the dramatic events in Euripides’ Iphigenia in Tauris, Aristotle cites again Polyidus’ version (17, 1455b 6–12): χρόνῳ δὲ ὕστερον τῷ ἀδελφῷ συνέβη ἐλθεῖν τῆς ἱερείας, τὸ δὲ ὅτι ἀνεῖλεν ὁ θεὸς {διά τινα αἰτίαν ἔξω τοῦ καθόλου} ἐλθεῖν ἐκεῖ καὶ ἐφ’ ὅ τι δὲ ἔξω τοῦ μύθου· ἐλθὼν δὲ καὶ ληφθεὶς θύεσθαι μέλλων ἀνεγνώρισεν, εἴθ’ ὡς Εὐριπίδης εἴθ’ ὡς Πολύιδος ἐποίησεν, κατὰ τὸ εἰκὸς εἰπὼν ὅτι οὐκ ἄρα μόνον τὴν ἀδελφὴν ἀλλὰ καὶ αὐτὸν ἔδει τυθῆναι, καὶ ἐντεῦθεν ἡ σωτηρία. Later, the priestess’ brother happened to arrive there (that the god’s oracle told him to go there, and for what purpose is outside the plot). Captured after his arrival and on the point of being sacrificed, he caused his recognition—whether as in Euripides or as Polyidus designed it, by saying, as was probable, that it was not just his sister’s but his own fate too to be sacrificed—and hence was rescued.

Polyidus ‘the sophist’ tends to be identified with the dithyramb composer Polyidus of Selymbria (TrGF I 78). We are not in a position to know whether his refiguration of the Iphigenia storyline was indeed a tragedy; it may have been a dithyramb treating the recognition of the two siblings.193 It has also been proposed that Polyidus might have ventured another type of reworking of the Euripidean anagnorisis, such as a showpiece oration of a sophistic character, presumably like Gorgias’ Helen or Palamedes.194 But the term σοφιστής does not necessarily entail that Polyidus was a sophist, as it broadly signifies a person of wide erudition, which could also include poets and musicians (see LSJ9 s.v. σοφιστής). According to Diodorus (14.46.6), the dithyrambic poet Polyidus was also a musician and a painter, thus displaying the qualities of a ‘sophist’. His work evidently treated the same theme as Euripides’ Iphigenia in Tauris (Orestes’ arrival at the land of the Taurians, his near-sacrifice at the hands of his sister Iphigenia and the last minute recognition of the long-separated siblings). Iphigenia and Orestes were recognized by a process of inference, which Aristotle regards as the second best kind of recognition: being led off to sacrifice by his own sister, Orestes pointed out that he is also about to be sacrificed, following his  193 See Gudeman 1934, 298–299; Schönewolf 1938, 33. 194 See Halliwell 1995, 85.

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sister’s fate. Based on this remark Iphigenia inferred that the unknown Greek was her brother. This recognition diverges from and improves on the parallel scene of the Euripidean play, as Iphigenia is here the first to discover her brother’s identity by a process of inference, compared to her less artistic recognition of Orestes in Euripides, which is contrived by the poet (16, 1454b 30–35).195 Aristotle’s choice to cite Polyidus’ treatment of this storyline (twice) could suggest that it was a well-known version, which provided, in his view, a successful deviation from the popular Euripidean play. Theodectes’ Tydeus is also assigned with a recognition by inference (16, 1455a 8–10): καὶ ἐν τῷ Θεοδέκτου Τυδεῖ, ὅτι ἐλθὼν ὡς εὑρήσων τὸν υἱὸν αὐτὸς ἀπόλλυται. Also in Theodectes’ Tydeus the reflection that having come to find his son he was doomed himself.

A father states in soliloquy that having come to find his son, he is about to perish; it is reasonable to suppose that the recognition can be attained only if the listener of these words is the character’s son, who is to identify his father by a process of inference, as in Polyidus’ aforementioned version. As the father’s statement appears to have been uttered in front of his son, while the former is facing his own death, the son might have unknowingly been involved in his father’s neardeath.196 In this case, the tragic deed about to occur between blood kin would have been averted in the nick of time, which is congruent with Aristotle’s perception of the optimum tragic deed (14, 1454a 4–9). As the play is named after Tydeus, the hero must be a central character, presumably either the father or the son. If he is the father, the son has to be Diomedes;197 the available literary sources, however, report that Tydeus was killed in the expedition of the Seven against Thebes, while Diomedes was still a boy,198 and there is no evidence suggestive of any other version of their story. On the other hand, I should point out that Tydeus is widely attested to have been long separated from his father Oeneus, having exiled himself from Calydon to Argos for the murder of his blood

 195 See also Hall 2013, 71–74; http://www.apgrd.ox.ac.uk/ancient-performance/performance/ 442. On the other hand, Orestes’ recognition of Iphigenia in Euripides’ play is regarded by Aristotle as the best type of anagnorisis resulting from the incidents themselves (11, 1455a 16–19). 196 See Xanthakis-Karamanos 1980, 58. 197 See Janko 1987, 115. 198 See Il. 6.222–223, schol. Eust. ad loc. and on Il. 14.19–122, E. Su. 1123ff., 1213–1218.

68  Exploring Aristotle’s Poetics as a source for lost tragedies relatives.199 It is thus feasible that Oeneus may have come to Argos in search of his son Tydeus, and their long period of separation could account for the delayed recognition between the two of them. This possibility is at least not contradictory to the existing evidence. Likewise, an anagnorisis by inference occurred in the Phineidae (16, 1455a 10–12): καὶ ἡ ἐν τοῖς Φινείδαις· ἰδοῦσαι γὰρ τὸν τόπον συνελογίσαντο τὴν εἱμαρμένην ὅτι ἐν τούτῳ εἵμαρτο ἀποθανεῖν αὐταῖς, καὶ γὰρ ἐξετέθησαν ἐνταῦθα. Again the instance in the Phineidae: when the women saw the place, they inferred that it was their destiny to die there, where they had also been exposed.

The sons of Phineus suffered at the hands of their monstrous stepmother and were finally released by their cousins, the sons of Boreas.200 Aeschylus’ Phineus and at least one of the two homonymous plays by Sophocles treated Phineus’ punishment for letting his vicious wife torment his sons,201 but it cannot be excluded that Aristotle may be referring to a fourth-century play. The passage does not reveal the identity of the women recognizing the place where they are destined to die; a reasonable assumption is that it might be the malicious stepmother, who is attested in D.S. 4.44.3 and probably also in Sophocles’ Phineus fr. 707 R. to have been punished with death, perhaps followed by a female accomplice to the crime against the boys. In such a case, these women would recognize the place where the boys had been exposed (according to schol. A.R. 2.207 Wendel, Asclep. FGrH 12 F31, Eust. on Od. 12.70) as that in which they are meant to meet their death.202 The last case of recognition to be explored is that which results from a false inference by the audience, as in the Odysseus Pseudangelos (‘False Messenger’), which is of unknown authorship (16, 1455a 12–16): ἔστιν δέ τις καὶ συνθετὴ ἐκ παραλογισμοῦ τοῦ θεάτρου, οἷον ἐν τῷ ’Οδυσσεῖ τῷ ψευδαγγέλῳ· τὸ μὲν γὰρ τὸ τόξον ἐντείνειν, ἄλλον δὲ μηδένα, πεποιημένον ὑπὸ τοῦ ποιητοῦ

 199 Hes. fr. 14.1–3 M.–W., Alcmeonis PEG fr. 4, Pherecyd. fr. 122 Fowler, E. Su. 148, Oeneus fr. 558.2–4 K., S. fr. inc. 799.2–4 R., [Apollod.] 1.76, 3.58, D.S. 4.65.2. 200 S. Ant. 966–987 and schol. vet. 981 (Papageorgius), D.S. 4.43–44, [Apollod.] 3.15, Timocles Dionysiazusae fr. 6.13 K.–A., Orph. Argon. 671–676. 201 Aeschylus and Sophocles presented his torment by the Harpies (A. frr. 258, 258a and probably 259a R., S. fr. 714 R.). Accius also wrote Phinidae perhaps modelled upon the Sophoclean play (see Rose 19543, 68; Dangel 1995, 347–349; Baier 2002, 52). 202 This is Janko’s idea (1987, 115) corroborated here with evidence from the sources.

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καὶ ὑπόθεσις, καὶ εἴ γε τὸ τόξον ἔφη γνώσεσθαι ὃ οὐχ ἑωράκει· τὸ δὲ ὡς δι’ ἐκείνου ἀναγνωριοῦντος διὰ τούτου ποιῆσαι παραλογισμός. There is also a compound recognition, which depends on the audience’s mistaken reasoning, as in the Odysseus the False Messenger: that he and no one else could bend the bow is contrived by the poet and a premise, even if he said he would recognize the bow which he had not seen; but to have him recognized by this means, when he was expected to cause recognition in the other way, involves false reasoning.

The title suggests that Odysseus returns to Ithaca disguised, bringing a false message, perhaps news of his own death. Pseudangelia consists in the dissemination of false information, with the purpose of luring one’s opponent—in this case probably the suitors—into a trap.203 If we are to follow Aristotle’s compact and obscure testimony closely, the audience seems to have been misled into expecting that Odysseus would reveal himself by stringing the great bow, probably through reminiscence of the famous scene in Od. 21. Nonetheless, it was his claim that he would be able to recognize the bow which brought about the recognition.204 In constructing this type of anagnorisis based on a false inference on the part of the audience, the unknown dramatist evidently aimed at providing a variation of the popular Homeric scene.205 Aristotle’s testimony is quite significant not only with regard to this particular type of recognition, which refigures the equivalent Odyssean scene, but also in terms of audience response. The spectators’ ‘horizon of expectations’ is based on their paideia, their literary and cultural experience and, in this particular case, their knowledge of the Homeric source text. The unknown dramatist evidently challenged audience expectations, in that the spectators—probably having the Odyssean scene in mind—were led to draw a mistaken inference regarding the function of the bow in the recognition. This passage may thus yield insight into this complex reception process, which involves the reworking of the Homeric episode and its reception by the audience. Aristotle’s reference to the unsuccessful performance of a play by Carcinus involving Amphiaraus as a dramatic character could also shed light on aspects of audience response (17, 1455a 22–29): δεῖ δὲ τοὺς μύθους συνιστάναι καὶ τῇ λέξει συναπεργάζεσθαι ὅτι μάλιστα πρὸ ὀμμάτων τιθέμενον· οὕτω γὰρ ἂν ἐναργέστατα {ὁ} ὁρῶν ὥσπερ παρ’ αὐτοῖς γιγνόμενος τοῖς πραττομένοις εὑρίσκοι τὸ πρέπον καὶ ἥκιστα ἂν λανθάνοι {τὸ} τὰ ὑπεναντία. σημεῖον δὲ

 203 See Wheeler 1988, 40. 204 See Janko 1987, 116; for further interpretations, see Lucas 1968, 172; Smith 1924, 165–168; Merkelbach 1969, 111–113. 205 See also Hall 2008, 509.

70  Exploring Aristotle’s Poetics as a source for lost tragedies τούτου ὃ ἐπετιμᾶτο Καρκίνῳ. ὁ γὰρ ’Αμφιάραος ἐξ ἱεροῦ ἀνῄει, ὃ μὴ ὁρῶντα {τὸν θεατὴν} ἐλάνθανεν, ἐπὶ δὲ τῆς σκηνῆς ἐξέπεσεν δυσχερανάντων τοῦτο τῶν θεατῶν. One should construct plots and work them out in diction with the material as much as possible in the mind’s eye. In this way, by seeing things most vividly, as if present at the actual events, one will discover what is apposite and not miss contradictions. An indication of this is the criticism that was made of Carcinus: Amphiaraus was returning from a shrine, which was missed by one who failed to visualize it; in performance the audience was annoyed at this, and the play foundered.

As the title is unattested, it is uncertain whether the play was indeed entitled Amphiaraus. The actor playing Amphiaraus in the fourth-century play by Carcinus came out of a shrine, which was not expected by the spectators, thus causing their strong disapproval. There is a number of parallel cases of intense audience reactions to stage blunders that go as far as hissing and whistling the actors off the stage.206 For instance, one cannot help recalling the spectators’ bursts of laughter at Hegelochus’ ludicrous pronunciation of the emotional line in E. Or. 279 and its bathetic result alluded to in Ar. Ra. 303–304 and Sannyrion’s Danae fr. 8 K.–A.207 Carcinus’ error has widely been interpreted as being merely a director’s fault.208 Considering, however, that the context refers to visualization as a condition for a successful plot-construction, it seems to me that Carcinus’ oversight is likelier to have involved a contradiction of his staging with the plot as such. His inconsistency was evident on stage, but it would have remained unnoticed by anyone who would have read the play instead of seeing it in performance.209 This case too indicates that audience reception of tragedy is a factor regularly taken into consideration in the Poetics. Aristotle recommends that the tragedians should be careful to construct coherent tragic plots of an appropriate size (18, 1456a 18–20) and not to give rise to audience perceptions contrary to those at which poetry should aim, so that they can avoid failures (15, 1454b 15–18). All the  206 For several examples, see Csapo/Slater 1995, 302–305; Ghiron-Bistagne 1976, 197; Hall 2006, 364; Gudeman 1934, 305–306. 207 See also schol. vet. Ar. Ra. 303 (Chantry), schol. vet. E. Or. 279 (Schwartz). Cf. Stanford 1983, 72–73; Farmer 2017, 31–34. 208 See Allan 1971, 84; Webster 1954, 300; Else 1957, 487–488; Csapo/Slater 1995, 303. 209 Cf. also Davidson 2003, 110–111, 120–121; Wright 2016, 110; Liapis/Stephanopoulos 2019, 41–42. In even more specific terms, Green (1990, 281–285) proposed that ἀνῄει was employed in the sense of ‘rising up’, being suggestive of Amphiaraus’ apparition in a necromantic scene, which would entail that he should have appeared from a tomb instead of a temple; this change of setting was evidently not made clear in the script and did not occur in the performance of the play, thus causing the audience’s disapproval.

Exploring Aristotle’s Poetics as a source for lost tragedies  71

same, the philosopher criticizes the extent of audience influence upon the poets, in that the latter go as far as composing tragedies that have a double structure, in order to satisfy the spectators’ penchant for plays of mixed reversal, which, nonetheless, offer non-tragic pleasure (13, 1453a 33–35).210 Likewise, Plato (Lg. 701a 3) refers to ‘a dictatorship of the spectatorship’ (θεατροκρατία) established over the poets. To conclude: Aristotle’s insightful critical readings of the tragic genre in conjunction with his temporal proximity to the plays discussed may enable us to safely recover valuable information about aspects of the dramatic plot of these otherwise unknown dramas. We are informed of the particularity and distinctiveness of Agathon’s innovative experimentation with a wholly fictitious plot, which succeeds in giving tragic pleasure. Apart from well attested plays involving murders between kin averted in the nick of time, Aristotle is the only source to report that Polyidus’ reworking of the Iphigenia storyline and Theodectes’ Tydeus also comprised near-catastrophic events between blood relatives, seeking to arouse the emotions of the audience in the most poignant way.211 To elucidate his case, Aristotle regularly draws examples from a repertory of prominent fifth-century tragedies, which he often cites alongside fourth-century plays.212 For instance, Theodectes’ Lynceus and Polyidus’ version are mentioned side by side with fifthcentury tragedies of exemplary plot and scene-structure, such as Sophocles’ Oedipus Tyrannus and Euripides’ Iphigenia in Tauris respectively. In this manner, Aristotle brings forward a canon of fifth-century plays, drawing parallels with his contemporary production. Notably enough, Aristotle also draws his attention to aspects of audience response towards the poets’ shaping of the dramatic plot. He underscores the challenge of audience expectations in the recognition-scene of the Odysseus Pseudangelos and the spectators’ disapproval of the performance of Carcinus’ play about Amphiaraus as a result of inconsistency between plot and staging. Overall, the information retrieved about these lost tragedies relies on Aristotle’s perception of them, on the basis of his aesthetic predilections. It is his very perspective that determines the evaluation of these plays and their reception. In  210 Cf. Poet. 26, 1461b 27–29 mentioning that the opponents of tragedy claim that it is vulgar, catering to the lowest elements in the audience; see Janko 1987, 153; Lucas 1968, 251. On an evaluation of the features of tragic audiences, see e.g. Sifakis 2001, 33–37. 211 On the dramatic effect of πάθη ἐν ταῖς φιλίαις, see Poet. 14, 1453b 19–22 and 1454a 5–9. Cf. Belfiore 2000, esp. 3–9, 13–15, 117–122; Belfiore 1992a, 70–82 and 1992b, 366–375; Jacob 1998, 68–74 and 2004, 33–36; Moles 1979, 82–92; Curran 2016, 203–209. 212 See Hanink 2014, 192–193 and 2011, 311–321; Easterling 1993, 563 and n. 9; Heath 2009, 473; Wright 2016, xx–xxi.

72  Exploring Aristotle’s Poetics as a source for lost tragedies more specific terms, every single example cited in this case study is consistent with Aristotle’s conviction that plot-construction (mythos) is the soul and goal of tragedy (6, 1450a 22–25, 38–39). His selective reference to these tragedies from this aspect accords with his argument for the pre-eminence of mythos in tragic art. As he clearly states, its constituent elements, namely recognitions, reversals and tragic deeds, are the most effective means of arousing tragic emotions (6, 1450a 33–35, 11, 1452a 38– 1452b 1, 13, 1452b 30–33). For this reason, Aristotle’s agenda in the Poetics primarily concerns the setting out of the rules, according to which the plot should be constructed, if the poetic process is to be artistically satisfactory (1, 1447a 9–10); for tragedy is a mimesis, and the construction of this representation plays the fundamental role (6, 1450a 15–18, 7, 1450b 21–23).213 His position that mythos is of supreme importance in tragedy is congruent with the penchant of fourth-century audiences for carefully designed plots.214 And it is thanks to Aristotle’s critical treatise that a sample of these plays, which were evidently popular in his own era, but destined to be lost in the coming centuries, has not sunk into oblivion.

 213 See Belfiore 1992a, 41–176; Vahlen 1865–1867, I 31–34; Butcher 19514, 334–351; Belfiore 1992b, 361–367; Halliwell 1987, 93–95; Halliwell 2011, 221–231; Heath 1987, 99–102; Husain 2002, 44–58; White 1992, 227–237; Wiles 2007, 100–102. On mimesis, see, for instance, Halliwell 2002, 151–206; Tsitsiridis 2005, 437–446 and 2010, 27–35; Freeland 1992, 112–116. For the regulative character of the Poetics, see e.g. Sykutris 1936, 21–22. 214 On this predilection of fourth-century audiences, see Green 1994, 49–56; Kitto 1966, 113– 129; Webster 1954, 297.

Aristotle’s reception of the lysis in Theodectes’ Lynceus: Remarks on Poet. 11, 1452a 27–29 and 18, 1455b 29–32 This chapter aims to revisit the evidence for the denouement in the Lynceus of Theodectes, as attested in Aristotle’s Poetics, by taking also into consideration scholiastic information liable to shed further light on this part of the dramatic plot. At the same time, it is worth exploring Aristotle’s own response to and evaluation of the plot-structure of Theodectes’ play, for which he constitutes the sole source of evidence (see also previous chapter).215 The plot of the Lynceus is first mentioned in the eleventh chapter of the Aristotelian treatise within the context of the discussion about the reversal of tragic action. The text runs as follows (the two passages quoted in the previous chapter are cited here again for reasons of convenience, since textual matters also need to be addressed):216 11, 1452a 22–29: ἔστι δὲ περιπέτεια μὲν ἡ εἰς τὸ ἐναντίον τῶν πραττομένων μεταβολή καθάπερ εἴρηται, καὶ τοῦτο δὲ ὥσπερ λέγομεν κατὰ τὸ εἰκὸς ἢ ἀναγκαῖον, οἷον ἐν τῷ Οἰδίποδι ἐλθὼν ὡς εὐφρανῶν τὸν Οἰδίπουν καὶ ἀπαλλάξων τοῦ πρὸς τὴν μητέρα φόβου, δηλώσας ὃς ἦν, τοὐναντίον ἐποίησεν· καὶ ἐν τῷ Λυγκεῖ ὁ μὲν ἀγόμενος ὡς ἀποθανούμενος, ὁ δὲ Δαναὸς ἀκολουθῶν ὡς ἀποκτενῶν, τὸν μὲν συνέβη ἐκ τῶν πεπραγμένων ἀποθανεῖν, τὸν δὲ σωθῆναι. Reversal of action is a change to the opposite direction of events, as already stated, and one in accord, as we insist, with probability or necessity: as when in the Oedipus the person who comes to bring Oedipus happiness, and intends to rid him of his fear about his mother, effects the opposite by revealing Oedipus’ true identity. And in the Lynceus the one figure is led off to die, while Danaus follows with the intention of killing him, yet the upshot of events is Danaus’ death and the other’s survival.

Aristotle cites the Lynceus side by side with the Oedipus Tyrannus, commending both plays for providing an exemplary shift of action. It is noteworthy that he chooses to discuss the reversal by selecting this particular tragedy from the whole

 215 This is an enlarged version of Karamanou 2007. 216 I am citing the text of Kassel 1965 and generally following the Loeb translation of Halliwell 1995. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110661279-006

74  Aristotle’s reception of the lysis in Theodectes’ Lynceus dramatic production of the fourth century BC and placing it alongside the Sophoclean Oedipus, which he highly praises throughout his treatise,217 especially for presenting the finest type of recognition, in that it coincides with the shift of action (11, 1452a 32–33). The fact that he mentions the Lynceus without naming Theodectes suggests that it was quite popular in his era.218 Aristotle comes back to this play in the eighteenth chapter of the Poetics, when he investigates the manner in which the complication and the denouement of the dramatic plot are attained: 18, 1455b 24–32: ἔστι δὲ πάσης τραγῳδίας τὸ μὲν δέσις, τὸ δὲ λύσις, τὰ μὲν ἔξωθεν καὶ ἔνια τῶν ἔσωθεν πολλάκις ἡ δέσις, τὸ δὲ λοιπὸν ἡ λύσις· λέγω δὲ δέσιν μὲν εἶναι τὴν ἀπ’ ἀρχῆς μέχρι τούτου τοῦ μέρους ὃ ἔσχατόν ἐστιν ἐξ οὗ μεταβαίνει εἰς εὐτυχίαν ἢ εἰς ἀτυχίαν, λύσιν δὲ τὴν ἀπὸ τῆς ἀρχῆς τῆς μεταβάσεως μέχρι τέλους· ὥσπερ ἐν τῷ Λυγκεῖ τῷ Θεοδέκτου δέσις μὲν τά τε προπεπραγμένα καὶ ἡ τοῦ παιδίου λῆψις καὶ πάλιν ἡ αὐτῶν **, λύσις δ’ ἡ ἀπὸ τῆς αἰτιάσεως τοῦ θανάτου μέχρι τοῦ τέλους. Every tragedy has both a complication and a denouement: the complication comprises events outside the play and often some of those within it; the remainder is the denouement. I define the complication as extending from the beginning to the furthest point before the transformation to prosperity or adversity; and the denouement as extending from the beginning of the transformation till the end. Thus, in Theodectes’ Lynceus the complication covers the preceding events, the seizure of the child and then their **, while the denouement runs from the accusation of murder to the end.

Apart from being a model of tragic reversal, the Lynceus is considered to involve an exemplary plot-structure, based on a skillful tying and untying of the dramatic plot. Notably enough, Aristotle again chooses to cite this play, in order to bring forward his division of the plot into complication and denouement, which lies at the core of his theory of plot-construction (mythos).219 It is worth bearing in mind that, apart from being a tragedian, Theodectes was a well-known orator and a

 217 On its exemplary plot, which succeeds in arousing tragic emotions, see also 14, 1453b 3–7, 1453b 29–31 in conjunction with 1454a 2–4; cf. 16, 1455a 16–18. 218 See also Papadopoulou 2011, 103; Hanink 2014, 200. 219 See the discussion of this Aristotelian analysis in Else 1957, 517–522 and Belfiore 1992a, 128– 131.

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friend of Aristotle (Plu. Alex. 17.5); it is to the latter that a rhetorical treatise entitled Theodectea has been attributed.220 These factors could account for the familiarity of Aristotle and his pupils with Theodectes’ oeuvre, to which he widely refers in the Rhetoric, as well.221 Thanks to Aristotle, we are thus in a position to know the outline of this tragedy, whose plot would have otherwise remained unknown. More specifically, according to the sources for the myth of the Danaids, the recoverable elements of what Aristotle mentions as προπεπραγμένα (i.e. the background of the play) is the rescue of Lynceus by his wife Hypermestra despite her father’s order222 and the birth of a son, Abas, from their clandestine marital relations223 (evidently the child mentioned in the Aristotelian passage). It seems reasonable to infer that the capture of child Abas presumably by Danaus may have led to the disclosure of his parents’ secret relations.224 The part of the passage after the reference to the capture of the child (καὶ πάλιν ἡ αὐτῶν) has widely been regarded as lacunose prompting several conjectures, which will be discussed below. We are then informed that the untying of the plot, which according to Aristotle is signposted with the beginning of the shift from fortune to misfortune or vice versa starts with an accusation of murder (λύσις δ’ ἡ ἀπὸ τῆς αἰτιάσεως τοῦ θανάτου μέχρι τοῦ τέλους). Taking into account the evidence for the reversal of action in the Lynceus, as provided in the first passage, while Danaus was leading Lynceus to death, it so happened, as a result of certain events (ἐκ τῶν πεπραγμένων), that the former was killed and the latter rescued. Hence, in this play the reversal of action would have brought about the shift from misfortune to good fortune for Lynceus and Hypermestra and, on the basis of Aristotle’s definition, this shift must have signposted the beginning of  220 See the discussion in Matelli 2007, 169–183; Pacelli 2016, 55–56, 61–66; Kennedy 1963, 80– 81; Chroust 1973, 109–112; Erickson 1998, 7–10; Liapis/Stephanopoulos 2019, 54. 221 Rh. 1397b 2–6, 1399b 29–31, 1400a 27–29, 1401a 36 – 1401b 3. See also Janko 1987, 95; Hanink 2014, 199–200 and n. 31. 222 See A. PV 865–868, [Apollod.] 2.1.5, Ov. Her. 14, Hor. Od. 3.11.33–52, Hyg. fab. 168, 170, Paus. 2.20.7, 21.1, Nonn. D. 3.308–311, schol. vet. E. Hec. 886 (Schwartz), schol. vet. A. PV 774, 853 (Herington), D schol. Il. 4.171 (van Thiel), schol. vet. Pi. N. 10.10 (Drachmann), schol. Serv. ad Verg. Aen. 10.497 (Thilo-Hagen), Myth. Vat. 1.134, 2.103. 223 See E. Arch. fr. 228a.4f. K., TrGF II fr. adesp. 454, [Apollod.] 2.2.1, Paus. 2.16.2, 10.35.1, Hyg. fab. 170, 273.9–13, schol. vet. E. Hec. 886 (Schwartz), schol. vet. A. PV 774 (Herington), schol. vet. Pi. P. 8.77a (Drachmann). 224 Cf. Webster 1954, 304–305, drawing a parallel to Creon’s discovery of Maeon and, in turn, of the clandestine marriage between Antigone and Haemon, as reported in Hyg. fab. 72, which might reflect the plot of the fourth-century Antigone by Astydamas (see also above, ch. 1). See also Pacelli 2016, 111.

76  Aristotle’s reception of the lysis in Theodectes’ Lynceus the lysis. Accordingly, the lysis starts with an accusation of murder (ἀπὸ τῆς αἰτιάσεως τοῦ θανάτου), which should be the beginning of the metabasis to good fortune for the couple. The function of this ‘accusation of murder’, the context of which remains unspecified by Aristotle, has given rise to much speculation. It has widely been held to refer to an intrigue of Danaus to accuse and condemn Lynceus for murder, so as to have him executed.225 Else, in particular, hazarded the hypothesis that Danaus captured Abas and spirited him away temporarily, in order to inculpate Lynceus for the child’s murder. The latter appeared in the nick of time to save his father’s life and get Danaus executed instead.226 Else’s interpretation cannot be substantiated by the available evidence and, moreover, it would not be consistent with Aristotle’s definition of the lysis as signposted with the beginning of the metabasis; an accusation against Lynceus cannot constitute a metabasis from bad to good fortune, as this transition would have been attained with the events leading to Lynceus’ rescue and Danaus’ execution. The ancient scholium on E. Or. 872 (Schwartz) develops a passing reference of Euripides to a version of Danaus’ fate (Or. 872–873: οὗ φασι πρῶτον Δαναὸν Αἰγύπτωι δίκας/ διδόντ’ ἀθροῖσαι λαὸν ἐς κοινὰς ἕδρας), and I would suggest that it could yield insight into the possible circumstances of the ‘accusation of murder’: οὗ φασι πρῶτον: ὅπου φασὶ πρῶτον Δαναὸν μετὰ τὸν θάνατον τῶν υἱῶν Αἰγύπτῳ δοῦναι δίκας. αὐτὸς γὰρ ὁ Αἴγυπτος ἧκεν εἰς ῎Αργος τιμωρήσων τὸν φόνον. Δαναὸς δὲ μαθὼν ἐξῆγεν εἰς ὅπλα τοὺς ᾿Αργείους, ἀλλὰ Λυγκεὺς πείθει λόγοις ὁρίσασθαι τὴν ἔχθραν, καὶ καθιστῶσι δικαστὰς αὐτοῖς Αἰγυπτίων καὶ ᾿Αργείων τοὺς ἀρίστους. [ὁ δὲ τόπος ἔνθα] ἡ δίκη συνήχθη περὶ τὴν μεγίστην ἄκραν, ἔνθα καὶ ῎Ιναχος ἁλίσας τὸν λεὼν συνεβούλευσεν οἰκίζειν τὸ πεδίον. ὁ δὲ τόπος ἐξ ἐκείνου ῾Αλιαία καλεῖται. Where they say first: where they say that Danaus was the first to stand trial, being punished by Aegyptus after the death of the latter’s sons. For Aegyptus himself came to Argos to avenge the murder. When Danaus found out, he called the Argives to arms, but Lynceus persuaded them to settle the dispute in words; and they appointed judges the best of the Aegyptians and of the Argives. [And the place where] And the trial took place at the hill-top where Inachus had gathered the people and advised them to inhabit the plain. And for this reason this place is called Haliaia.

 225 See Vahlen 1911–1923, I 36; Webster 1954, 304; Gallavotti, 1974, 164; see recently Pacelli 2016, 106–111 revisiting earlier scholarship on this passage. 226 Else 1957, 521–522.

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The fact that Euripides refers to Danaus’ trial for the murder of his sons-in-law as a commonly known event suggests that there was such a version of the legend antedating his own treatment. The scholiast notably adds that it was with Lynceus’ intervention that Danaus stood trial, which is not mentioned by Euripides and is thus uncertain whether it belongs to the version of the story known by the dramatist or to a later one reported by the scholiast. The reference to Danaus’ trial in the scholium could give a clue as to what the ‘accusation of murder’ mentioned by Aristotle may have involved. Nevertheless, it should first be explored whether the information of the scholium could reflect any of the earlier dramatic treatments of the legend. First and foremost, it should be noted that the only play in which Lynceus is attested to have played a role is that of Theodectes. Moreover, the sources for Aeschylus’ Danaids do not point to a trial against Danaus, but, on the contrary, Aphrodite’s praise of the power of eros (fr. 44 R.) in combination with Pausanias’ testimony (2.19.6) rather seems to hint at Danaus’ reproach of Hypermestra for sparing Lynceus’ life and her defence by Aphrodite.227 The scanty evidence for Phrynichus’ Aegyptioi does not give any clue as to what it might have involved, and the piece of information provided in another version of the scholia on E. Or. 872 (Φρύνιχος δὲ ὁ τραγικός φησι σὺν Αἰγυπτίοις τὸν Αἴγυπτον ἥκειν εἰς ῎Αργος) is quite obscure, as it is not clear with what purpose and at which stage of the story Aegyptus came to Argos and whether the Αἰγύπτιοι are meant to be his sons or Egyptian people. For instance, did the play treat Aegyptus’ arrival together with his sons to claim the Danaids (thus referring to the same phase of the myth as A. Supp. 710ff.)?228 Or did Aegyptus come to Argos together with an Egyptian convoy to seek vengeance for the murder of his sons, which might have been the background of Euripides’ passing reference in Or. 872f.?229 There is no evidence to prove either case, as the scholiast does not refer to the context of Aegyptus’ arrival, probably due to his limited knowledge of Phrynichus’ play. To the lack of evidence for a trial against Danaus with Lynceus’ intervention in the earlier plays, one should oppose Aristotle’s testimony for the plot of the Lynceus. The piece of information coming from the scholium, which has not been related to Theodectes’ play so far, could fit the evidence provided by Aristotle for the following reasons: (i) it would serve to interpret the so far unclear αἰτίασις τοῦ θανάτου as Danaus’ trial for the murder of his sons-in-law.

 227 See Roscher 1890–1897, II col. 2206; Kossatz-Deissmann 1978, 49. This possibility is also explored by Garvie 1969, 210–211; Friis Johansen/ Whittle 1980, I 42; Wolff 1958, 135–136. 228 So Lesky 1983, 34; Garvie 1969, 209. 229 See Kossatz-Deissmann 1978, 49, n. 270; Keuls 1986, 341–342.

78  Aristotle’s reception of the lysis in Theodectes’ Lynceus (ii) the accusation against Danaus of the murder of his sons-in-law would be the beginning of the shift from bad to good fortune for Lynceus and Hypermestra and would thus fit precisely Aristotle’s definition of the λύσις as starting with the μετάβασις (εἰς εὐτυχίαν in the case of the Lynceus). (iii) the outcome of Danaus’ trial is not reported in the scholium; considering, however, that in attic law the penalty for bouleusis of homicide was the same as for committing it with one’s own hand, namely capital penalty (cf. Andoc. 1.94, also Ant. 1.25, 27),230 Danaus is likely to have been condemned to death. This possibility could explain how he ended up being killed himself, despite his intention to kill Lynceus (see 11, 1452a 28f.: τὸν μὲν (scil. τὸν Δαναὸν) συνέβη ἐκ τῶν πεπραγμένων ἀποθανεῖν). (iv) a dramatic trial would be wholly consistent with Theodectes’ penchant for legal scenes in his plays. Scenes of dramatic trial are attested at least twice in Theodectes’ oeuvre, namely in the Orestes (TrGF I 72 F5) and in TrGF I 72 fr. inc. 10, whereas legal distinctions are drawn in his Alcmeon (TrGF I 72 F2).231 In terms of the extent to which the account of the scholium may reflect the plot of Theodectes’ play, it should be noted that the scholiast refers to Lynceus as instigator of Danaus’ trial in the context of Aegyptus’ arrival at Argos seeking vengeance for the murder of his sons. There is no evidence from Aristotle in terms of Aegyptus’ appearance in the Lynceus, though it cannot be completely excluded, as Aristotle’s report of the plot-structure is very succinct. It should be admitted, however, that such a belated arrival of Aegyptus to avenge the murder of his sons (worth taking into account that considerable time would have passed, since the couple already has a child) may seem rather implausible. If Aegyptus did not appear at all in Theodectes’ play, it could be assumed that either (a) the whole scholium could have belonged to the mythical tradition prior to Theodectes, on which the dramatist may have drawn in terms of Danaus’ trial as instigated by Lynceus, or (b) Lynceus as instigator of Danaus’ trial might be Theodectes’ own innovation to the myth, which may have become embedded in the mythical tradition and intermingled in the scholium with the earlier part of the

 230 Cf. MacDowell 1963, 125–126 and 1978, 119–120. The murderer could alternatively condemn himself to banishment for the rest of his life only before the court gave its verdict; see MacDowell 1978, 119. 231 For his legal scenes, see Xanthakis-Karamanos 1980, 63–64, 66–69, favouring the possibility of a trial-scene in the Lynceus, in view of Theodectes’ practice; op. cit. 54.

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legend (i.e. Aegyptus’ arrival at Argos and his vengeance on Danaus by submitting him to trial for murder, as mentioned by Euripides); such a fusion of an earlier and a later version in a scholium of mythographic nature would not be uncommon.232 Hence, the information of the scholium may give a clue as to what the beginning of the lysis of the Lynceus might have involved. According to the Aristotelian passage on the reversal of action (11, 1452a 27–28), what seems to have occurred at the end of the desis and before the metabasis (δέσιν μὲν εἶναι τὴν ἀπ’ ἀρχῆς μέχρι τούτου τοῦ μέρους ὃ ἔσχατόν ἐστιν ἐξ οὗ μεταβαίνει εἰς εὐτυχίαν ἢ εἰς ἀτυχίαν) would be Danaus’ leading off Lynceus to execution. The part of the passage just after the reference to the capture of the boy reporting the events at the end of the desis (18, 1455b 31) has generally been regarded as lacunose (δέσις μὲν τά τε προπεπραγμένα καὶ ἡ τοῦ παιδίου λῆψις καὶ πάλιν ἡ αὐτῶν**). The sole clue to the restoration of the passage seems to be provided by the Arabic translation. In Gutas’ recent edition of the Arabic text it is suggested that the remnants of this passage may read αἰτία or αἰτίασις, which would square nicely with the αἰτίασις τοῦ θανάτου reported exactly after this point as signposting the beginning of the metabasis.233 This reading, if treated with due caution, might shed some light on the manner in which the transition from Lynceus’ captivity to Danaus’ trial was implemented. It could be inferred that Danaus submitted Lynceus to trial with the purpose of having him executed and that the latter managed to get Danaus condemned instead for the murder of his sons-in-law; the passage on the reversal of action reports that Lynceus was being led off to execution, which might suggest the expected outcome of a legal procedure, though not necessarily so. Even though one cannot wholly exclude that an unknown event, e.g. Aegyptus’ arrival seeking for vengeance (as reported in the scholium) or something similar, may have rescued Lynceus from death at the hands of Danaus, it is much preferable to rely on the clues provided by textual evidence.  232 For the fusion of sources in mythographic accounts, see Huys 1997b, 321, 325, in terms of [Apollod.] 1.9.15 and 1.8.2. Cf. also [Apollod.] 2.4.3 reflecting the supplication-scene of Euripides’ Dictys followed by earlier mythographic material from Pherecydes FGrH 3 F11/ fr. 11 Fowler and Theon’s commentary on Pindar with reference to the same scene (P.Oxy. 2536.5–7) in the context of a general mythographic account of Perseus’ legend. For the relation of these two narratives to the Dictys, see the next chapter. On the conflation of various sources in ancient scholia, see Dickey 2007, 12; Montana 2011, 115–117; for Euripidean scholia in particular, see Dickey 2007, 32. 233 Tarán/Gutas 2012, 406–407. As Gutas points out (Tarán/Gutas 2012, 406), Gomperz’s δήλωσις (‘disclosure’), which was favoured by Else 1957, 521 and Belfiore 1992a, 129, n. 38, cannot be substantiated on the basis of the Arabic text.

80  Aristotle’s reception of the lysis in Theodectes’ Lynceus Bywater’s choice to retain the transmitted reading234 does not contradict the Arabic text, though the capture of Lynceus is expressed in more general terms without any hint at a legal process: δέσις μὲν τά τε προπεπραγμένα καὶ ἡ τοῦ παιδίου λῆψις καὶ πάλιν ἡ αὐτῶν (λῆψις would be implied, namely ‛the seizure of the child and that in turn of the parents’),235 λύσις δ’ ἡ ἀπὸ τῆς αἰτιάσεως τοῦ θανάτου μέχρι τοῦ τέλους. Λῆψις corresponds to the part of the plot exactly before the metabasis, that is, Danaus’ getting hold of Lynceus after discovering the couple’s clandestine relations and his intention to kill him, as reported in the passage on the reversal. However, the phrasing is very compact and, even though it would be in the nature of notes to be condensed (as the Poetics was most probably part of a course of oral instruction),236 it could cause confusion with the subsequent part of the passage as transmitted (καὶ πάλιν ἡ αὐτῶν λύσις δ’ …). On the whole, it should be admitted that the relation of the testimony of the scholium to the plot of the Lynceus cannot be established beyond any doubt, as the scholiast does not assign his account to Theodectes’ play. Nevertheless, the evidence provided by the scholium is quite suggestive, being the sole source to shed some light on what the obscure αἰτίασις τοῦ θανάτου may have involved; if this is taken to refer to Danaus’ trial, it could correspond to the metabasis from bad to good fortune for the couple, thus fitting precisely Aristotle’s definition of the beginning of the lysis.237 We are on a much safer ground for the recovery of a lost plot when consulting, assessing and combining evidence from ancient sources, as far as possible, rather than when having to resort to mere conjecture. And the least that we can say in this case is that the scholium offers evidence for a reworking of the Danaid legend which conceivably postdates fifth-century dramatic treatments. Aristotle’s testimony is thus valuable not only because it provides significant information for the plot of Theodectes’ Lynceus, but also because it could yield insight into the philosopher’s reception of this tragedy. What we can retrieve from this play concerns particular aspects of the lay-out of its exciting plot; these selective references are conditioned by Aristotle’s critical agenda, which brings forward his argument for the prominence of plot-construction (mythos) in tragic art (see also previous chapter). In more specific terms, he chooses to cite the Lynceus

 234 See Bywater 1909, ad loc. Most recently, Pacelli (2016, 107) regards this reading as worth considering. 235 Transl. Bywater 1909, 53. 236 See, for instance, Lucas 1968, ix and n. 4, x–xi; Janko 1987, xxii. 237 This interpretation, which was first proposed in Karamanou 2007, has recently been favoured by Pacelli (2016, 108–111).

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alongside his model play, the Oedipus Tyrannus, commending its skillful shift of action. Moreover, this is the sole tragedy mentioned as an exemplary case of an effective complication and denouement, which indicates Aristotle’s appreciation of its plot-structure. At the same time, the probable familiarity of the members of the Lyceum with the work of Theodectes, who belonged to their circle, could shape their own aesthetic evaluation of the Lynceus.

The representation of Euripides’ Dictys in South Italian painted pottery This chapter sets out to assess the implications of the iconographic reception of Euripides’ Dictys in a fourth-century Apulian vase-painting. It will seek to evaluate the contribution of this iconographic testimony to the recovery of elements of the dramatic plot and, at the same time, to explore the contexts of the reception of tragic plays in South Italian painted pottery.238 To be able to assess the contribution of this iconographic source, it is worth reporting first the evidence that was available before the association of this vasepainting with the Dictys and then the new elements provided by this artifact. The Dictys was produced at the City Dionysia in 431 BC alongside the Medea, the Philoctetes and the satyr-play Theristae.239 The mythological material which Euripides had at his disposal is provided by Pherecydes (fr. 11 Fowler/ FGrH3 F11): the chest, in which Danae and the infant Perseus are imprisoned by Acrisius, reaches the shore of Seriphos,240 where it is fished up by Dictys, who takes mother and son under his protection. When the latter grows to manhood, Polydectes, Dictys’ brother and king of Seriphos, happens to see Danae and falls in love with her. In order to win her, Polydectes organizes an eranos, where Perseus promises to bring him the Gorgon’s head. The king insists that Perseus should keep his promise, otherwise he will claim Danae. Helped by Hermes and Athena, the hero manages to decapitate Medusa, returns to Seriphos and asks Polydectes to gather the people to see the Gorgon’s head. Consequently, the king and the crowd are turned into stone. Then Perseus departs for Argos with his mother, leaving Dictys as king of the island. Apart from the Dictys, this phase of the events on Seriphos could have been the subject-matter also of Aeschylus’ Polydectes, which survives only as a title in the catalogue of his plays (TrGF III T78.15b). In view of its title, it has reasonably been assumed to have dealt with this theme.241 Nevertheless, the complete absence of evidence could point to a lesser popularity of this play in later times and || 238 This is an enlarged and updated version of Karamanou 2002–2003. 239 Argum. Ar. Gramm. in E. Med. (OCT I 90, ll. 40–43 Diggle). 240 For the earlier phase of the myth concerning the exposure of Danae and Perseus, see Pherecyd. fr. 10 Fowler/FGrH3 F10; [Apollod.] 2.4.1; for further references, see Gantz 1993, 299–303; Maffre 1986, 325–327. 241 The Polydectes might have belonged to a connected tetralogy consisting of the Phorcides, the satyr-play Dictyulci and another unknown tragedy on the Perseus-myth; see Pfeiffer 1938, 20; Gantz 1980, 150–151; Howe 1953, 269–271; Goins 1997, 193–210. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110661279-007

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presumably to its loss before the Alexandrian edition,242 otherwise it would have stood a good chance of being quoted even once. For methodological purposes, I am going to address the information retrieved thanks to the most recently published hypothesis of the Dictys243 towards the end of this chapter, in order to examine first how much of the plot may be recovered through combination of iconographic and literary evidence. The Dictys comprises nineteen fragments, most of which derive from Stobaeus’ Anthology. Their gnomological character and the absence of context cannot facilitate their location within the dramatic plot. On the basis of the most informative fragments, the action of the play can be deduced up to a certain extent: Perseus is absent and is considered to have died in his pursuit of the Gorgon (fr. 332 K.), Polydectes desires Danae (on the erotic theme, see frr. 331, 339, 340 K.) and wants to beget children from her (fr. 338 K.), Danae and Dictys are in a weak position (frr. 342, 343 K.), Dictys tries to protect her and thus comes in conflict with Polydectes (fr. 337 K.). It is reasonably expected that at a critical moment in the play Perseus returns to Seriphos carrying the Gorgon’s head and avenges the offence against his mother by petrifying Polydectes.244 The narrative in [Apollod.] 2.4.3, though mainly according with Pherecydes, adds an interesting piece of information: during the absence of Perseus, Polydectes’ violence forced Danae and Dictys to take refuge at an altar, where the hero found them on his return to Seriphos:245 παραγενόμενος δὲ εἰς Σέριφον, καὶ καταλαβὼν προσπεφευγυῖαν τοῖς βωμοῖς μετὰ τοῦ Δίκτυος τὴν μητέρα διὰ τὴν Πολυδέκτου βίαν, εἰσελθὼν εἰς τὰ βασίλεια, συγκαλέσαντος τοῦ Πολυδέκτου τοὺς φίλους ἀπεστραμμένος τὴν κεφαλὴν τῆς Γοργόνος ἔδειξε· τῶν δὲ ἰδόντων, ὁποῖον ἕκαστος ἔτυχε σχῆμα ἔχων, ἀπελιθώθη. καταστήσας δὲ τῆς Σερίφου Δίκτυν βασιλέα, ἀπέδωκε τὰ μὲν πέδιλα καὶ τὴν κίβισιν καὶ τὴν κυνῆν ῾Ερμῇ, τὴν δὲ κεφαλὴν τῆς Γοργόνος ᾿Αθηνᾷ.

|| 242 The official Athenian copy of the plays of the three great tragic poets ordered by Lycurgus, which formed the basis of the Alexandrian edition by Aristophanes (see Galen. Comm. in Hipp. Epid. III 5.10.2), seems to have included those of the plays that belonged to the repertory of that era rather than the whole corpus of the three poets; see e.g. Wartelle 1971, 107–110. For the formation of the tragic repertory in the fourth century, see Easterling 1997, 213–215, 225; Hanink 2014, 7–22, 60–91. 243 P.Oxy. LXXXI 5283, col. ii, 46–48 – col. iii, 1–48 (ed. C. Meccariello). 244 On the plot of the Dictys, see Webster 1967, 61–62, 64; Jouan/Van Looy 1998–2003, II 82; Aélion 1986, 159–160; Stoessl 1958, 163; Karamanou 2006, esp. 134–139; Collard/Cropp 2008, I 346–349. 245 This narrative is followed by Tzetzes in his schol. ad Lyc. 838 (Scheer).

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And having come to Seriphos he found that his mother and Dictys had taken refuge at the altars on account of the violence of Polydectes; so he entered the palace, where Polydectes had gathered his friends, and with averted face he showed the Gorgon’s head; and all who looked at it were turned to stone, each in the attitude which he happened to have struck. Having appointed Dictys king of Seriphos, he gave back the sandals, the pouch and the cap to Hermes and gave the Gorgon’s head to Athena. (transl. Frazer 1921 with minor adjustments)

Similarly, Danae’s flight to the altar of a god, whose name is missing, occurs in a papyrus fragment coming from Theon’s commentary on Pi. P. 12.13 (P.Oxy. XXXI 2536)246 written in the first century BC: [± 15]c [±3] βιαζομένηc γ(ὰρ) τῆc Δα[νάηc ὑπὸ τοῦ Πολυδ] έ̣κ̣τ̣ο̣υ̣ cυνέβη αὐτὴν κατα[φυγεῖν πρὸ]c̣ τὸν βωμὸν τοῦ (vacat) , τὸν δὲ [Πολυδέκτην] εὐλαβούμενον τὸν Περcέα πέμψαι [ἐπὶ Μεδούcηc] κ̣αρατ̣ο̣μία̣ν ὡc ἀπολούμενον καὶ [ ± 12] τὸν μ(ὲν) Πολυδέκτην θεωρήcαντα [τὴν τῆc Γοργόνο]c κεφαλὴν ἀπολιθωθῆναι κ(αὶ) cωθῆ[ναι τὴν Δανάη]ν.

5

10

]Being pressed hard [by Polydectes] Danae happened to [seek refuge] at the altar of (vacat) ; being wary of Perseus [Polydectes] sent him to behead [Medusa], in order to be killed and [ ] when Polydectes saw [the Gorgon’s] head, he was petrified and [Danae was saved].

The copyist could not obviously read the name of the god written in his exemplar (l. 7),247 so he left a blank space, estimating the approximate size of the word which he omitted (2cm =ca. nine/ ten letters in this particular hand). Danae’s flight to the altar together with her protector Dictys, in order to escape from Polydectes’ efforts to get hold of her, is strikingly reminiscent of tragedy, particularly of the supplication scenes of Euripidean drama, as those in the Heraclidae, Andromache, Suppliant Women, Heracles and Helen.248 It was thus

|| 246 Ed. Turner 1966, 16–22. 247 Turner 1966, 21. 248 On the altar-scenes of Euripidean drama, see Strohm 1957, 17–30; Grethlein 2003, 109–199, 353–428; Kopperschmidt 1971, 335–343; Dingel 1967, 54–55; Naiden 2006, 316–317; Ley 2007, 46–68; Cassella 1999, 242–244; Schmidt 1911, esp. 15–23; Mercier 1990, 37–42, 160–163, 194–251.

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assumed that the accounts of Theon and Ps.-Apollodorus could be reflecting the plot of the Dictys.249 Nevertheless, there is no reference to the play or its playwright in either account, while the surviving fragments of the Dictys, though expressive of Polydectes’ plans for Danae and of the former’s conflict with Danae and Dictys as mentioned above, do not explicitly refer to their status as suppliants. Hence, the altar-scene of the two narratives cannot safely be associated with the Dictys without any further evidence. In 1991 A.D. Trendall and A. Cambitoglou published an Apulian red-figure volute-crater (Princeton Art Museum 1989.40), the obverse of which depicts Perseus’ return to Seriphos (fig. 1).250 The vase is dated in ca. 370/360 BC, and its paintings are attributed to the Iliupersis Painter. In the centre of the scene, there is a naiskos supported by four Ionic columns and seen in perspective, in front of which there is an altar of Poseidon, as is evident from the cult-statue of the god, to which Danae and the white-haired Dictys have fled as suppliants. On the left, Polydectes is looking at them, wearing an embroidered sleeved robe and holding a sceptre in his right hand and a sword in his left. On the right, Perseus is depicted as arriving at Seriphos wearing his Phrygian cap and carrying his harpe and the kibisis251 with the Gorgon’s head. Dictys is pointing at Perseus and both Danae and himself are looking at the hero with hope and relief. A composition of gods presides over this scene: above, on the left, are Aphrodite and Eros, symbolizing Polydectes’ desire for Danae. On the right, over Perseus, there are two goddesses looking very much alike. Apart from their obvious resemblance, there is no other feature that could give a hint at their identity. Considering that South Italian vases tend to illustrate gods who may only marginally—or even hardly—be connected to the depicted myth or dramatic production,252 this could be the case here, as well.

|| 249 See Jouan/Van Looy 1998–2003, II 76–79, 81; Webster 1967, 62; Stoessl 1958, 159; Dingel 1967, 54; Turner 1966, 21; Huys 1997b, 318; Welcker 1839–1841, II 669. 250 Trendall/Cambitoglou 1991–1992, I 46 and pl. VI. This vase-painting was subsequently republished by Jones Roccos 1994, 427, n. 6, fig. 344; Brandes-Druba 1994, 219, n. II A15; De Cesare 1997, 260, n. 210, fig. 77; Karamanou 2002–2003; Todisco (ed.) 2003, 423, fig. 67; Taplin 2007a, 192–193. This testimony was included by Kannicht in his addenda in TrGF V 2, 1160–1161. 251 LSJ9: ‘pouch’. According to Hesychius (κ 2600 Latte), κίβισις was the word used by the Cypriots for πήρα (‘pouch’, ‘wallet’); EM s.v. κίβισις (513, 2–3 Gaisford): ἐβάσταζεν ἐν δεκτικῷ τινὶ ἀγγείῳ τὴν κεφαλὴν τῆς Γοργόνος ὁ Περσεύς. 252 See, for instance, the vases inspired by the Hippolytus (Taplin 2007a, fig. 42), Melanippe the Wise (Taplin 2007a, fig. 68), Iphigenia in Tauris (Taplin 2007a, fig. 47) and Chrysippus (Taplin 2007a, fig. 82).

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Fig. 1: Apulian red-figure volute crater (Princeton Art Museum 1989.40), obverse. Reproduced by permission of the Trustees of Princeton University. Photo credit: Clem Fiori.

Nevertheless, I could not rule out the possibility that the two goddesses may be Nereids, not only in view of their palpable relation to Poseidon, but also because they are attested to have played a significant role in the legend of Perseus. Firstly, Pausanias (2.18.1) refers to a precinct of Dictys and the Nereid Clymene, who saved Perseus’ life. Moreover, Lucian in his twelfth Marine Dialogue presents Danae and Perseus as being rescued by the Nereids Doris and Thetis, who pushed the chest towards the nets of the Seriphian fishermen. It is worth taking into account that Lucian tends to allude to Euripides,253 who is, in fact, the second most quoted poet after Homer in his work,254 and this makes it likely that he may reflect the Euripidean treatment. Hence, unless the relation of the Nereids to the myth of Perseus is an invention of Late Antiquity, two of the three Nereids mentioned, namely Doris, Thetis and Clymene, might be depicted in this scene. Though one would expect the Nereids to be presented as surrounded by fish or other marine

|| 253 See Bompaire 1958, 621–630, 643–644; Camerotto 1998, 29–36, 148–156, 277, 287–288, 292– 294; Karavas 2005, 139–160, 175–182, 230–231; Karamanou 2006, 49–50; Helm 1906, 56, 136–137, 298, 324–325, 343; Jones 1986, 151. For overt expressions of Lucian’s fondness of Euripides, see Nec. 1.25– 2.1, J. Tr. 1. 20, Pseud. 32. 254 Householder 1941, 41.

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creatures, the location on land presumably makes it difficult to designate them by marine objects, and several vase-paintings depicting land-scenes illustrate the Nereids without any of these.255 The reverse of the crater depicts a Dionysiac scene: the god is illustrated at the centre surrounded by maenads and satyrs who are holding the thyrsus and tambourines and are pouring libations. The theatrical associations of the painting on the obverse of the Apulian crater can be substantiated by a number of factors; firstly, the sleeved long stagecostume worn by Dictys, the elaborate long theatrical robe in which Danae is dressed and especially the highly ornamented costume (the ποικίλον) that Polydectes is wearing could point to a dramatic performance.256 In addition, Poseidon’s altar has the structure of a portico supported by four pillars following the aedicula (or naiskos) pattern, which is an artistic convention in many South Italian theatre-related vase-paintings, aiming to present in a small space an occupied building of any kind—palace, temple, altar or tomb.257 Moreover, Dictys is illustrated as pointing at Perseus, which seems to be a theatrical gesture and could be interpreted that he is thought of as speaking to Danae and alerting her to Perseus’ appearance; this ‘speaking’ gesture occurs regularly in tragedy-related vasepaintings.258 His depiction as kneeling on the altar (‘le héros agenouillé sur l’ autel’) is a fixed iconographic pattern in supplication scenes of South Italian

|| 255 See, for instance, the Apulian vases that illustrate the Nereids carrying the armour of Achilles and the Oceanids in the rape of Persephone in Trendall/Cambitoglou 1983, figg. 23d (pl. XXVIII 1) and 117a (pl. XXXV) respectively. Cf. also LIMC VI 2 s.v. ‘Nereides’, figg. 258, 261, 267, 271, 272, 281, 283, 285, 426, 438. 256 For the elaborate theatrical costumes depicted in South Italian vases, see Webster 1956, 110–111 and Pickard-Cambridge 19682, 199–203. Cf. also Simon 1972, 21–23; Green 2002, 93–104; Taplin 2007a, 38; Vahtikari 2014, 34–36. On the criteria of relating iconographic representations to tragic plots, see especially Taplin 2007a, 37–43; Roscino 2003, 223–359; Vahtikari 2014, 24– 51. 257 Taplin 2007a, 38–39; Vahtikari 2014, 26–27. Cf. for instance, the porticos in the South Italian vases related to the Iphigenia in Tauris (Taplin 2007a, figg. 47–48, 50), the Hypsipyle (Taplin 2007a, fig. 79), Aeschylus’ Eumenides (Taplin 2007a, figg. 7, 9) etc. Cf. Pickard-Cambridge 1946, 82–99 and for the representation of dramatic altar-scenes, see Gogos 1984, 27–37. The naiskos pattern appears very frequently also in South Italian vase-paintings with funerary themes; see Trendall 1989, 266–267; Pickard-Cambridge 1946, 94–98. 258 Cf. for instance, the South Italian vases inspired by E. Aeolus (Taplin 2007a, fig. 56), Hypsipyle (Taplin 2007a, fig. 79), Phoenissae (Green/Handley 1995, fig. 23) and S. Oedipus Tyrannus (Taplin 2007a, fig. 22). The ‘speaking’ gesture also occurs often in vases depicting messengers as narrating off-stage events, as in those inspired by the Hippolytus (Taplin 2007a, fig. 42) and the Antiope (Taplin 2007a, fig. 66). For this discussion, see Green 1999, 41–42; Green/Handley 1995, 69; Vahtikari 2014, 42–43; Csapo 2010, 69; Boegehold 1999, 25.

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vase-paintings.259 Furthermore, the illustration of the god of drama on the reverse of the crater can associate the painting on the obverse with a dramatic plot.260 All these factors in combination suggest that the source of artistic inspiration was a tragic treatment. As mentioned above, the complete lack of evidence for the Polydectes of Aeschylus implies that it must have been less known in later times, whereas a reasonable number of quotations survive from the Dictys. Moreover, the tremendous popularity of Euripidean drama from the fourth century BC onwards emerges from didascalic inscriptions261 and from the fact that South Italian vase-paintings related to Euripidean plays outnumber significantly those associated with Aeschylean and Sophoclean tragedies.262 On this basis, it is reasonable to accept that this vase-painting seems to reproduce the climactic moment of Perseus’ return in Euripides’ Dictys. The evidence provided by this iconographic source is significant for the recovery of key aspects of this Euripidean plot. The association of this Apulian vasepainting with the Dictys substantiates the supplication scene mentioned in the scholium of Theon and the mythographic account of Ps.-Apollodorus. Hence, both passages can plausibly be regarded as providing the plot-outline of the Dictys: Danae and Dictys take refuge at the altar of Poseidon to escape from Polydectes’ violence, Perseus returns to Seriphos carrying the Gorgon’s head, becomes aware of the situation and petrifies Polydectes. Significantly enough, in the light of this vase-painting the blank left in the commentary of Theon can be filled with the ten-letter name Ποcειδῶνοc, which fits the approximate space left by the scribe: [± 15]c [±3] βιαζομένηc γ(ὰρ) τῆc Δα-

5

|| 259 See Moret 1975, 106–111; Cohen 2000, 124–125. See e.g. Orestes in an Apulian bell-crater representing Aeschylus’ Eumenides (Taplin 2007a, 66: fig. 10); Neoptolemus in an Apulian volute-crater related to Euripides’ Andromache (op. cit. 140: fig. 43); Telephus in Lucanian and Paestan calyx-craters related to Euripides’ Telephus (op. cit. 207–208: fig. 77). All these heroes are depicted as kneeling on the altar. 260 Considering that Dionysus was also god of the symposium and of the mysteries, vases with dramatic scenes could have been suitable for the banquet as well as for funerary purposes; see Trendall 1991, 153. On the funerary contexts of these vases, see the discussion below. 261 See IG II2 2320 attesting that revivals only of Euripidean tragedies were produced for three successive years (341–339 BC). For the popularity of Euripides compared to the lesser popularity of Aeschylus and Sophocles in the fourth century, see Green 1994, 50–58; Funke 1965–1966, 238– 242; Xanthakis-Karamanos 1980, 28–34; Easterling 1997, 225; Vahtikari 2014, 217–219; Perrin 1997, 213–214 and n. 64; most recently Duncan 2017, 535–545. 262 See Taplin 2007a, ch. 3; Trendall/Webster 1971, 1; Kossatz-Deissmann 1978, 5–7; Trendall 1989, 262–263. See earlier Huddilston 1898, 78–181 and Séchan 1926, 233–518, 577–578.

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[νάηc ὑπὸ τοῦ Πολυδ] έ̣κ̣τ̣ο̣υ̣ cυνέβη αὐτὴν κατα[φυγεῖν πρὸ]c̣ τὸν βωμὸν τοῦ , τὸν δὲ [Πολυδέκτην] εὐλαβούμενον τὸν Περcέα πέμψαι [ἐπὶ Μεδούcηc] κ̣αρατ̣ο̣μία̣ν ὡc ἀπολούμενον καὶ [ ± 12] τὸν μ(ὲν) Πολυδέκτην θεωρήcαντα [τὴν τῆc Γοργόνο]c κεφαλὴν ἀπολιθωθῆναι κ(αὶ) cωθῆ[ναι τὴν Δανάη]ν.

10

Hence, the interrelation of mythographic, scholarly and iconographic evidence yields insight into this Euripidean plot. This piece of information may also contribute to supplementing a small scrap from a Euripidean hypothesis preserved in PSI 1286 and consisting of two fragments.263 Fr. A of this roll comprises two columns, the first of which preserves the end of the narrative hypothesis of the Rhesus and the second the end of hyp. Rhadamanthys and the opening of hyp. Scyrioi. Fr. B, which has been preserved together with fr. A, has remained unidentified so far; it is a tattered scrap written in exactly the same hand as fr. A, which indicates that it comes from the same roll. The legible elements of this piece are ]ΩΝΟC ΙΕΡ[ in l. 2 and ] ΔΙΚΤΥΟC [ in l. 3. Dictys is a mythical figure associated in ancient Greek sources exclusively with Danae’s myth, and there is no evidence for his role in any other Euripidean play apart from the Dictys. His name is thus very suggestive of the possibility that this could be a slight remainder of the hypothesis of the Dictys. Moreover, the reference to the shrine of a god whose name ends in –ωνοc points to the altar of Poseidon, where Danae and Dictys fled as suppliants, which accords with the evidence provided in the Apulian vase-painting. Hence, I suggest that Dictys’ name and the additional trace of the reference to the altar-scene provided in a fragment from a roll containing hypotheses of Euripidean plays could identify this piece as a scanty relic of the narrative hypothesis of the Dictys with a degree of probability.264 The recent publication of a major part of the hypothesis of the Dictys from a different roll, as mentioned at the beginning of this chapter, now confirms beyond any possible doubt the altar-scene attested in the aforementioned iconographic and literary sources: καὶ̣ ἡ̣| [Δανάη] μετὰ τοῦ Δίκτυοc κατέ-| [φυγεν] ε̣ἰc τὸ τοῦ Ποcιδῶνο̣c| ἱ̣[ερόν] vel τ̣[έμενοc] (P.Oxy. 5283 col. iii 9–12).265 Unlike the

|| 263 See the description of the papyrus by Galavotti 1933, 177 and Bartoletti’s note on PSI XII 1286. 264 Jouan/Van Looy 1998–2003, II 83 and Kannicht 2004, I 382 regard this piece as conceivably belonging to the hypothesis of the Dictys. For more detail, see Karamanou 2006, 163–166. 265 See Meccariello 2016, 128–129.

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tattered scrap of the hypothesis in PSI 1286, the reference to Dictys’ name in the newly published hypothesis precedes that to the altar of Poseidon. As the editor Chiara Meccariello reasonably points out, the stylistic divergences in the Oxyrhynchus collection of hypotheses could be due to the possibility that they stem from a different set of mythographic hypotheses.266 Structurally speaking, the retrieved evidence for the Dictys—resulting from the combination of iconographic and literary sources, even before the publication of the Oxyrhynchus hypothesis—suggests that the play was constructed upon the ‘supplication-return-rescue-revenge’ pattern,267 which is reminiscent of the first part of the Heracles.268 Indeed, the Dictys bears the features of a nostos play;269 the archetype of this story-pattern is found in the Odyssey and is followed in Aeschylus’ Persae and Agamemnon, Sophocles’ Trachiniae and Euripides’ Andromache and Heracles.270 In all these plays, the absent figure is away on a mission, but central to the preoccupations of the characters left behind (see esp. frr. 332, 346 K.), who, in turn, assume great importance (as Atossa, Deianeira, Andromache, Megara and Amphitryon, Dictys and Danae in our play).271 The Dictys— like the first part of the Heracles—seems to have followed the pattern of the Odyssey beyond the nostos to the specific question whether the hero is alive or not (according to fr. 332 K., Perseus is thought to be dead early in the play).272 On the basis of the accounts of Theon and Ps.-Apollodorus, Perseus’ return, as that of Odysseus and Heracles, comes as a surprise, possibly in the nick of time for the rescue of Danae and Dictys, according to the pattern of ‘catastrophe survived’. The supplication pattern represented in the Dictys also bears staging implications. As in all Euripidean plays built upon a central altar-scene (Heraclidae, Andromache, Suppliant Women, Helen and the first part of the Heracles), upon the opening of the Dictys the suppliants are likely to have been ‘discovered’ at their places, according to the technique of ‘cancelled entry’.273 This practice serves to provide the semblance of duration, indicating that the supplication has been in

|| 266 Meccariello 2016, 112–114. 267 See Burnett 1971, 9–10, 165; Burian 1997, 187–189; Lattimore 1964, 50–52; Garzya 1962, 131. 268 On the structural features of the Heracles, see Maio 1977, passim. 269 For the term, see Taplin 1977, 124. 270 Features of the nostos pattern also occur in A. Choephoroi, the Electra plays by Sophocles and Euripides and the latter’s lost Cresphontes (see Harder 1985, 14). 271 See Taplin 1977, 124–125; Lloyd 1994, 3–4. 272 See Karamanou 2006, 171–174. 273 On this staging technique, see Taplin 1977, 134.

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progress long before the play begins, as well as offering an imposing initial tableau that brings forward the religious and emotional associations of supplication and, in turn, the dramatic tension which is to occur in the course of the play.274 When it comes to the assessment of iconographic testimonies, it is worth taking into account that theatre-related iconography does not bear, as a rule, a tight connection with dramatic texts, which entails that due caution is required not to push the evidence too far, especially in the case of fragmentarily preserved tragedies.275 Accordingly, this vase-painting should not be regarded as representing an actual scene from the performance of the Dictys, not least because the presence of four speakers on stage is not feasible, unless one of them is silent. On the analogy of HF 523–636, the scene of Perseus’ return may have involved the hero, Dictys and Danae. There would be no obvious place for Polydectes, and his absence from stage would give the suppliants the opportunity to inform Perseus of their plight. In addition, Perseus’ heroic nudity is an artistic convention often employed in the depiction of young men and would not have occurred on stage. Furthermore, the gods depicted on this vase-painting (Aphrodite, Eros, Poseidon and the two female goddesses) could not be expected to have appeared in the play,276 though they could have been alluded to; for instance, the impetuosity of Cypris reflecting Polydectes’ desire for Danae is a recurring theme in the Dictys (frr. 331, 339, 340 K.). Hence, as in most South Italian tragedy-related vases, this iconographic representation is not ‘scene-specific’,277 but must have aimed to offer to its viewers a recollection of main themes of the play,278 such as the dramatic tension of the supplication scene, Polydectes’ desire and violence and the ‘signature scene’ of Perseus’ crucial return.279 The contexts of this artistic activity may also be worth exploring. Theatrerelated vase-paintings are highly sophisticated pieces of work in terms of artistic || 274 See Taplin 1977, 134–136; Halleran 1985, 80; Allan 2001a, 39; Collard 1975b, 17. 275 On these caveats, see, for instance, Giuliani 1996, 71–86; Small 2005, 103–117; Revermann 2016, 19–22; Duncan 2017, 540–542. On the ‘philodramatic’ approach (the term was coined by Giuliani 1996, 72, who expressed his skepticism about the close relationship between vase-paintings and dramatic texts espoused in the works of Séchan 1926, Trendall/Webster 1971 and Kossatz-Deissmann 1978) as against the ‘iconocentric’ position (focusing on the self-sufficiency of the vase-paintings regardless of the plays), see the balanced discussion in Taplin 2007a, 22–26. 276 If all the depicted gods appeared in the play, their number would exceed anything in surviving tragedy. 277 On this term, see Taplin 1993, 27. See also Trendall 1990, 227; Davidson 2005, 6; Vahtikari 2014, 20–22; Green 1994, 51–56; Green/Handley 1995, 68–70; Giuliani 1996, 73–75, 85; Taplin 2007a, 23–24. 278 See the discussion in Revermann 2010, esp. 82–88; Taplin 2007a, 23; Duncan 2017, 539–543. 279 For the term, see Revermann 2010, 75.

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technique and representation of tragic myths, suggesting that the painters worked within the Greek artistic tradition and were familiar with dramatic plots. As regards the relation of these vase-paintings to tragic plots, the question which often arises concerns the possible influence of dramatic performances upon artistic creation and upon the viewers’ perception of these iconographic representations. As Martin Revermann reasonably pointed out, the significance of the visual dimension for artistic activity makes it highly unlikely that the painters were not affected by fourth-century reperformances of classical tragedies taking place in South Italy.280 Moreover, dramatic performances were the main means through which people knew tragic myths. These artifacts are thus likely to have been informed and gained depth by the viewers’ knowledge of the tragic plot especially through dramatic performances, which could have enriched the spectators’ appreciation of the vase-painting.281 It is thus reasonable to reckon that this iconographic representation could be suggestive of a fourth-century revival of the Dictys in South Italy282 and could, in turn, form an indicator of its popularity in that period. South Italian tragedy-related vase-paintings were, as a rule, used for funerary purposes. Many of these depict supplication scenes, as in the present case.283 The liminal state of the suppliant between life and death seems to have provided a suitable theme within funerary contexts. The deceased presumably had taken pleasure during their lifetime in the scenes represented in these artifacts, which, at the same time, offered comfort, hope and consolation to the mourners, by teaching them awareness of human suffering and mortality through contemplation of famous tragic exempla.284 On the basis of the available evidence, this is the sole iconographic representation which can safely be associated with the Dictys. Vesa Vahtikari also mentions a Campanian neck-amphora (Hermitage 2077, 440–420 BC, LIMC s.v. ‘Polydektes’, fig. 8) in relation to this play.285 This vase-painting depicts Polydectes being turned to stone as Perseus holds up the Gorgon’s head, whilst behind the hero there is a youth with a mirror and an Eros with a fillet. Unlike the Apulian

|| 280 Revermann 2010, 82. 281 Taplin 2007a, 9–13, 21–22, 25 and 2012, 226–246; Robinson 2014, esp. 323–325; Allan 2001b, 67–81; Dearden 1999, 235–239. 282 See also Vahtikari 2014, 237–238, who reasonably pointed out that sadly no further evidence (e.g. literary or inscriptional) has been preserved towards this direction. 283 See, for instance, Taplin 2007a, figg. 6–11, 27, 37–38, 43, 57–58, 75–77. 284 Taplin 2007a, 43–46; Todisco 2012, 259–271; Keuls 1997, 165, 188–195; Trendall 1989, 266– 268; Green 1994, 52–56 and 2007, 174–175. 285 Vahtikari 2014, Appendix II, no. 218.

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volute-crater, however, this vase-painting does not display any conspicuous theatrical associations, such as stage costumes, architectural features (e.g. the portico), stage props (such as the altar) or the main characters of the play, Dictys and Danae. The same holds true of a Lucanian panathenaic amphora (Copenhagen, Nat. Mus. 3407, 350–320 BC, LIMC s.v. ‘Polydektes’, fig. 5) depicting Perseus at the centre, Polydectes on the right wearing a himation and Athena watching on the left.286 It is conceivable, nonetheless, that this mythical theme could have become popular in South Italy due to fourth-century reperformances of the Dictys. In conclusion, this Apulian vase-painting offers crucial evidence for Euripides’ Dictys, and these pieces of information have now been confirmed categorically by the recently published Oxyrhynchus hypothesis of this tragedy. Firstly, the iconographic representation of the altar-scene confirms that the accounts of Theon and Ps.-Apollodorus reflect the outline of this Εuripidean plot. Subsequently, thanks to the vase-painting we are informed that Poseidon was the god at whose altar Danae and Dictys sought refuge and thus the blank left in Theon’s papyrus commentary can be filled with the god’s name. Moreover, this iconographic testimony offers the recollection of an expectedly critical moment in the action of the Dictys, that is, Perseus’ nostos and its implications for the development of the dramatic plot and the denouement of the play. Furthermore, this Apulian vase-painting could be suggestive of a fourth-century reperformance of the Dictys in South Italy and, in turn, of the continuing popularity of this play. The artistic and possibly performative contexts of the fourth-century reception of the Dictys could, in broader terms, yield further insight into the cultural history of classical tragedy in Magna Grecia.

|| 286 Op.cit. Appendix II, no. 219.

The reception of Euripides’ Alexandros in Etruscan iconography This chapter aims to investigate the reception of the Euripidean Alexandros in a series of fourth and third-century BC relief-representations in Etruscan mirrorbacks. It will be argued that these reliefs could supplement our evidence for and shed light on the attack-scene of this tragic plot, as well as on matters of staging and performance. At the same time, this study explores the multiple stages in the process of appropriation of this Euripidean scene by the receiving culture and the artistic response to this critical moment in the play.287 The Alexandros was produced in 415 BC alongside the Palamedes, the Trojan Women and the satyr-play Sisyphus.288 All three tragedies of this production draw on the Trojan legend, display unity of locale with Troy as the place of dramatic action and share key themes and concepts. The production of 415 BC has thus reasonably been considered to bear the features of a connected trilogy.289 A large number of fragments from the Alexandros has come down to us,290 especially thanks to papyrus finds (P. Stras. inv. nr. Gr. 2342–44; mid-third century BC). The narrative hypothesis of the play (P.Oxy. 3650, col. i), a major part of which has been preserved, reports that when Alexandros was born, Hecabe had him exposed due to an ill-omened dream, according to which the newborn child would bring disaster to Troy. The child was raised by a herdsman, who named him Paris (ll. 4–7). Hecabe, still grieving over her baby son’s exposure, persuaded Priam to establish athletic games in his memory (ll. 7–12). When twenty years had passed, the boy excelled among his fellow herdsmen, who bound him and brought him before Priam, because of his haughty behaviour towards them. After defending himself before the king, Alexandros was allowed to participate in the games held in his memory (ll. 12–21). Having been crowned winner, he infuriated his brother Deiphobus and his companions, who realizing that they had been defeated by a

|| 287 This is an updated version of Karamanou 2013. 288 Schol. Ar. V. 1326b (Koster); Ael. VH 2.8. 289 The unity of the trilogy of 415 BC has plausibly been supported by Scodel 1980, esp. 64–121. It was favoured as early as Schöll 1839, 47ff.; Krausse 1905, 178–184; Wilamowitz 19062, 259–263; Murray 1932, 645–656 and 1946, 127–148; Schmid/Stählin 19612, 474–480. See also Menegazzi 1951, 190–191; Pertusi 1952, 251–273; Scarcella 1959, 66–70; Webster 1966, 208–213; Barlow 1986, 27–30; Sopina 1986, 117–130; Ritoók 1993, 109–125; Hose 1995, 33–57; Kovacs 1997, 162–176; Falcetto 2002, 21–37 (with rich bibliography on this matter); Collard/Cropp/Gibert 2004, 47–48; Sansone 2009, 193–203; Torrance 2013, 238–245; Karamanou 2016, 355–367. 290 Frr. 41a–63 K.; Kannicht 2004, I 180–204. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110661279-008

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slave, demanded that Hecabe should kill him (ll. 21–25). At the point of the attack against Alexandros (ll. 25–32), the hypothesis becomes obscure as to the circumstances of the attack, as well as to the manner in which the crime was averted.291 What we have is merely a juxtaposition of facts without causal connection. More specifically, the narrative mentions that Cassandra in prophetic frenzy recognized Alexandros and foretold of the forthcoming disaster (ll. 25–28). Hecabe, who was ready to kill him, was prevented (ll. 29–30), his foster-father arrived and because of the danger was compelled to tell the truth (ll. 30–32). Alexandros thus returned to the Trojan palace. The fragments of the play reveal a plotting-scene between Hecabe and Deiphobus, which points to the possibility that she could have led the attack against Alexandros with Deiphobus’ assistance. More specifically, in fr. 62d.25 K. Hecabe probably says that Alexandros is to find death at her own hands, whilst fr. 62b.42 (κτανόντες ἄνδρα δοῦλον) and fr. 62d.24–30 K. point to Deiphobus’ assistance.292 It is reasonable to assume that Hecabe would not have launched the attack against Alexandros unassisted, as she would need to have him overpowered first, before attacking him herself. Likewise, in the Cresphontes Merope is about to attack the title-character whilst he is asleep, and in the Hecabe the old Queen blinds Polymestor with the assistance of Trojan women.293 The attack against Alexandros is mentioned in Hyginus fab. 91. The narrative runs as follows: Priamus Laomedontis filius cum complures liberos haberet ex concubitu Hecubae Cissei vel Dymantis filiae, uxor eius praegnans in quiete vidit se facem ardentem parere, ex qua serpentes plurimos exisse. id visum omnibus coniectoribus cum narratum esset, imperant quicquid pareret necaret, ne id patriae exitio foret. Postquam Hecuba peperit Alexandrum, datur interficiendus: quem satellites misericordia exposuerunt, pastores pro suo filio repertum expositum educarunt eumque Parim nominaverunt. is cum ad puberem aetatem pervenisset, habuit taurum in deliciis. quo cum satellites missi a Priamo, ut taurum aliquis aduceret, venissent, qui in athlo funebri quod ei fiebat poneretur, coeperunt Paris taurum abducere. qui persecutus est eos et inquisivit quo eum ducerent: ille indicant se eum ad Priamum adducere ** qui vicisset ludis funebribus Alexandri. ille amore incensus tauri sui

|| 291 The obscurity of the hypothesis has already been pointed out: see Coles 1974, 32; Collard/ Cropp/Gibert 2004, 40; for the caution with which narrative hypotheses should be approached, see Hamilton 1976, 68–70; Scodel 1980, 21, 42; Van Rossum-Steenbeek 1998, 5 and n. 16. 292 So Collard/Cropp/Gibert 2004, 40; Scodel 1980, 37; Jouan 1966, 128–130. See also Huys 1986, 18–24; Huys addressed parallels from Euripidean drama in his plausible argumentation in favour of Deiphobus’ assistance, without, however, taking into account the iconographic evidence for the Alexandros, which reveals Deiphobus’ role in the attack, as discussed in this chapter. 293 Hyg. fab. 184 and Hec. 1051–1052, 1060ff. respectively.

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descendit in certamen et omnia vicit, fratres quoque suos superavit. Indignans Deiphobus gladium ad eum strinxit, at ille in aram Iovis Hercei insiluit. quod cum Cassandra vaticinaretur eum fratrem esse, Priamus eum agnovit regiaque recepit. Laomedon’s son, Priam, had a great many children by sleeping with his wife, Hecabe, the daughter of Cisseus (or of Dymas). Once, while she was pregnant, she envisioned in her sleep that she was giving birth to a burning torch, from which a great number of serpents emerged. She reported this vision to every soothsayer, and all of them told her to kill the newborn child to prevent it from bringing destruction to the country. When Hecabe bore Alexander, she handed him over to some of her men to be put to death, but out of pity they only exposed him. Shepherds found the exposed infant, raised him as one of their own and named him Paris. When Paris grew into a young man, he had a pet bull. Priam sent some men there to lead back some bull to be given as a prize at the funeral games being held in Paris’ honour, and they started to lead Paris’ bull away. He caught up to them and asked where they were taking it. They told him that they were taking the bull to Priam as a prize for the man who was victorious at the funeral games for Alexander. Burning with a desire to get his bull back, Paris went down to the contest and won every event, besting even his own brothers. Deiphobus grew resentful and drew his sword against him, but Paris leaped up to the altar of Zeus Herkeios. When Cassandra divined that he was her brother, Priam acknowledged him and welcomed him into the palace. (transl. Smith/Trzaskoma 2007, 127–128 with adjustments)

Hyginus’ account differs from the available evidence for Euripides’ play and the rest of the mythical tradition as regards the following elements: (a) the attack is launched by Deiphobus, (b) Alexandros seeks refuge at the altar of Zeus Herkeios, (c) Cassandra recognizes Alexandros, which leads Priam to welcome him back to the Trojan palace.294 It is also noteworthy that there is no role for Hecabe in the Roman mythographer’s account. In view of these discrepancies, Hyginus was taken to reflect ex silentio either the Alexandros of Sophocles or Nero’s Troica, which may have been based on an Alexandrian source.295 Sophocles’ play also treated Alexandros’ return to Troy, but it provides no evidence at all for these plot

|| 294 Hyginus’ reference to Alexandros’ participation in the games to regain his favourite bull is not attested in any other source. This element does not seem wholly irreconcilable with the testimony of the hypothesis, which does not make clear what specifically caused the rage of the herdsmen against Alexandros; his desire to regain his bull by insisting on entering the royal games could be described as ‘arrogant behaviour’ (hyp. l. 15f.: διὰ τὴν ὑπερήφανον cυμβίωcιν); see Coles 1974, 25. This possibility, however, has to be left open, and it cannot be excluded that this element may originate in another source. Gantz (1993, 562–563) and Stinton (1965, 55) followed by Collard/Cropp/Gibert (2004, 39, 44 and n. 4) assigned the bull-motif to Sophocles’ Alexandros, from which, however, no such evidence survives. 295 So Rose 1934a, 68.

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elements. Moreover, the outline of Nero’s work given by Servius (schol. Verg. Aen. 5.370 Thilo-Hagen) is completely different from Hyginus’ testimony. Nevertheless, a closer look at this narrative could indicate that it may not be irreconcilable with our evidence for the Euripidean plot. As mentioned above, the attack against Alexandros is likely to have been launched by Hecabe with Deiphobus’ assistance; hence, Deiphobus as aggressor could originate in Euripides, especially since there is no other source pointing to an attack against Alexandros, in which this character is involved. The refuge at the altar is very common in Euripidean drama (see previous chapter, n. 248) and may well provide a reason why the crime against Alexandros was temporarily averted before the foster-father’s entrance. As noted above, the hypothesis is not helpful at this point. Cassandra’s prophetic frenzy and her recognition of Alexandros also occur in the hypothesis and the fragments of the Euripidean play (frr. 62e–h K.), as well as in the fragments of Ennius’ Alexander,296 which was based on Euripides, as will be discussed below. The fact, however, that she was believed, as mentioned by Hyginus, is unparalleled in myth and tragedy.297 Still, we need to bear in mind that even in those cases, in which Hyginus’ narratives reflect Euripidean plots, the mythographer seems to draw on these plays through intermediary sources and, as a result, he cannot avoid inaccuracies.298 Besides, his persistence in meeting the needs of a mythographical handbook may well account for his concise reports or even his omission of basic dramatic events or characters. Accordingly, Hecabe’s absence may be paralleled to the omission of Jocasta in Hyginus’ accounts reflecting the plot of the Phoenissae, of Praxithea in the story of Erechtheus and of Clytaemestra in the narrative concerning the Iphigenia in Aulis.299 Likewise, the conciseness in the report of dramatic incidents by the mythographer—or possibly back in the handbook which he used—could account for the omission of the foster-father’s crucial role in the anagnorisis and, in turn, for the gap in the narrative, which presumably led to the erroneous causal connection of Cassandra’s prophecies with Alexandros’ reunion with his family. On the whole, Hyginus’ account presents certain plot elements which could fit the evidence for Euripides’ Alexandros. Yet, the literary testimonies related to the play cannot firmly establish the association of the mythographer’s narrative with the Euripidean plot. || 296 Fr. 17 J./ fr. inc. 151 M., fr. 25 J./fr. 21 M., fr. 26 J./fr. 22 M. 297 See Alexandros fr. 62g K., Tr. 406ff., A. Ag. 1242–1245, 1310–1312 (and Denniston/Page 1957, 183). 298 See fab. 25 (Medea), 46 (Erechtheus), 101 (Telephus), 186 (Melanippe); cf. Huys 1996, 177 and 1997a, 11–30; Rose 1930, 36–37, 42. 299 Phoenissae: fabb. 68–69, Erechtheus: fab. 46, Iphigenia in Aulis: fab. 98. For Hyginus’ concise references to or omission of dramatic incidents, see Huys 1997a, 29–30; Guidorizzi 2001, 340.

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The relation of iconographic evidence to this play has been an ambivalent issue so far. The attack against Alexandros occurs in a series of reliefs from twenty-two Etruscan mirror-backs dating from the late fourth to the third century BC (see fig. 2).300 In the centre of each scene Alexandros is presented as kneeling on an altar and holding a palm-branch, the symbol of his victory at the games. On the left a man is drawing a sword against him and on the right a woman is attacking him with an axe. Following Hyginus and the aforementioned fragments of the Euripidean play with reference to the attack-scene, it is difficult to imagine that Alexandros’ male aggressor could be any other than Deiphobus. Likewise, there is no evidence in mythography or drama for a female attacker other than Hecabe, as mentioned in the hypothesis and the fragments of the Alexandros. The fact that she is not presented in these reliefs as an old woman led some critics to assume that the female attacker is not Hecabe, but Cassandra;301 as a result, they regarded these relief-representations as incongurent with the Euripidean plot.302 Nonetheless, Hecabe should not be envisaged as old at this stage of the myth, as she would have been presumably in her late thirties.303 Likewise, Danae, who must have been close to Hecabe’s age in Euripides’ Dictys (considering that Perseus is approximately the same age as Alexandros in that phase of the myth), is depicted as a young lady in the Apulian vase-painting reflecting that play (see previous chapter, fig. 1). On the other hand, the assumption in favour of Cassandra is only based on a much later source, such as Dracontius (De Raptu Helenae 134–182, esp. 177–178; end of fifth century AD), who presents her as merely encouraging the Trojan people to eliminate Alexandros, without, however, attacking him by her own hand, as depicted in the reliefs.

|| 300 See Hampe/Krauskopf LIMC I 2, s.v. ‘Alexandros’, figg. 21–23. 301 Brunn 1870, 14–21; Pickard-Cambridge 1933, 140 and n. 1; Davreux 1942, 108–117; Murray 1946, 134; Webster 1967, 173; Coles 1974, 26; Van der Meer 1975, 181, 186; Hampe/Krauskopf LIMC I 1, s.v. ‘Alexandros’, 527–528; Scodel 1980, 39; Mazzoldi 2001, 174–175; De Angelis 2015, 97, 241– 245. Warmest thanks are due to Professor Bouke van der Meer for kindly sending me the relevant pages from De Angelis’ recent monograph. 302 Coles (1974, 30–32), Scodel (1980, 38) and Mazzoldi (2001, 175–176) favoured an attack by Cassandra. 303 So Collard/Cropp/Gibert 2004, 45–46. Her depiction as a maiden occurs only in a much later urn-relief, presumably as a result of remote knowledge of the scene or artistic licence or even both: LIMC I 1, s.v. ‘Alexandros’, fig. 27. For the identification of the woman as Hecabe, see Snell 1937, 46 and n. 3; Hanson 1964, 178; Collard/Cropp/Gibert 2004, 45–46; Timpanaro 1996, 47–48, n. 3; Collard/Cropp 2008, I 38.

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Fig. 2: Etruscan bronze mirror-back relief (Tarquinia, Mus. Naz. RC 6279). Reproduced by permission of the Soprintendenza per I Beni Archeologici dell’ Etruria Meridionale.

This scene evidently represents a popular treatment of Alexandros’ homecoming, the terminus ante quem of which would be the fourth century BC, to the end of which the earliest mirror-back relief is dated. The relation of these mirror-back relief-representations to Euripides’ Alexandros can be substantiated on the basis of a combination of factors.304 First and foremost, it is the sole known treatment

|| 304 Snell (1937, 46 and n. 3) used the evidence of these reliefs for the reconstruction of the Alexandros without, however, establishing their relation to the play and without distinguishing between the fourth/third century BC mirror-backs and the second/first century BC funerary urns (I am arguing below that the latter seem to reflect Ennius’ Alexander). Collard/Cropp/Gibert (2004,

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of this phase of the myth consistent with these relief-representations: the woman attacking Alexandros should be Hecabe, according to the hypothesis, while Deiphobus’ assistance is suggested in the surviving evidence for the play (hyp. l. 29f., frr. 62b.42, 62d.24–30 K.). Her attack on Alexandros with an axe is congruent with the fragment in which Hecabe probably undertakes the task of killing him by her own hand (fr. 62d.25 K.). It is strikingly reminiscent of Merope’s attack on Cresphontes with an axe and recalls parallel scenes of female vengeance in Euripidean drama.305 In addition, as has already been noted in the discussion of Hyginus’ account, the flight to the altar to escape from an imminent danger is a pattern regularly employed by Euripides. Moreover, a significant number of Etruscan reliefs of the same period depict similarly violent scenes from Euripidean tragedies, such as the altar-scene from the Telephus, Polyxena’s sacrifice in the Hecabe, the battle and death of Eteocles and Polyneices in the Phoenissae, the matricide in the Electra and Orestes’ near death in the Iphigenia in Tauris.306 Furthermore, the scene of the attack against Alexandros recurs in an even larger group of reliefs from later Etruscan funerary urns dating from the second to the first century BC;307 they seem most likely to represent the attack-scene from the Alexander of Ennius,308 which was staged during that period and is the sole known dramatic treatment of this phase of the myth in Rome. It has widely been regarded as being modeled upon the Euripidean Alexandros.309 The basic elements pointing towards this direction are as follows: (i) the expository prologue

|| 41, 45–46) tentatively addressed the evidence of these reliefs towards the recovery of the Euripidean plot, pointing out the difficulties in precisely establishing their relevance. 305 For this scene of the Cresphontes, see Plu. Mor. 998e, Hyg. fab. 184. See also the revenge of Hecabe in Hec. 864ff. and of Alcmene in Heracl. 941ff.; for Hecabe, see Mossman 1995, 180–203; Rabinowitz 1993, 103–124; Harder 1993, 408–409; for Alcmene, see Falkner 1989, 114–124. 306 Van der Meer 2004, 49–52; Steuernagel 1998, 36–72. The altar-scene of the Telephus, in particular, is also depicted in an Etruscan column-crater dated to the middle of the fourth century BC: Beazley 1947, 66, Webster 1967, 302. 307 LIMC I 1, s.v. ‘Alexandros’, figg. 24–28, 30–42. 308 So Van der Meer 1975, 180. The scenes depicted in these later urns contain more characters, compared with the earlier three-character mirror-back reliefs, but the basic idea, that is, the attack against Alexandros, remains the same. Some of these urn-reliefs present variations by focusing either on the male or the female attacker of Paris, presumably according to artistic preference: see LIMC I 1, s.v. ‘Alexandros’, figg. 30–37 and 38–42 respectively. 309 See Wilamowitz-Moellendorff 19062, 260; Lefke 1936, 3–4; Snell 1937, 59; Jocelyn 1967, 204; Scodel 1980, 20–36; Timpanaro 1996, 6–69; Neblung 1997, 114; Jouan/Van Looy 1998–2003, I 46–58; Skutsch 1968, 161; Mazzoldi 2001, 138–139; Collard/Cropp/Gibert 2004, 36; Fantham 2005, 119; Boyle 2006, 63–64; Collard/Cropp 2008, I 38; Di Giuseppe 2012, 24–27; Karamanou 2017, esp. 42–46.

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of Ennius’ play (fr. 18 J./ TrRF I fr. adesp. 76 Schauer), which is a typically Euripidean technique, (ii) the messenger-speech reporting Alexandros’ victory at the games, a part of which is preserved in the Euripidean play (fr. 24 J./ fr. 20 M. preserved in fr. 61d K.), (iii) Cassandra’s scene of prophetic frenzy, which is attested in the hypothesis and the fragments of the Alexandros (fr. 17 J./ fr. inc. 151 M. , fr. 25 J./ fr. 21 M., fr. 26 J./ fr. 22 M.; see hyp. l. 27f. and frr. 62e–h K.), (iv) Varro’s testimony that Ennius drew on Euripides in terms of the paretymology of the name ‘Alexandros’ (L.L. 7.82) and (v) the notable resemblance in phrasing and content of fr. inc. 208 J./ fr. 201 M. with fr. 62d.27f. K. All these factors in combination with Ennius’ wide reception of Euripidean drama strongly support the argument that the Roman dramatist used Euripides’ Alexandros as his source text. Hence, the artistic recurrence of the same scene at the age of Ennius probably thanks to the performance of his play, which was evidently a reworking of the Euripidean tragedy of the same title, is another factor pointing to Euripides’ treatment as source for the earlier group of fourth and third-century mirror-back reliefs. On the whole, this should not be surprising, if we consider the dramatist’s tremendous popularity in the fourth century BC and the Hellenistic age (see previous chapter, n. 261) and the particular appeal of his Alexandros, as it emerges from its third-century BC papyrus, the appropriation of the play by Ennius in his own Alexander and by Lycophron in the Alexandra.310 Taking all the aforementioned factors into account, I argue that the relief-representations from the fourth and third-century BC Etruscan mirror-backs are likely to depict the attack organized by Hecabe against Alexandros with Deiphobus’ assistance, which was treated in the Euripidean play. At this point, a crucial question arises: how could the depiction of scenes from Euripidean drama in Etruria be explained? The sole indisputable testimony regarding theatrical activity among the Etruscans is Varro’s reference to Volnius, ‘who wrote Etruscan tragedies’.311 Varro’s use of the past tense with regard to Volnius indicates the first century BC as a terminus ante quem for his activity. Yet, the possibility that dramatic performances took place in Etruria as early as the end of the fourth century BC is so far unproven.312 A reasonable and rather safe || 310 On Lycophron’s reception of Euripides’ Alexandros, see Hornblower 2015, 47; the introduction by Hurst in Fusillo/Hurst/Paduano 1991, 39; Lowe 2004, 307–308; Sistakou 2016, 177 and n. 34, 187; Karamanou 2017, 46–49. 311 L.L. 5.55: qui tragoedias tuscas scripsit. 312 Accordingly, A. Piganiol’s interpretation of the relief-representations as reflecting thirdcentury Etruscan adaptations of Euripidean plays is merely speculative (Piganiol 1923, 32ff.). His opinion was shared by Heurgon (1964, 243–247) and Dupont (1985, 141–142). But cf. the much more balanced discussion in Manuwald 2011, 24–25 (with rich bibliography). It should be noted,

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assumption, on the strength of the available evidence, would be that the reliefrepresentations of the mirror-backs may have been modeled upon a lost fourthcentury South Italian vase-painting, contemporary with the earliest surviving mirror-back relief.313 The close contacts between Etruria and Magna Grecia, as well as the reception of South Italian painted pottery in Etruscan art during the fourth century could well point towards this direction.314 In particular, the depiction of the suppliant as kneeling on the altar in our relief-representations is typical of altar-scenes in South Italian vase-paintings (see the previous chapter, n. 259). Now, to interpret how these representations were perceived by the receiving culture, that is, Etruscan viewers, we need to explore the ‘horizon’ of their cultural and literary expectations. Even if their artists depicted scenes from tragic plots by using South Italian vase-paintings as an intermediary point of reception, the very demand for the reproduction of these scenes presupposes Etruscan familiarity with the depicted themes. The available evidence suggests that the Etruscans were conversant with Greek mythology315 and with the Trojan legend in particular.316 It is also worth considering that the commonest form of mythological narrative by that time was tragic storytelling.317 Moreover, the viewers are unlikely to have recognized the depicted scenes from climactic moments in the aforementioned plays (e.g. from the Telephus, the Iphigenia in Tauris and the Alexandros, as I argue here) without knowledge of these tragic plots. It is thus feasible that those (presumably educated) Etruscans who are likely to have commissioned artists for the reproduction of these scenes were familiar with them, perhaps by having attended dramatic performances in South Italy, with which

|| however, that the absence of physical remains of theatres is not an indisputable argument in its own right against theatrical activity in Etruria, as temporary stage and seating constructions may have been used (see, for instance, the late development of stone theatres in Rome: Dupont 1985, 58–61). See also Taplin 2007a, 9–10 with reference to the attested theatrical enthusiasm of the people of Taras, despite the lack of theatre relics. 313 Van der Meer 1975, 180–183; Coles 1974, 26; Pairault 1972, 173. 314 For the contacts between Etruria and Magna Grecia, see Hanfmann 1945, 46–47; Van der Meer 1995, 29–30. On the reception of South Italian pottery in Etruscan art, see Van der Meer 1995, 28–30, 238–239; Reusser 1988, 86; Banti 1973, 34; Brilliant 1984, esp. 44, 51; Brendel 1995, 346–347, Lowenstam 2008, 171–172; Bonfante 2010, 474; Van der Meer 1977, 15, 53. See, for instance, the South Italian features of the fourth-century Etruscan vase-painting reflecting the Telephus; Beazley 1947, 66; LIMC I 2, s.v. ‘Agamemnon’, fig. 17. 315 For Etruscan familiarity with Greek mythology, see Heurgon 1964, 240, 244–246; Van der Meer 1995, passim; Pallotino 1975, 164; Van der Meer 1977, 43–44, 57–59; Martelli 1984, 193. 316 See Lowenstam 2008, esp. 124–128, 170–173. 317 Taplin 2007a, vii, 9.

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they had contacts, as already mentioned. With the tragic plot in mind, they would have been able to appreciate the dramatic climax depicted in these mirror-back reliefs.318 These mirrors—as well as the large group of later urns suggestive of the wide diffusion of Ennius’ Alexander thanks to Roman performances—were found almost entirely in tombs.319 Likewise, South Italian tragedy-related vase-paintings were, as a rule, used for funerary purposes (see previous chapter). The liminal state of the suppliant between life and death would provide a fitting theme within funerary contexts. On the whole, the available evidence suggests a complex process of appropriation of the Euripidean play by Etruscan artists; from the tragic text to a possible South Italian performance (perhaps attended by Etruscans) and vase-painting, which could have provided the model for the artistic reworking of this scene in Etruria. Subsequently, Ennius’ reception of the Euripidean plot, the performance of his Alexander and the response to it in later Etruscan art are indicative of the continuing literary and artistic dialogue with this tragic scene. The association of these relief-representations with the attack-scene of the Euripidean tragedy, if treated with due caution, may supplement our evidence, that is, the fragments and the hypothesis, which is admittedly very scanty on the point of the attack. The contribution of these mirror-back reliefs to the reconstruction of the Euripidean plot is dual; firstly, they attest to Deiphobus’ assistance in the murder-attempt against Alexandros, which is implied in the aforementioned fragments of the play and also occurs in Hyginus. Secondly, they display in combination with Hyginus’ account the hero’s flight to the altar to escape from the threat against his life. Owing to the probable relation of the mirror-back reliefs to the Alexandros, as I argue here, and the agreement of this iconographic evidence with Hyginus (in terms of Deiphobus’ attack and Alexandros’ refuge at the altar), the Roman mythographer may now be regarded as largely reproducing elements of the Euripidean plot. Moreover, this combination of evidence may shed light on the obscure part of the hypothesis with regard to the attack-scene: how was Hecabe prevented from killing Alexandros? As it emerges from the evidence of the mirror-back reliefs and Hyginus, his flight to the altar could have temporarily averted the crime, as Creusa’s supplication in Ion 1254ff. Then, the foster-father would have entered

|| 318 See also Taplin 2007a, 25 with reference to South Italian theatre-related painted pottery; cf. Taplin 2007b, 179. 319 Van der Meer 1995, 5. Apart from its use in everyday life, the mirror was an appropriate funerary object as well, due to its apotropaic function of guarding the dead against all evil; see Thomson de Grummond 1982, 183–186.

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to identify him, thus leading to the anagnorisis and putting a definite end to the attack. Unlike those tragedies constructed around a central supplication-scene (such as the Heraclidae, Andromache, Supplices, Heracles and Helen), in the Alexandros and the Ion the hero is not ‘discovered’ at the altar from the beginning of the play according to the technique of ‘cancelled entry’ (see previous chapter and nn. 273–274), but seeks refuge there to escape from a threat which occurs in the course of the dramatic action. Moreover, in these particular plots the attacker is not an outright villain and the suppliant is not wholly innocent; Hecabe, like Creusa in the Ion,320 has aroused the audience’s sympathy for her personal loss, while Alexandros is not wholly sympathetic, if we take into account his arrogant behaviour mentioned in the hypothesis. A final inquiry concerns the staging of the attack-scene. The reliefs attest to Alexandros’ supplication to escape the attack, but they cannot be taken to represent accurately this scene, not least because of their indirect relation to the play. As pointed out in the previous chapter, even South Italian vase-paintings, which are evidently more closely related to the plays than Etruscan reliefs, cannot be regarded as ‘scene-specific’. In particular, the heroic nudity of Alexandros and Deiphobus is an artistic convention and would not have occurred in the actual performance of the play. Besides, Deiphobus is likely to have been a mute attacker, if the attack occurred on stage (for this matter, see below), considering that the third actor needs to play the role of Cassandra and, subsequently, of the foster-father, who enters to reveal the truth to Hecabe and Alexandros.321 The performance of the attack is a challenging issue. The textual evidence suggests that, according to Hecabe’s plan, when Alexandros arrives at the palace (which the façade of the skēnē-building represents), he will fall into their ambush (fr. 62d.29 K.); the prospective victim is thus likely to be lured into the stage-building, where the attack is planned to take place, according to the well-known tragic

|| 320 See also Lee 1997, 292. 321 Hyp. ll. 30–32. For the distribution of roles, see Collard/Cropp/Gibert 2004, 49; Karamanou 2017, 25. It is worth mentioning passingly—though it does not affect our argument—that Cassandra is likelier to have entered after the attack against Alexandros, presumably whilst he is seated at the altar; plotting-scenes in Euripides tend to be directly followed by attack-scenes (so Collard/Cropp/Gibert 2004, 41, 84), which does not leave sufficient time for Cassandra to appear in the meantime and foretell in prophetic frenzy the turmoil about to be caused. Moreover, Coles’ survey of the papyrus fibres does not favour Cassandra’s appearance before the attack: Coles 1974, 54–55. The phrasing as such in this problematic part of the hypothesis is not binding as to Cassandra’s entry before Hecabe’s attack (ll. 25–30) and, in any case, the reliability of mythographic hypotheses as to the exact temporal order of events has often been contested: for this matter in particular, see Hamilton 1976, 69.

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convention imposing that murder acts should be committed offstage.322 The tattered lines that follow preserve a lyric passage in dochmiacs (fr. 62d.44–50 K.), which convey great intensity of emotion and are regularly employed to anticipate or accompany offstage violence.323 The two coronides preserved in this papyrus fragment (fr. 62d.44 and 48 K.) could indicate lyric exchanges324 and may thus hint at the division of the chorus into two semichoruses. The next lines are suggestive of an encounter between Alexandros and Hecabe, during which the latter could have tricked the former into entering the palace, where Deiphobus may be lying in wait. More specifically, the first speaker in this dialogue is evidently an arriving character looking for Hecabe (fr. 62d.52 K.). This character is likely to be the crowned winner Alexandros,325 whose arrival has been expected by Deiphobus and Hecabe (fr. 62d.29 K.), and his appearance at this point of the plot is reported in the hypothesis (ll. 25–30). Hecabe is thus likely to have tricked Alexandros into entering the stage-building, which is a regular means of entrapment in Euripidean revenge plays, as in Hec. 1019ff., El. 1139ff., HF 720ff., Or. 1337–1346 and Antiope fr. 223.15–74 K. (the scenes of the Orestes and the Antiope will be further discussed below). At this point the papyrus breaks off, and the sequence of the attack is suggested by the iconographic evidence in conjunction with Hyginus’ account, according to which Alexandros fled to an altar to escape death (the question whether this was the altar of Zeus Herkeios or not will be addressed below). The altar-scene needs to be performed before the eyes of the audience, like all supplication-scenes in tragedy. Moreover, fr. 62i K. preserves a distich which seems to have been delivered by Alexandros, while he was being threatened with death (οἴμοι, θανοῦμαι διὰ τὸ χρήσιμον φρενῶν,/ ἣ τοῖσιν ἄλλοις γίγνεται σωτηρία).326 These lines are likely to have been uttered by Alexandros on stage, as the line spoken by Lycus whilst being persecuted by Antiope’s sons before the eyes of the

|| 322 Cf. Collard/Cropp/Gibert 2004, 40. For this convention, see Dale 1969, 119–129; Goward 1999, 33–35; Bremer 1976, 29–49; De Jong 1991, 117–120. 323 See similarly Med. 1251–1292 (and Mastronarde 2002, 107, 363–364), Hec. 1023–1034, El. 1147–1164 (and Cropp 1988, 176–177), HF 734–762, 875–909 (and Bond 1981, 255–256, 295–296), Or. 1246–1285 (cf. Willink 1986, 287 and West 1987, 269), Antiope fr. 223.77–87 K. On the strong emotional connotations of the dochmiacs, see Dale 19682, 104–119; West 1982, 108–114; Herington 1985, 113–115; Battezzato 2005, 158. 324 See Coles 1974, 54; Scodel 1980, 34; Huys 1985, 252. 325 See also Collard/Cropp/Gibert 2004, 84–85; Collard/Cropp 2008, I 36; Di Giuseppe 2012, 151. 326 See Snell 1937, 48; Huys 1986, 35–38; Kannicht 2004, ad loc.; Collard/Cropp/Gibert 2004, 87; Di Giuseppe 2012, 158.

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audience in Antiope fr. 223.88 K. (οἴμοι· θανοῦμαι πρὸς δυοῖν ἀσύμμαχος). The latter provides the closest parallel to this fragment not only stylistically,327 but also in dramatic terms, since both cases involve an abortive murder attack. The available evidence, both textual and iconographic, thus suggests a movement from the interior of the stage-building towards the audience. Euripides applies this staging practice in tragedies similarly belonging to his later production, such as the Orestes (408 BC) and the Antiope (for its date, see above, n. 39), which also present unsuccessful murder attempts. In Or. 1245 Orestes and Pylades enter the stage-building, with the purpose of murdering Helen indoors. At the same time, Electra remains on stage waiting for Hermione, in order to lure her also into the skēnē-building (1216–1217). As in the similar scene in the Alexandros (fr. 62d.44 and 48 K.), the chorus sings divided into semichoruses (1258– 1280), whilst guarding the parodoi.328 Hermione arrives and is trapped by Electra into entering the palace, so that she is seized by Orestes and Pylades (1323–1352). After a brief choral passage (1352–1365), the spectators will not witness Helen’s murdered body brought on the eccyclēma, as expected (Helen has disappeared after the attack in 1296–1301), but instead they will be surprised to see her Phrygian slave rushing out of the palace (1370ff.). He is being persecuted on stage by Orestes, who is threatening to kill him, but he ultimately spares his life (1506– 1530).329 Likewise, in the Antiope the twins Amphion and Zethus enter the stage-building, which represents a cave, the dwelling of their foster-father. They are lying there in wait for Lycus (fr. 223.15–16 Κ.), with the purpose of killing him to avenge the injustice done to their mother Antiope. As in the Orestes and the Alexandros, a character (in this case, the foster-father of the twins) undertakes the task of luring the prospective victim into the stage-building (fr. 223.61 K.). Lycus enters the cave, and his cries are heard from inside at the moment of the attack (fr. 223.79b, 82, 84 Κ.). As in the Orestes, the chorus is an ally of the attackers and is commenting on the events occurring offstage (fr. 223.80–81, 83, 85–87 Κ.). Lycus then appears before the eyes of the audience being persecuted by the twins, who are prevented from killing him by Hermes emerging ex machina (fr. 223.96–132 Κ.). These cases involving the performance of an averted murder are suggestive of a specific staging typology: the prospective victim is trapped into entering the

|| 327 See Kannicht 2004, I 203. 328 For the tension conveyed through the choral division into semichoruses in the Orestes, see Hose 1990–1991, I 239. 329 On the staging of the attack in the Orestes, see Hourmouziades 1965, 86–88; West 1987, 269, 273–277, 283; Porter 1994, 173–214; Burnett 1971, 191; Vellacott 1975, 75–78.

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stage-building, where the murder is planned to be committed conventionally as an offstage event; the intended victim manages to escape and emerges on stage pursued by his attackers; the attack is ultimately prevented from taking place. This staging technique relies upon the conventional, structural opposition between ‘unseen space’ (the interior of the skēnē-building) and ‘seen space’ (the acting area); the central barrier between ‘seen’ and ‘unseen’ is the façade of the stage-building and, more specifically, the skēnē door, which keeps the interior hidden from the eyes of the audience.330 At the same time, the dramatic effect derives from the surprise of the spectators at the intended victim’s escape from death and appearance on stage instead of the display of the murdered body on the eccyclēma, as they would expect.331 This Euripidean technique seems to have been anticipated in the Cresphontes, which is estimated to have been produced in the mid-420s.332 Hyginus (fab. 184) mentions that Merope’s murder-attempt against her son Cresphontes in ignorance of his true identity takes place while he is asleep in the guest-quarters, that is, inside the stage-building. Then, according to Plutarch’s testimony (Mor. 998e), Cresphontes probably runs onto the stage persecuted by his axe-wielding mother, who is stopped in the nick of time by the old servant in an astoundingly effective scene ‘turning the audience rigid with fright’.333 This attack-scene similarly indicates a movement from the interior of the skēnē-building onto the stage. Nonetheless, it is probably not until a decade later that Euripides reiterates the ‘catastrophe survived’ pattern and this staging technique, further developing it into a trend, as it emerges from the aforementioned cases in the Alexandros, the Antiope and the Orestes. The sources for the performance of the altar-scene in the Alexandros need to be further interrogated. Hyginus is the sole literary source to mention that the altar to which Alexandros sought refuge was dedicated to Zeus Herkeios. Though the Roman mythographer reflects certain elements which are congruent with the evidence for the Euripidean Alexandros, it is worth bearing in mind that his account is not a hypothesis and, therefore, does not necessarily report every aspect

|| 330 For these spatial divisions, see Hourmouziades 1965, 83–127; Wiles 1997, 14–22, 161–174; Padel 1990, 336–347, 359–365; Rehm 2002, 21–22; Ubersfeld 19962, 79–84. 331 On Euripides’ penchant for audience surprise, see Arnott 1973, 49–64; Dunn 2007, 88–110; Michelini 1987, 70–94; Seidensticker 1982, 104–105, 108, 210–211; Porter 1994, 173–74; Halleran 1985, ch. 3. 332 For its date, see e.g. Collard/Cropp 2008, I 495. 333 For this attack, see the discussion in Harder 1985, 48–53, 114–117; Collard/Cropp/Lee 1995, 122–123, 125, 146.

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of this tragic plot with accuracy, as noted above. This detail recurs only in a Coptic textile medallion (Hermitage Museum, inv. nr. 11507), which is dated to the fifth century AD.334 In view of its late date, it is possible that the Coptic representation could have either been modelled upon an earlier (and now lost) artistic source or may have drawn on an intermediary literary source, such as Hyginus’ mythographical handbook, which was a common source for mythological lore in Late Antiquity. If the representation of the Coptic textile did rely on Hyginus, then naturally it cannot substantiate the relation of this detail to the Euripidean plot for the aforementioned reasons. The validity of this piece of information provided by Hyginus is therefore uncertain; nonetheless, for the sake of completeness it might be useful to explore its possible dramatic and staging implications. If Alexandros sought refuge at the particular altar of Zeus Herkeios (‘Zeus of the Courtyard’), who was the presiding deity of the household protecting the integrity of the oikos and family bonds,335 this could bear specific dramatic connotations. His being threatened with death by his own mother and brother at the household altar may have underscored the ironic significance of the murder-attempt launched by members of his natal family, who are ignorant of his true identity.336 This powerful irony could have further been enhanced in the light of the ‘Trojan trilogy’: Alexandros’ flight to this altar and, in turn, his rescue signpost the beginning of the end for the royal oikos of Troy, if we consider that in Tr. 16–17 (and 481–483) Priam is reported to have been slaughtered at the very same altar of the god who represented the integrity of his household.337 Despite these dramatic merits, Alexandros’ refuge at the altar of Zeus Herkeios would involve several staging complications. The altar of Zeus Herkeios was the focal point of the domestic realm and stood in the middle of the courtyard of each house. In tragedy this altar seems to have been located in the interior of the stage-building representing a house or palace, as suggested in S. Ant. 1293– 1301 (referring to Eurydice’s suicide offstage at the household altar, most probably that of Zeus Herkeios) and possibly also in E. HF 922 (reporting that Heracles became possessed by frenzy during his sacrifice at the same household altar338). || 334 See Kannicht 2004, I 178; Nauerth 1986, pl. 7.1; Kakovkin 2007, 273. 335 For the cult of Zeus Herkeios, see Il. 11.771–775, Od. 22.335, Hdt. 6.68, S. Ant. 487 (and Griffith 1999, ad loc.), schol. Pl. Euthd. 302d (Greene), Harp. s.v. Ἕρκειος Ζεύς p. 134 (Dindorf); cf. Nilsson 19673, I 125; Burkert 1985, 255; Boedeker 2012, 231–233; Wiles 1997, 75, 187; Dowden 2006, 80–81. 336 See also Menegazzi 1951, 186; Ritoók 1993, 116. 337 For poetic and artistic treatments of Priam’s slaughter at the altar of Zeus Herkeios, see Anderson 1997, 27–29, 37–38, 90–91, 193–199, 220, 235. 338 See Bond 1981, ad loc.; Rehm 1999–2000, 368–369 and 2002, 106.

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The crucial question that arises, then, concerns the manner in which Alexandros’ refuge at the indoor altar of Zeus Herkeios could have been presented before the eyes of the audience, like all supplication-scenes, as previously argued. This would admittedly be a rare dramatic situation, for the performance of which not much evidence can be provided. To explore this issue, one could resort to the aforementioned passage of the Antigone involving the onstage revelation of an event that has taken place at an interior altar and, in all likelihood, that of Zeus Herkeios. The corpse of Creon’s wife Eurydice, who has committed suicide at this particular altar inside the palace, is brought into the audience’s view (S. Ant. 1293: ὁρᾶν πάρεστιν· οὐ γὰρ ἐν μυχοῖς ἔτι). There is an additional reference to the altar on which she fell (1301: †ἡ δ’ ὀξύθηκτος ἥδε βωμία πέριξ† edd. Lloyd-Jones and Wilson; cf. schol. vet. ad loc.: βωμία πέριξ· ὡς ἱερεῖον περὶ τὸν βωμὸν ἐσφάγη). The Sophoclean line is corrupt, but it does seem to indicate Eurydice’s dying posture, in that her corpse was draped over the altar. Accordingly, most critics have reasonably reckoned that the eccyclēma could have been employed to reveal the interior scene, that is, Eurydice’s body lying over the altar, before the eyes of the spectators.339 The eccyclēma was also used in similar cases of interior scenes which need to be made visible to the audience, as for instance in S. Ai. 348–595 (Ajax being brought into view amid the slaughtered cattle).340 Still, the use of the eccyclēma to bring Alexandros’ supplication at the interior altar of Zeus Herkeios into the view of the audience would present certain staging difficulties. As Professor Martin Cropp reasonably points out to me, a lengthy scene (comprising the attack, Cassandra’s prophetic scene, the arrival of the foster-father and the recognition) with Alexandros confined to the eccyclēma would be quite difficult to enact. The obvious alternative would be the use of an altar located in the acting area, to which the young man would have fled at the climax of the crisis, like Creusa (in Ion 1254ff.). In such a case, Alexandros could have emerged from the interior of the stage-building being chased by his attackers and taking refuge at the onstage altar. On balance, although the dramatic connotations of a supplication at the altar of Zeus Herkeios could be tempting, the uncertainty of Hyginus’ piece of detail and its staging difficulties also need to be taken into account. The available sources do not enable us to draw any firm conclusion

|| 339 For the use of the eccyclēma in that scene, see Jebb 19003 on S. Ant. 1293; Kamerbeek 1978 and Brown 1987, ad loc.; Dale 1969, 122; Wiles 1997, 167; Rehm 2002, 122–123, 171 and 2012, 326. 340 See e.g. Kamerbeek 1963, 80; Garvie 1998, 157–158, 180; Finglass 2011, 21, 238, 241, 312. For the use of the eccyclēma to reveal interior scenes, see also Taplin 1977, 442–443; Belardinelli 2000, 243–249; Green 2014, 121–122; Padel 1990, 361.

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as to the specific staging of the altar-scene, which may well have been more complicated than we can infer. On the whole, the combination of textual and iconographic evidence for the performance of the abortive murder-attempt in the Alexandros suggests that it was articulated conventionally through spatial dualities, that is, through the distinction between ‘seen’ and ‘unseen’ dramatic space and through the movement of the near victim, who has escaped death, from offstage towards the acting area. I have argued that the Alexandros, Orestes and Antiope belonging to later Euripidean production (along with the earlier treatment of this pattern in the Cresphontes) bring forward this specific staging typology, as well as the challenges posed to audience expectations in each of these cases. As this case study has suggested, the cautious interrogation of theatre-related iconographic information, if sufficiently substantiated by the relevant sources, could complement the available textual evidence for fragmentarily preserved tragedies. In this case, the combination of this artistic testimony with the account of Hyginus and the correspondence of these two sources with the fragments of the play could shed some light on a problematic part of the hypothesis with reference to the abortive murder-attempt against Alexandros and yield insight into aspects of Euripidean stagecraft. It may also be worth revisiting several uncertain fragments which have been placed in this altar-scene by earlier scholars.341 Fr. inc. 937 K. was ascribed to Euripides by Lucian (Piscat. 3) and was assigned to this play by Snell and Stoessl: μὴ κτεῖνε· τὸν ἱκέτην γὰρ οὐ θέμις κτανεῖν (‘Do not kill (me/him); it is not lawful to slay a suppliant’).342 This line may be delivered either by a suppliant, who is about to receive a fatal blow, or by the chorus-leader dissuading the attacker from slaying him, by appealing to the unwritten law enjoining reverence towards suppliants.343 This particular resolution-type (4.2cS: ᴗ΄ᴗᴗ )344 first occurs in the Hecabe (which was probably produced in the late 420s ).345 If this date is taken as a terminus post quem for the use of this resolution-type, then the Alexandros is the sole known Euripidean play that is consistent with that date and comprises an altar-

|| 341 Snell 1937, 20–21, 48–49 followed by Timpanaro 1996, 47, n. 1 and Jouan/Van Looy 1998– 2003, I 75, n. 70; these fragments are mentioned in Kannicht 2004, I 180; Collard/Cropp/Gibert 2004, 42; Di Giuseppe 2012, 154, n. 203. 342 Snell 1937, 48; Stoessl 1968, 221. 343 See Murray 1946, 134; Timpanaro 1996, 47, n.1; Romero Mariscal 2003, 158 and n. 21. 344 According to the classification of Cropp/Fick 1985, 38. 345 On the date of the Hecabe, see e.g. Gregory 1999, xii–xv.

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scene, though one cannot exclude the Alcmene, if the supplication in that tragedy was staged and not reported.346 Fr. 256 K.–A. coming from Aristophanes’ Danaides (μαρτύρομαι δὲ Ζηνὸς ἑρκείου χύτρας,/ μεθ’ ὧν ὁ βωμὸς οὗτος ἱδρύθη ποτέ) has been included in TrGF II as fr. adesp. 71: μαρτύρομαι δὲ Ζηνὸς Ἑρκείου ᴗ - (‘I am calling to witness […] of Zeus Herkeios’); it is written in tragic style and thus smacks of tragic burlesque, being perhaps a paratragic line.347 The date of this comic play is uncertain.348 Edmonds’ argument in favour of 413 BC, which would suggest a close temporal proximity between the Alexandros and the Aristophanic play, is quite weak.349 Moreover, this line, if it indeed originates in tragedy, may have derived as plausibly from any other fifth-century tragedian as from Euripides; given the paucity of evidence for the considerable number of lost fifth-century tragedies, the reference as such to (presumably the altar of) Zeus Herkeios cannot establish that this line originates in the Alexandros, not least because it is uncertain whether this particular altar was used in the play. In conclusion, the attack-scene of the Alexandros involving a tragic deed between close kin averted in the nick of time—the very kind of act commended by Aristotle in the Poetics (14, 1454a 4–9)—seems to have been dramatically effective and thrilling enough to be represented in Etruscan mirror-back reliefs. These relief-representations, as well as those subsequently reflecting Ennius’ reworking of the Euripidean plot in the light of Roman dramatic performances, are suggestive of a continuing dialogue with this tragic scene. This complex reception process could thus yield insight into the exciting afterlife of the Alexandros within literary, iconographic and performative contexts.

|| 346 For that scene and for the rough dating of the Alcmene, see Collard/Cropp 2008, I 101–103. 347 See Bakhuyzen 1877, 194; the line was assigned to the Alexandros by Snell 1937, 49, n. 1; Stoessl 1968, 221; Mette 1981–1982, 28; Timpanaro 1996, 47, n. 1; Jouan/Van Looy 1998–2003, I 75. 348 In PCG III 2, 148 a possible dating after 420 BC is very tentatively proposed. 349 Edmonds 1957–1961, I 643.

Euripides’ Alexandros in performance Euripides’ Alexandros has enjoyed a fascinating Nachleben from Antiquity onwards. Its popularity emerges from a number of factors. Firstly, the mid-third century BC papyrus (P. Stras. 2342–44) preserving a significant part of this tragedy and its reception in Lycophron’s Alexandra (see previous chapter, n. 310) attest to its prominence during the Hellenistic period. In addition, its iconographic representations from the mid-fourth century BC onwards could be suggestive of the viewers’ familiarity with the depicted episode of the attack against Alexandros presumably due to reperformances. Subsequently, the core action of the Euripidean play revived in Roman Republican theatre as an Ennian adaptation seems to have given rise to further cases of iconographic reception (see previous chapter). Apart from its ancient reperformances, reworkings and representations as an extant play, the contemporary reception of the Alexandros in its fragmentary state is equally exciting. This could give scope for the exploration of the ways in which tragic fragments are liable to be reconstructed and transformed into a new whole. This final chapter thus sets out to investigate the performance reception of the Alexandros as a case study for the modern revival of fragmentarily preserved tragedies.350 Remarkably enough, several fragmentary plays display an interesting history of performance reception, especially from the 1990s onwards. It would be reasonable to infer that the performance of non-extant tragedies must have been enhanced by the evergrowing scholarship on tragic fragments particularly during the last three decades. The production of translations, reconstructions, commentaries and the interpretation of fragmentarily preserved plays made this once unknown field accessible, especially to theatre practitioners with a scholarly background. Unsurprisingly, prominence has been given to the reperformance of Euripidean fragmentary plays, since they provide more material and are thus more explored compared to those of Aeschylus and Sophocles.351 The APGRD database reports contemporary professional and student performances of Euripides’ Hypsipyle, the best preserved fragmentary play par excellence, extensively transmitted in P.Oxy. 852.352 Further productions include those of the Phaethon,

|| 350 This chapter draws up to an extent on Karamanou 2017, 52–57. 351 For scholarship on Euripidean fragments in particular, see most recently Collard 2017, 360– 364. 352 Euripides’ Hypsipyle translated and reconstructed by Tasos Roussos, directed by Spyros Evangelatos, Amphitheatro of Spyros Evangelatos (Ancient Theatre of Epidaurus, 11–13/7/2002): apgrd.ox.ac.uk/productions/production/5921 and tovima.gr/culture/article/?aid=143919. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110661279-009

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which is also well preserved,353 of the Erechtheus,354 Andromeda355 and Cretans,356 from which considerable material survives. Moreover, there have been productions involving dramaturgical compositions of several fragmentary tragedies357 reconstructed to a significant degree through recourse to myth, which offers considerable creative flexibility, renders the ancient material liable to a wide range of interpretations and is an appealing vehicle of popular culture. Interestingly, reperformances of even less well preserved dramas, such as the Alcmeon in Corinth, have taken place; the fragments of and evidence for this Euripidean tragedy (on its plot, see ch. 3 above) were only a starting point for its transformation into a wholly original play by Colin Teevan in 2004.358 As will be discussed in more detail below, the reconstruction of a fragmentarily preserved play for the stage is a challenging task, since it involves a reworking of the available evidence, at times more extensive or even inventive, conditioned by the range of the surviving material.

|| Cf. also the earlier student performance of this tragedy which was reconstructed and directed by David Wiles (Department of Drama and Theatre, Royal Holloway, University of London, 11–12/ 4/1997): apgrd.ox.ac.uk/productions/production/1031; see the discussion in Wiles 2005, 189– 208. 353 Euripides’ Phaethon translated and adapted by Yannis Lignadis, directed by Nikos Charalambous (Ephesus Festival, 19/7/2008): theatro-technis.edu.gr/γιάννης-λιγνάδης. 354 Érecthée ou les enfants d’Athéna (Théâtre Démodokos, Sorbonne, Paris, 11/10/2007– 30/4/ 2008): apgrd.ox.ac.uk/productions/production/10589. 355 Andromeda directed by Russell Shone, Chloë Productions (Tristan Bates Theatre, London, 4– 16/3/1996): apgrd.ox.ac.uk/productions/production/799; didaskalia.net/issues/vol2no3/window. html. 356 Euripides’ Cretans reconstructed by Giorgos Sampatakakis and directed by Giorgos Zamboulakis (Deviant Gaze Theatre Group, Athens Greek Drama Festival, 11/9/2011): cityofathens. gr/node/17197. 357 Scherben (Euripides Fragmenta), a German dramaturgical composition of several Euripidean fragmentary plays including the Hypsipyle, Erechtheus, Cretans, Theseus, Phaethon, Stheneboea and Bellerophon (produced by Théâtre National de Luxembourg, European Cultural Centre of Delphi, 10–11/7/2003): apgrd.ox.ac.uk/productions/production/6793. Another composition entitled Euripidean Fragments or Simple Lessons of an Unknown Mythology consisted of the Cretans, Phaethon, Andromeda and Hypsipyle. The fragments were translated by Yannis Lignadis, adapted by the poetess Agathi Dimitrouka and directed by Vassilis Nikolaidis (produced by the Municipal Regional Theatre of Agrinion, Epidaurus Festival 3–4 July 2009): theatro-technis. edu.gr/γιάννης-λιγνάδης and enet.gr/?i=news.el.article&id=57824. 358 Live Theatre, Newcastle, 14–24/9/2004: apgrd.ox.ac.uk/productions/production/8155; see the discussion in Hall 2004a, 9–15 and 2010, 341–343.

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All the same, it is worth noting that, although the aforementioned performances addressed wider audiences, they were often directed by scholars practising theatre, who relied on reconstructed adaptations produced mostly by classicists. This practice suggests that the staging of fragmentarily preserved plays has yet to spread to a broader spectrum of theatre practitioners. The knowledge of fragmentary material could be facilitated through literary refigurations of these plays, as in the case of Tony Harrison’s reworking of Sophocles’ Ichneutae in The Trackers of Oxyrhynchus.359 The Nachleben of the Alexandros, in particular, involves a dynamic contemporary performance history. In modern times the play was first staged alongside the other plays of the ‘Trojan trilogy’ (on the unity of this trilogy, see previous chapter, n. 289) as a rehearsed reading at the British Museum in April 2007, directed by James Albrecht. This production was held in collaboration with Tristan Bates Theatre at the Actors Centre in London, Arden Entertainnment and the companies ‘Dionysus’ and ‘Made in Brighton’. The whole project of ‘reviving’ the Alexandros and the trilogy as a whole was launched by David Stuttard, a trained classicist, theatre director and skilled translator of Greek drama, who produced reconstructed adaptations of the Alexandros, the Palamedes and the Sisyphus. He is the founder of the well-known British theatre company ‘Actors of Dionysus’ (AOD) specializing in Greek drama performance, for which he has regularly directed his own translations of Greek tragedies. The Alexandros was subsequently reperformed separately by AOD as a semi-staged reading at Europe House in London in October 2012.360 Having written an adaptation of the Trojan Women performed by AOD in 2002,361 David Stuttard became interested in restoring the play to its original context, with the purpose of addressing questions of interpretation, dramaturgy and performance raised by that tragedy in connection with the rest of the plays of the trilogy. Inevitably, much of the reconstruction of the Alexandros and the Palamedes is imaginative (whereas the script of the poorly preserved Sisyphus is an original creation), especially when it comes to aspects of the dramatic plot for which there is only meagre evidence. As regards reconstruction methodology,

|| 359 See McDonald 1992, 97–113; Marshall 2012, 557–571 (with further bibliography). 360 For more detail about these productions, see davidstuttard.com/Alexandros.html and the review by Mark Ronan at: markronan.com/2012/10/paris-alexandros-by-euripides-actors-of-dio nysus-october-2012 . 361 On the features of Stuttard’s translation of the Trojan Women, see Stuttard 2005; Hardwick 2003, 62–63.

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Stuttard notes that he relied on the hypothesis of the Alexandros and the preserved fragments and supplemented the text of the two tragic plays by adhering to the structural rules and the spirit of Greek tragedy, whilst moulding and adapting the available material to enhance the overall integrity of the story.362 As would be expected, the aim of Stuttard’s reconstruction was to link all three tragedies as far as possible, through characterization, themes and language. It is for this reason that he inserted motifs and images running through the Alexandros and the Palamedes and prefiguring their appearance in his adaptation of the Trojan Women.363 An eloquent example is his choice of Athena as prologue-speaker in the Alexandros. A divine prologue-speaker is favoured by many critics, though most of them opt for Aphrodite, in view of her well-known association with the title-character.364 Stuttard presented Athena as being offended due to her defeat at the beauty contest of the three goddesses, which anticipates her vengeful stance in the prologue of the Trojan Women (48–97). This invention evidently aims at establishing a unity of focus between the plays of the ‘Trojan trilogy’. At the same time, Stuttard employed style and imagery in the reconstruction of the Alexandros, with the purpose of further underscoring elements that connect the portrayal of the dramatic characters within the trilogy: he sensibly relied on the evidence coming from the fragments of Ennius’ Alexander, that is, the Roman adaptation of the Euripidean play (see previous chapter), to reconstruct Cassandra’s scene of mantic frenzy. His reconstruction of this prophetic scene posed further emphasis on its ironic association with the equivalent Cassandra episode of the Trojan Women. Moreover, Alexandros’ presumptuous and alluring personality was presented as a counterpart of Helen in the third tragedy of this trilogy. Furthermore, he drew an imposing antithesis between the representation of Hecabe at the height of her powers undertaking the attack against the triumphant slave in the Alexandros (see previous chapter) and her own reduction to slavery in the third tragedy.365 A full performance of the Alexandros by AOD under the direction of David Stuttard and on the basis of his reconstructed adaptation was held in London || 362 See davidstuttard.com/Reconstructing_the_Fragments.html and Stuttard 2007, 26–27. 363 Stuttard 2007, 27. 364 In favour of Aphrodite, see Diggle 1981, 106; Kovacs 1984, 64–66; Timpanaro 1996, 9–10; Matthiessen 2002, 251–252; Di Giuseppe 2012, 49–50. Other suggestions have involved Apollo (Stinton 1965, 70–71 and Jouan/Van Looy 1998–2003, I 47–48) or Hermes (Lee ap. Collard/ Cropp/Gibert 2004, 37); all three gods are taken into consideration in Collard/Cropp/Gibert 2004, 37. Most recently, Kovacs (2015, 113–115) favoured Hermes or Athena. 365 Stuttard 2007, 28–29.

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(House of St. Barnabas, Soho), Kingston (at an outdoor theatre in Spruce Wood) and Kent (Allington Castle) from July to October 2015. As the director pointed out to me (per litteras, 13/10/2015), his main concern was to make the reconstruction work in performative terms, establishing the characters and their motivations. To achieve that, he also employed non-verbal language and kinesic signs as a means of enhancing tension and dramatic effect. For instance, he advised the leading actress, Tamsin Shasha, who played Hecabe, to tuck her elbows in and convey her emotions through her hands. This technique helped her to shape a character full of pent up emotion, which occasionally erupted in a terrifying way. The chorus consisted of members of the royal staff, delivering their lines with an economy of movement, while carrying out specific tasks, such as assisting in the performance of sacrifice before the funeral games and purifying the space with incense and lighting candles. The entire experience was profoundly enhanced through the use of specially-composed live music in all choral passages and at moments of dramatic climax, such as the Cassandra scene (fig. 3). At the same time, David Stuttard sought to explore the elasticity of the play, where instances of high dramatic tension are followed by more upbeat scenes. One such case is Hecabe’s rough questioning of the foster-father in the recognition scene, which was reconstructed on the basis of the harsh interrogation of the shepherd in S. OT 1110– 1185. This climactic scene gave way to her delight at Alexandros’ homecoming (fig. 4) followed by a joyful celebration, which was accompanied by live music and dance. It thus becomes clear that the contemporary performance reception of the Alexandros has constituted a two-stage process. The reconstructed adaptation relies on a reworking of the source text and of the available evidence, which obviously entails an ideological ‘fixing’ of meaning by the adaptor. In particular, the reconfiguration of the fragmentary material in a version planned to be performed involves the exploration of conceptual frameworks, as well as sensory modalities and vehicles of representation. The adaptation is then subjected to realization in performance, which is determined by a number of agents (director, actors, stage and costume designer, composer, lighting designer) ‘translating’ the text into the medium of physical enactment and thus generating further meanings and resonances.366 The connections between the fragmented text and its performance on

|| 366 For a discussion of theoretical issues of performance reception, see especially Hall 2004b, 60–61; Hardwick 2003, 51–52 and 2010, 192–199, 204–205; Michelakis 2008, 219–228; FischerLichte 2010, 31–36; Flashar 20092, ch. 12; Van Steen 2016, esp. 213–216; Ioannidou 2017, esp. 3– 12.

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the contemporary stage are thus in ‘negotiation’, and this dynamic interaction imbues the source text with new potential. The reperformance of the Alexandros on the contemporary stage also needs to be addressed from the viewpoint of modern audience response. The reception of Greek drama by contemporary spectators is largely determined by their ‘horizon of expectations’ defining their perception and, in turn, their response (see Introduction). A further challenge concerns the exploration of the intellectual and emotional processes through which the revival of a play no longer extant and subjected to reconstructed adaptation could be deciphered by contemporary spectators. The performances of the Alexandros took place in theatres, cultural venues and arts centres, being directed to a broad audience in terms of age, cultural background and theatrical awareness.367 According to theatre reviewers and audience comments conveyed by David Stuttard, the twists and turns of the exciting dramatic plot engaged the spectators in a powerful way, and their perception of the Trojan Women was deepened by means of the effective characterization and the meaningful imagery pervading the Alexandros.368 To assess the dramatic impact of the play, one should also investigate its potential to address themes and situations as unsettling for our own age as they were for that of Euripides: archetypal emotions (maternal grief for the loss of a child, envy and vengeance), familial relationships (children expiring, brothers in conflict, parents rediscovered), conflictual relationships (power relations, the clash with the community, class-distinction), issues of human reason, truth and knowledge (human responsibility, the frailty of human judgment and the shifts of fortune).369 The degree to which the play has succeeded in activating an intellectual and emotional response fitting into the ideological and moral discourses of contemporary society could form an indicator of its continuing cultural power.

|| 367 For the features of the audiences of AOD, see Hardwick 2005, 212. 368 Cf. Stuttard 2007, 28–29 and markronan.com/2012/10/paris-alexandros-by-euripides-ac tors-of-dionysus-october-2012. 369 On the investigation of modern audience response to Greek tragedy, see mainly Hardwick 2003, 52–56; Hall 2004b, 54–59 and 2004c, 1–46; Michelakis 2008, 222–224; McDonald 1992, 4– 19; McDonald/Winkler 2001, 73–74; Fischer-Lichte 2010, 29–31; Garland 2004, 187; Foley 2010, 137–141.

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Fig. 3: Cassandra (Lizzie Buckingham) between the members of the chorus (Marianna Maniatakis and Kirsten Shaw) in her great prophetic scene in the Alexandros, Actors of Dionysus 2015. Photograph reproduced by courtesy of David Stuttard.

Fig. 4: The recognition between Hecabe (Tamsin Shasha) and Alexandros (Colin Kiyani) in the Alexandros, Actors of Dionysus 2015. Photograph reproduced by courtesy of David Stuttard.

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The APGRD database has recorded a dramaturgical reception of the Alexandros in the opera King Priam by the British composer Michael Tippett. Its relation to the Euripidean play is described as a ‘creative metamorphosis’.370 This work, which was premiered in Coventry in 1962, mainly draws on the epic myth as shaped in the Iliad with a particular focus on the royal oikos of Troy. At the same time, the epic material has been refigured in dramatic form, and the charactersketching relies significantly on tragedy, especially with regard to questions of moral choice and human responsibility.371 According to Brown, the particular dramatization of Alexandros’ early life originates in material used by Euripides in the Alexandros.372 The first act, which treats the events preceding the Trojan War, includes the interpretation of Hecabe’s ominous dream, according to which the newborn child would cause his father’s death; this is evidently a case of contamination with the Oedipus story-pattern,373 shifting the focus of dramatic interest to Priam, who is the leading character of this opera. Following the mythical tradition, the baby is exposed and raised by herdsmen.374 Years later Priam and Hector go hunting on Mount Ida, where they meet a youth on the back of a wild bull. The young man introduces himself as Paris and is recognized by Priam, who welcomes him back to the Trojan palace. This synopsis makes it clear that Tippett used Hyginus’ mythographical narrative (fab. 91) with regard to the boy’s exposure (which is not a Euripidean invention, but an element embedded in the mythical tradition) and the theme of Alexandros’ favourite bull, whose relation to the Euripidean play, however, cannot be established (see previous chapter, n. 294).375 But none of the key elements of the Euripidean plot occurs in this storyline, and the recognition is attained in a completely different manner. Overall, I would observe that the available evidence does not tell in favour of a specific relation between King Priam and

|| 370 apgrd.ox.ac.uk/productions/production/3387. 371 See Harrison 2002, 215–234; Ewans 2007, 129–151; Tippett 1995, 213; Clarke 2001, 66–67, 75– 77; Pollard 1995, ch. 3; Rimer 1983, 166–167. 372 Brown 2004, 296. 373 Cf. also Ewans 2007, 139. 374 E. Andr. 293–300 and schol. Andr. 293 (Schwartz), Tr. 597, 919–922, IA 1283–1298, Asclepiad. FGrH 12 F12, Lyc. 224–225, 1362–1363, Enn. Alexander fr. 18.50–51 J./TrRF I fr. adesp. 76.1–2 Schauer, Verg. Aen. 7.319–322, 10.704–705, Sen. Trο. 36, Ov. Her. 16.45–46, 17.237–240, Hyg. fabb. 91, 249, schol. Serv. Verg. Aen. 7.320, 10.705 (Thilo-Hagen), D-schol. Il. 3.325, 12.93, 15.341 (van Thiel), schol. Il. 3.325b, schol. Lyc. 86, 138, 224 (Scheer), Μyth. Vat. 2.225, Dictys FGrH 49 F3, Dracont. De Raptu Helenae 122–124, Romulea 8.122, Tzetz. Antehomerica 41, Const. Manass. Comp. Chron. 1122–1125. 375 See also Ewans 2007, 138–139.

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the Euripidean Alexandros. The main reason, I assume, that this opera was thought to be associated with the Alexandros is because Hyginus, on whom Tippett draws, is widely regarded as providing evidence for this Euripidean play; this seems to be true to a certain extent, but the Roman mythographer’s account also presents divergences from Euripides and elements which could result from a fusion of sources (see previous chapter). This is a free adaptation, which bears some (rather loose) connections to the mythical tradition regarding Alexandros’ exposure and recognition with his natal family. A cinematic treatment of several of the events dramatized in the Euripidean Alexandros occurs in the American TV film Helen of Troy (2003, Universal, running time: 2 hours and 47 minutes) directed by John Kent Harrison with a screenplay by Ronni Kern (fig. 5). This film challenges the well-established stereotypes about the wantoness of Helen (played by Sienna Guillory), bringing forward a more sympathetic image of the heroine, who is presented as less feminine and rather tomboyish. Her sexual objectification by her social context is brought into sharp contrast with her romantic love affair with Alexandros/Paris (Matthew Marsden). They are portrayed as soulmates and star-crossed lovers, and it is for this reason that each one’s childhood and youth is presented in a parallel way until their destined and divinely determined meeting.376 The film employs key elements of the legend, such as Alexandros’ exposure on Mount Ida and his upbringing by a herdsman (Manuel Cauchi). The boy is given the name ‘Paris’ by his foster-father, as attested in the narrative hypothesis of Euripides’ Alexandros (P.Oxy. 3650, col. i, 7) and in Hyginus’ account (fab. 91). Alexandros’ participation in the games to regain his favourite bull also derives from Hyginus, as mentioned above. Moreover, the film presents Alexandros’ athletic victory and recognition by Cassandra (Emilia Fox) foreseeing the impending disaster (fig. 6), which occur in both the hypothesis of the Euripidean play (P.Oxy. 3650, col. i, 21–22, 25–28) and Hyginus. The sole element of this filmic plot which is not provided by the Roman mythographer and is attested only in the hypothesis (P.Oxy. 3650, col. i, 30–32) is the manner in which Alexandros’ final reunion with his natal family was attained. In the film, as in Euripides, the recognition is brought about by Alexandros’ foster-father. This fact indicates that the screenplay employed elements deriving not only from Hyginus but from the narrative hypothesis of the Euripidean play, as well. The screenwriter thus consulted mythographical sources, such as the hypothesis of the Alexandros and Hyginus (or merely studies mentioning these

|| 376 See Maguire 2009, 107–108; Winkler 2009, 211–212, 234–242 and 2015, 114–115; Shillock 2011, 131–142, Blank 2015, 70–71.

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versions), to reconstruct the early phase of the Trojan legend concerning Alexandros’ childhood and youth. This is suggestive of an indirect knowledge of the Alexandros through the hypothesis as an intermediary source. But the fact remains that pivotal elements of the Euripidean plot recur in this filmic treatment, which is indicative of the reception of this storyline in modern media and popular culture. Modern spectators would not be expected to be familiar with the less known account of Paris’ early youth, but they would have enjoyed this treatment of the otherwise popular story of Helen and Paris alongside the twists and turns of fortune and the challenging ways in which familial and conflictual relationships intersect. This TV film thus serves as a medium of transforming tragic myth and ‘translating’ it into modern contexts; as a vehicle of popular culture and as an interlocutor of ancient dramatic material in the present era. At the same time, this adaptation could yield insight into the complex relationship between the source text and its transformation into a filmic spectacle, thus showcasing the dialectic of tragedy in modernity and its cultural impact.377 The performance reception of the Alexandros also suggests a trend towards the use of the mythical tradition as a means of reconfiguring dramatic plots in new performative contexts. This practice emerges from the operatic and filmic transcription of this tragic myth, which relies on adaptations motivated not only by dramatic, but, to a great extent, broader mythological patterns, especially in the case of Michael Tippett’s King Priam. As mentioned above, the process of producing adaptations of several fragmentarily preserved plays has evidently been facilitated through the exploitation of mythical material, which not only makes up for the gaps in the transmission of the text, but it is also a captivating means of popular culture. But this holds true of extant plays, as well; myth has regularly offered ample scope for new readings in the process of the creative transformation of surviving Greek tragedy in cinema and in modern theatre, as in the plays by Jean Giraudoux, André Gide, Jean Cocteau and Heiner Müller—to mention but a few examples.378 Overall, this fragmentarily preserved Euripidean play has enjoyed a vibrant afterlife in varying performative contexts: theatrical, operatic, cinematic,

|| 377 On filmic transformations of Greek tragedy as vehicles of ‘translating’ antiquity in modern culture, see Michelakis 2013, 3–9, 224–225; MacKinnon 1986, 22–42; Winkler 2001, 4, 6–10; Bakogianni 2017, 468–471; Kayhan 2014, 5–11, 105–107. 378 See Steiner 19802, 324–327; Highet 1949, 520–540; Van Steen 2000, 3–10, 204–208. On cinema, see MacKinnon 1986, 169–173; Kyriakos 2013, 191–217 (with further bibliography on this matter).

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televisual. These treatments, bearing either tighter or looser connections to the source text, showcase the continuing appeal of this storyline to different kinds of audience. The contemporary reperformance of the play on the basis of a reconstructed adaptation for the stage brings forward its engagement into longstanding moral and ideological debates, thus giving rise to emotional and intellectual responses on the part of modern audiences. At the same time, mythical elements exploited in the Alexandros have ‘revived’ not only on theatre stage, but also through the medium of other performing arts, as in the case of the operatic reception of the Trojan legend, which involves a creative adaptation of the mythical tradition. Moreover, the appropriation of key aspects of this skillful Euripidean plot, such as recognition and reversal, has evidently enriched the filmic transformation of this tragic version. Even more importantly, the multifarious aspects of the contemporary performance reception of the Alexandros could give rise to broader questions regarding the literary, ideological and cultural processes that determine the modern staging of fragmentary tragedies and its further potential.

Fig. 5: Helen of Troy (2003) promotional poster. m.imdb.com/title/tt0340477/mediaviewer/ rm3785072384 (last accessed: 28/8/2018)

128 | Euripides’ Alexandros in performance

Fig. 6: Cassandra (Emilia Fox) recognizing Alexandros (Matthew Marsden) in Helen of Troy (2003). m.imdb.com/title/tt0340477/mediaviewer/rm2533102592 (last accessed: 28/8/2018)

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General Index Abas 64, 75, 76 Acamas 65 and n. 191 Acrisius 40, n. 120, 42, 85 ‘Actors of Dionysus’ (AOD) 11, 119, 120, 122, n. 367, 123 adaptation 5, 11, 12, 104, n. 312, 117, 119, 120, 121, 122, 125, 126, 127 Aeschylus 27, 28, 30, n. 71, 38, 68 and n. 201, 77, 86, 90, n. 257, 91 and n. 259 and 261, 93, 117 –Agamemnon 93 –Amymone 27 –Cercyon 28 –Danaids 77 –Eleusinians 38 –Persae 93 –Phineus 68 –Polydectes 85 and n. 241, 86, 91 aesthetics of reception 5 aetiology 38 and n. 108 and109, 51 Agathon 9, 61, 62 and n. 180, 63, 71 –Antheus/Anthos 9, 61–63 –embolima 63 –epic size plot 63 agon/ formal debate 7, 34 and n. 89, 35 and n. 92 and 93, 36, 37 and n. 100 and 101, 47, 56 Alcmeon 48–52, 54 allusion 8, 12, 19 Amphiaraus 9, 69–70 and n. 209, 71 Amphilochian Argos 48, 51 Amphilochus 48, 49, 51, 54 Amphion 33, 109 analogy 56 antithesis 120 Antoninus Liberalis 62 APGRD database 117, 124 Aphrodite 22, 23, 77, 88, 94, 120 and n. 364 Apollo 1, 33, 48, 49, 50, 54, 120, n. 364 [Apollodorus] Bibliotheca 10, 48, 51, 88, 91, 93, 96

https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110661279-011

appropriation 8, 18, 47, 55, 57, 97, 104, 106, 127 Aristophanes 31, n. 76, 114 –Birds 32 Aristophanes of Byzantium 2, 15, 17 and n. 27, 86, n. 242 Aristotle 4, 6, 9–10, 22, 42, 43, 45, 46 and n. 137, 52, 61–72, 73–81, 114 –Poetics 4, 6, 9–10, 42, 43, 46 and n. 137, 52, 61–72, 73–81, 114 –Rhetoric 75 Astydamas 7, 17–18 and n. 28, 45–46, 75, n. 224 –Alcmeon 45–46 –Antigone 7, 17–18 and n. 28, 75, n. 224 Athena 38 and n. 107, 39, 40, 85, 87, 96, 120 and n. 364 audience response 7, 8, 9, 11, 31–32, 35– 36 and n. 94, 38, 42–43, 46, 47, 51, 52, 54, 56 and n. 168, 57 and n. 174, 58, 68–69, 70 and n. 209, 71, 72 and n. 214, 107, 108, 109, 110 and n. 331, 112, 113, 119, 122 and n. 367 and 369, 127 book fragments 3–4, 24 burlesque 114 ‘cancelled entry’ 94, 107 canon 2, 9, 71 Carcinus 8, 9, 26, 31, 32, 43–46, 47, 69– 70, 71 –Alope 8, 26, 31, 32, 43–46, 47 –Medea 45 Cassandra 12, 98, 99, 100, 101 and n. 302, 104, 107 and n. 321, 112, 120, 121, 123, 125, 128 ‘catastrophe survived’ pattern 6, 21 and n. 39, 94, 110 Cercyon 8, 26–47 characterization 15, 44, 45, 120, 122 Choerilus 7–8, 26, 29–31, 32, 45, 46 –Alope 7–8, 26, 29–31, 32, 45, 46

154 | General Index

Cleisthenes 7, 29 and n. 67, 30, n. 70, 39 and n. 115, 46 Cleomenes 29 citation 1 classical reception 1 and n. 1, 5–6 Cocteau, Jean 126 cognitive processes (of audience response) 8, 11, 43, 57, 122, 127 commentary 2 and n. 4, 3, 117 context 1, 3, 4, 5–6, 7, 8, 10, 11, 12, 32, 46, 51, 58, 64, 65, 70, 73, 76, 77, 78, 85, 86, 95, 96, 106, 114, 119, 125, 126, 127 correspondence 35 and n. 90, 55, 113 Creon, king of Corinth 48, 50, 51, 52, 55 Creon, king of Thebes 16–24, 75, n. 224, 112 Creusa 33 and n. 83, 50, 106, 107, 112 critical reception 4, 9–10, 45–46, 61–72, 73–81 cultural power 1, 5, 11, 12, 122 cultural process 6, 10, 12, 127 Danae 40, n. 119, 41, 85 and n. 240, 86, 87, 88, 90, 92, 93, 94, 96, 101 Danaus 10, 63–64, 73–80 Deiphobus 10, 97–101, 103, 104, 106–108 Demeter 30 and n. 70 Demetrius Triclinius 3 democracy 7, 19 and n. 33, 38, 39 and n. 115, 47 Demophon 65 and n. 191 desis (‘complication’) 64, 74, 79 deus ex machina 22, 23 and n. 43, 37–38 and n. 106, 51, 109 dialogue 6, 8, 11, 15, 24, 26, 106, 114 Dicaeogenes 65 –Cyprians 65 Didymus 2 Diomedes 67 Dionysus 7, 22–25, 36, n. 98, 49, 90, 91, n. 260 dithyramb 66 Dracontius 101 –De Raptu Helenae 101 dramatic illusion 8, 57

eccyclēma 109, 110, 112 and n. 339 and 340 Eleusinian Mysteries 7, 30 and n. 70 and 71, 46–47 emotion 8, 42, 43, 46, 57 and n. 174, 61, 71, 72, 74, n. 217, 94, 108 and n. 323, 121, 122, 127 emphasis 7, 37, 46, 57, 120 Ennius 11, 100, 102, n. 304, 103–104, 106, 114, 117, 120 –Alexander 1, 100, 102, n. 304, 103–104, 106, 120 equivalent 8, 11, 39, 44, 54, 56, 69, 120 Etruscan art 10–11, 97, 101–106, 107, 114 Euripides 2, n. 7, 3, 6–8, 9, 10–12, 15–25, 30–43, 44, 45, 46, 47, 48–58, 62, 63 and n. 186, 66–67, 71, 76–77, 79 and n. 232, 85–96, 97–114, 117–128 –Aeolus 31, n. 73, 40, n. 118, 42, 91, n. 258 –Alcestis 49 –Alcmene 114 and n. 346 –Alcmeon in Corinth 8, 48–58, 118 and n. 358 –Alcmeon in Psophis 49 –Alexandros 10–12, 32, 97–114, 117–128 –Alope 7–8, 30–43, 44, 45, 46, 47, 53, 56 –Andromache 88, 91, n. 259, 93, 94, 107 –Andromeda 21 and n. 39, 118 and n. 355 and 357 –Antigone 7, 15–25 –Antiope 21 and n. 39, 22, 24 and n. 46, 34, 40 and n. 119, 52 and n. 151, 91, n. 258, 108–109, 110, 113 –Auge 40 and n. 118, 41 and n. 121, 49, 53, 55–56 –Bacchae 48, 52 –Captive Melanippe 2, n. 7, 21–22, 40 and n. 119, 52 and n. 151, 63 –Cresphontes 3, n. 8, 93, n. 270, 98, 103 and n. 305, 110, 113 –Cretans 118 and n. 356 and 357 –Cretan Women 49 –Danae 40 and n. 118 and 120, 41 and n. 121 –Dictys 10, 79, n. 232, 85–96, 101

General Index | 155

–Electra 3, n. 10, 93, n. 270, 103 –Erechtheus 100 and n. 298, 118 and n. 354 and 357 –Hecabe 103, 113 and n. 345 –Helen 3, n. 10, 21 and n. 39, 22, 52, 63, 88, 94, 107 –Heracles 33, 38, n. 111, 88, 93 and n. 268, 94, 107, 111 –Heraclidae 88, 94, 107 –Hippolytus 34, 62 and n. 181, 89, n. 252, 91, n. 258 –Hypsipyle 21–22, 24, 52, 117 and n. 352 and 357 –Ion 21–22, 52, 107 –Iphigenia in Aulis 48, 100 –Iphigenia in Tauris 9, 21–22, 52, 63, 66–67, 71, 103 –Medea 41, 85, 100, n. 298 –Melanippe the Wise 40 and n. 118, 41 and n. 121, 42, 89, n. 252 –Orestes 9, 56, 108, 109 and n. 328 and 329, 110, 113 –Palamedes 32, 97, 119–120 –Peleus 62 –Phaethon 2, n. 7, 34, 117, 118, n. 353 –Philoctetes 85 –Phoenissae 23, 100, 103 –Phoenix 62 –Sisyphus 32, 97, 119 –Stheneboea 62, 118, n. 357 –Suppliant Women 38, 39, 88, 94, 107 –Telephus 49, 91, n. 259, 100, n. 298, 103 –Theristae 85 –Trojan Women 32, 97, 119–120 –Veiled Hippolytus 62 excerpt 1, 2, 3–4 exemplum 8, 56, 57 experimentation 22, 61, 63, 71 exposed children 27, 34, 37, 39 and n. 112, 40–41, 53, 97, 99, 124 farce 57 film 12, 125–126, 127 fragmentation 1–5, 11–12

gender 7, 23 Gide, André 126 Giraudoux, Jean 126 Glycera 53, 54, 55 Haemon 6, 7, 15, 16, 17, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 75, n. 224 hapax legomenon 37 Harpocration 37 Harrison, Tony 119 –The Trackers of Oxyrhynchus 119 Hecabe 10, 97, 98, 99, 100, 101, 103, 104, 106, 107, 108, 120, 121, 123, 124 Helen 49, 109, 120, 125, 126 Helen of Troy (TV film) 12, 125–126, 127 Heliodorus of Prusa 44, 45, n. 135 Hermione 109 Hesychius 4, 27 and n. 55, 28 and n. 61, 36, n. 98, 37, n. 102, 49, 88, n. 251 Hippothoon 7, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 37, 38, 39, 40, 41, n. 122, 46, 47 ‘horizon of expectations’ 6, 7, 47, 57, 69, 105, 122 hybrid 57 hybris 8, 44 Hyginus 15–18, 26–27, 29, 32 and n. 78 and 79, 34, 36, 37, 38, 98–100, 101, 103, 106, 108, 110, 111, 112, 113, 124, 125, 126 hyperbole 57 Hypermestra 10, 64, 65, 75, 77, 78 hypomnema 2, 10 hypotheses of Euripidean tragedies 10, 15, 17, 18, 23, 32, 40, n. 120, 86, 92–93 and n. 264, 96, 97–98 and n. 291, 99, n. 294, 100, 101, 103, 104, 106, 107 and n. 321, 108, 110, 113, 120, 125, 126 iconography 1, 2, 4, 10, 16, 17, n. 28, 18, 30, n. 70, 85–114, 117 ideology 1, 7, 8, 11, 12, 20, n. 37, 29, 40, 43, 46, 47, 121, 122, 127 imagery 23, n. 45, 120, 122 innovation 9, 20, 61, 63, 71, 78 interplay 8, 57 intertext 6, 19, 35

156 | General Index

invention 90, 120, 124 irony 50, 51, 54, 111 Jauss, Hans Robert 5–6 kinesic signs 121 lexicography 4, 27, n. 55, 32 Lycophron 104 and n. 310, 117 –Alexandra 104, 117 Lycurgus 2 and n. 5, 86, n. 242 Lycus 108, 109 lysis (‘denouement’) 65, 73–81 Maeon 15, 17, 21, 23, 75, n. 224 Magna Grecia 10, 11, 96, 105 and n. 314 Menander 7, 8, 34–36, 47, 48, 52, 53–58 –Aspis 53 –Dyscolos 53 –Epitrepontes 7, 34–36, 47, 53, 55–56 –Periceiromene 8, 48, 53–58 –Sicyonioi 53, 56 Merope 98, 103, 110 metabasis (‘transition’) 10, 65, 76, 79, 80 metapoetry 6, 12, 15, 24, 25 metatheatre 8, 48, 56, 57 Milesian Tales 62–63 mimesis (‘representation’) 72 and n. 213 mixed reversal 6, 9, 52 and n. 151, 71 Moschion 65 –Pheraioi 65 motif 7, 12, 17, 24, 32 and n. 80, 33, 40, 45, n. 136, 49, 52, 55, 62, 99, n. 294, 120 Müller, Heiner 126 mythos (‘plot–construction’) 9, 70, 72, 74, 80 Nachleben (‘afterlife’) 1, 5, 11, 47, 114, 117, 119, 127 naiskos 88, 90 and n. 257 Nero 99–100 –Troica 99–100 non–verbal language 121 nostos 93 and n. 270, 96

Odysseus Pseudangelos 9, 68–69, 71 Oeneus 67–68 oikos 7, 8, 21, 22, 23, 41, 42 and n. 129, 45, 47, 52, 111, 124 opera 12, 124–125, 126, 127 Orestes 65–67 and n. 195, 91, n. 259, 103, 109 paideia 6, 69 papyrus fragments 1, 2 and n. 7, 3 and n. 8, 4, 10, 24 and n. 48, 49, 87, 92, 96, 97, 104, 107, n. 321, 108, 117 paradigm 41, n. 124, 57 paratragedy 3, 114 paretymology 38 and n. 109, 104 Parthenius 62 and n. 181 and 182 Pataecus 53, 54, 55 Pausanias 28, 29, 30 and n. 68 and 69, 31, 77, 89 Peloponnesian War 6, 22, 46, 52 performance 1, 2, 9, 11–12, 32, 51, n. 150, 69–70 and n. 209, 71, 90, 94, 97, 104– 106, 107–113, 114, 117–128 performance reception 1, 5, 7–8, 11–12, 51, n. 150, 56, 57, 95, 96, 104–106, 117– 128 performing arts 12, 127 Perseus 40, n. 120, 79, n. 232, 85–96, 101 Pherecydes 27, n. 55, 79, n. 232, 85 and n. 240, 86 Phineidae 68 Phrynichus 29, 30, n. 68, 77 –Aegyptioi 77 physical enactment 121 ‘play within a play’ 8 Plutarch 3 and n. 13, 29, 110 Polemon 53, 54, 55 polis 7, 8, 22, 39–40, 41–42 and n. 129, 43, 47 Polydectes 85–88, 90, 92, 94, 95, 96 Polyidus 9, 65–67, 71 Polyneices 6, 7, 15–17, 18, 20–21, 24, 103 popular culture 12, 118, 126

General Index | 157

Poseidon 26, 27, 28, n. 56 and 59, 29, 30, 31, 32–33, 37, 38 and n. 106, 39, 44, 45, 88, 89, 90, 92, 93, 94, 96 Priam 12, 97, 98–99, 111 and n. 337, 124, 126 Pylades 109 quotation 1, 3–4, 5, 8, 31, 49, 55, 56, 86, 90, 91 receiving work 5, 7, 12, 18 reception studies 1 and n. 1, 5–6 recognition 8, 9, 12, 35, 40, 45, 51, 52, 53, 54, 55 and n. 165, 56–57, 65–69, 71, 72, 74, 100, 107, 112, 121, 123, 124–125, 127 reconstruction 4, 5, 11, 21, n. 38, 32, 51, n. 150, 102, n. 304, 106, 117–118, 119– 122, 126, 127 refiguration 6, 8, 11, 12, 15, 20, 23, 25, 29, 47, 48, 53, 56, 58, 66, 69, 119, 120, 124 reperformance/revival 1, 2, 3, n. 8, 4, 5, 7, 10, 11, 36, 56 and n. 168, 57, 91, n. 261, 95, 96, 117–118, 119, 122, 127 repertory 2, 63, 71, 86, n. 242 representation 3, n. 8, 10, 11, 42, n. 129, 72, 85, 90, n. 256 and 257, 95, 96, 97, 101, 102, 103, 104 and n. 312, 105, 106, 111, 114, 117, 120, 121 reversal of action 6, 8, 9, 12, 22, 35, 52 and n. 151, 53, 63–64, 71, 72, 73–74, 75, 78, 79, 80, 81, 127 reworking 1, 5, 6, 7, 8, 11, 20, 24, 46, 47, 48, 66, 69, 71, 80, 104, 106, 114, 117, 118, 119, 121 ritual 7, 8, 23, 30 and n. 71, 47 Roman Republican Theatre 117 scholia 3, 4, 9–10, 21, n. 39, 31, n. 73, 43–45, 46, 64–65, 73, 76–81, 91 Second Sophistic 3, 31 ‘selection’ (of plays) 2–3 and n. 8 Servius 100 skēnē–building 107–108, 109–110 Sophocles 6–7, 9, 15–25, 30, n. 71, 31, n. 73, 40, n. 119, 45 and n. 136, 56, 62,

63–64, 68 and n. 201, 71, 74, 91 and n. 261, 93 and n. 270, 99 and n. 294, 112, 117, 119 –Alexandros 9 and n. 294 –Antigone 6–7, 15–25, 37, 112 –Ichneutae 119 –Oedipus Tyrannus 9, 22, 63–64, 71, 73– 74, 81, 91, n. 258 –Phaedra 62 –Trachiniae 93 –Tyro 40, n. 119, 56 source text 4, 5–6, 7, 8, 12, 18, 47, 48, 55, 57, 69, 104, 121, 122, 126, 127 South Italian pottery 10–11, 16, 85–96, 105 and n. 314, 106 and n. 318, 107 staging 9, 11, 70, 71, 94 and n. 273, 97, 107, 109–113, 119, 127 Stobaeus, Ioannes 4, 24, 32, 49, 86 Stuttard, David 119–123 style 3, 8, 53, 55, 114, 120 subsidiary/ secondary chorus 24, 34 and n. 88 Suda 4, 29, 48, n. 143 supplication 10, 11, 79, n. 232, 87–88, 91, 92, 93–94, 95, 105–107, 108, 112, 113–114 testimonia 4, 9, 10, 15, 16 and n. 26, 17, 26, 29, 31, 43, 44, 61, 62, 64, 69, 77, 80, 85, 88, n. 250, 94, 96, 99, n. 294, 100, 104, 110, 113 Teucer 65 theatre practice 11, 117, 119, 126 theatre review 119, n. 360, 122 Theodectes 9, 17, 18, n. 28, 43, 63–65, 67, 71, 73–81 –Alcmeon 65, 78 –Helen 65 –Lynceus 9–10, 17, 18, n. 28, 63–65, 71, 73–81 –Orestes 78 –Philoctetes 43 –Tydeus 67–68, 71 theogamy 33, 49–50 Theon 10, 79, n. 232, 87–88, 91–92, 93, 96

158 | General Index

Theseus 7, 26, 27, 28 and n. 59, 29, 37, 38–39, 40, 47 Tippett, Michael 12, 124–125, 126 –King Priam 12, 124–125, 126 Tisiphone 48, 49, 50, 51, 54, 55 transformation 7, 8, 11, 12, 18, 23, 35, 47, 58, 117, 118, 126 and n. 377, 127 translation 1, n. 1, 11, 12, 117–118, 119 and n. 361, 121, 126 and n. 377 transmission 1 and n. 1, 3, n. 9, 4, 61, 80, 117, 126 Triptolemus 7, 30–31, 46–47

‘Trojan trilogy’ 111, 119–120 Tzetzes, Ioannes 49, 86, n. 245 variation 2, 69, 103, n. 308 Varro 104 version 28, 31, 43, 45, 62, 63, 64, 66, 67, 71, 76, 77, 79, 121, 126, 127 Volnius 104 Zethus 109 Zeus Herkeios 99, 108, 110–112, 11

Index of Passages Discussed Aeschylus –Cercyon fr. 102 R. –Cercyon fr. 104 R. –Danaids fr. 44 R.

28 28 77

Andocides 1.111

30

–Poet. 1453a 30–36 –Poet. 1453a 33–35 –Poet. 1453b 29–34

–Poet. 1455a 22–29 –Poet. 1455b 6–12 –Poet. 1455b 24–32 –Poet. 1455b 30 –Poet. 1455b 31 –Poet. 1456a 25–29 –Poet. 1456a 18–20 –Pol. 1252a 24 – 1253b 23

52 6, 46, 71 46, 74, n. 217 45, 74, n. 217 46 67, 114 70 67 65 65–66 67 68 68–69 67, n. 195, 74, n. 217 69–70 66 64, 74 32 79 63 63, 70 22, 42

Carcinus –Alope TrGF I 70 F1b –Medea TrGF I 70 F1e

43–46 45

Choerilus –Alope TrGF I 2 F1

29–31

Diodorus of Sicily –Bibliotheca Historica 4.44.3

68

Dracontius –De Raptu Helenae 134–182 –De Raptu Helenae 177–178

101 101

Euripides –Alcm. Cor. fr. 73a K.

49

–Poet. 1454a 2

[Apollodorus] –Bibliotheca 1.3.1 –Bibliotheca 2.4.3 –Bibliotheca 3.7.4 –Bibliotheca 3.7.7

23 79, n. 232, 86 49 48–49

Aristophanes –Av. 558–559 –Danaides fr. 256 K.–A. –Ra. 303–304 –Ra. 775 –Ra. 1182–1195

31 114 70 35 21

Aristophanes of Byzantium –Argum. S. Ant. I

15

Aristotle –EN 1150b 6–10 –fr. 556 R. –Poet. 1447a 9–10 –Poet. 1450a 15–18 –Poet. 1450a 22–25 –Poet. 1450a 33–35 –Poet. 1450a 38–39 –Poet. 1450b 21–23 –Poet. 1451b 19–23 –Poet. 1452a 22–29 –Poet. 1452a 27–28 –Poet. 1452a 32–33 –Poet. 1452a 38– 1452b 1 –Poet. 1452b 11–12 –Poet. 1452b 30–33 –Poet. 1453a 4–5 –Poet. 1453a 18–22

43, 45, n. 135 62 72 72 72 72 72 72 61 63, 73 79 74 72 43 72 42 63

https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110661279-012

–Poet. 1454a 3–4 –Poet. 1454a 4–9 –Poet. 1454b 15–18 –Poet. 1454b 30–35 –Poet. 1454b 37–1455a 2 –Poet. 1455a 6–8 –Poet. 1455a 8–10 –Poet. 1455a 10–12 –Poet. 1455a 12–16 –Poet. 1455a 16–19

160 | Index of Passages Discussed

–Alcm. Cor. fr. 74 K. –Alcm. Cor. fr. 75 K. –Alcm. Cor. fr. 76 K. –Alcm. Cor. fr. 77 K. –Alexandros fr. 62b.42 K. –Alexandros fr. 62d.24–30 K. –Alexandros fr. 62d.25 K. –Alexandros fr. 62d.27f. K. –Alexandros fr. 62d.29 K. –Alexandros fr. 62d.44 K. –Alexandros fr. 62d.44–50 K. –Alexandros fr. 62d.48 K. –Alexandros fr. 62d.52 K. –Alexandros frr. 62e–h K. –Alexandros fr. 62g K.

49, 50 51 50–51 49 98, 103 98, 103 98, 103 104 107–108 108, 109 108 109 108 100, 104 100, n. 297 –Alexandros fr. 62i K. 108 –Alope fr. 105 K. 33 –Alope fr. 105a K. 36 –Alope fr. 106 K. 31, n. 74, 32–33 –Alope fr. 107 K. 31, n. 74, 33 –Alope fr. 108 K. 36 –Alope fr. 109 K. 37 –Alope fr. 110 K. 36–37 –Alope fr. 111 K. 37, 42 –Alope fr. 112a K. 37 –Alope fr. 113 K. 36 –Antig. frr. 157–158 K. 21 –Antig. fr. 159 K. 18 –Antig. fr. 160 K. 20–21 –Antig. fr. 161 K. 20 –Antig. fr. 162 K. 20 –Antig. fr. 162a K. 20 –Antig. fr. 163 K. 19 –Antig. fr. 166 K. 19 –Antig. fr. 171 K. 19 –Antig. fr. 172 K. 19, 20 –Antig. fr. 173 K. 19 –Antig. fr. 175 K. (=P.Oxy. 3317) 24 –Antig. fr. 176 K. 18–19 –Antig. fr. 177 K. 22 –Antig. fr. 178 K. 24 –Antiope fr. 223.11–14 K. 33 –Antiope fr. 223.15–16 Κ. 109 –Antiope fr. 223.15–74 K. 108

–Antiope fr. 223.61 K. –Antiope fr. 223.79b K. –Antiope fr. 223.80–81 K. –Antiope fr. 223.83 K. –Antiope fr. 223.85–87 K. –Antiope fr. 223.88 K. –Antiope fr. 223.96–132 K. –Auge fr. 265a K. –Auge fr. 272b K. –Ba. 26–31 –Ba. 245 –Danae fr. 320 K. –Dictys fr. 331 K. –Dictys fr. 332 K. –Dictys fr. 337 K. –Dictys fr. 338 K. –Dictys fr. 339 K. –Dictys fr. 340 K. –Dictys fr. 342 K. –Dictys fr. 343 K. –Dictys fr. 346 K. –El. 1139ff. –Hec. 1019ff. –Hec. 1109–1292 –Heracl. 73–74 –Heracl. 120–287 –HF 495 –HF 523–636 –HF 720ff. –HF 922 –Hipp. 54–112 –Ion 78 –Ion 859–922 –Ion 880 –Ion 912 –Ion 1254ff. –Ion 1523–1527 –Ion 1571–1594 –IA 794–800 –Mel.S. fr. 497 K. –Or. 279 –Or. 866–956 –Or. 872–873 –Or. 1216–1217

109 109 109 109 109 108–109 109 56 42 37, 49 49 42 86, 94 86, 93 86 86 86, 94– 95 86, 94– 95 86 86 93 108 108 34 50 and n. 147 34 33 94 108 111 34 50 33 33 33 106, 112 37 39 49 42 70 56 76 109

Index of Passages Discussed | 161

–Or. 1245 –Or. 1258–1280 –Or. 1296–1301 –Or. 1323–1352 –Or. 1337–1346 –Or. 1352–1365 –Or. 1370ff. –Or. 1506–1530 –Pha. fr. 781.227–244 K. –Ph. 1485–1538 –Ph. 1489–1490 –Ph. 1626–1672 –Ph. 1672–1682 –Supp. 1183–1227 –Tr. 16–17 –Tr. 48–97 –Tr. 481–483 –Tr. 895–1059 –fr. inc. 937 K.

109 109 109 109 108 109 109 109 34 23 23 20, 23 21 39 111 120 111 34 113

Galen –In Hp. Epid. III Comm. 2.4

2

Homer –Il. 4.394 –Il. 5.370–417 –Od. 8 –Od. 11.248–250 –Od. 21 Hyginus –fab. 72 –fab. 91 –fab. 184 –fab. 187 –fab. 238 Lucian –D.Mar. 12 –Piscat. 3 Lysias –1.33 –3.6–7

Menander –Epitr. 218 –Epitr. 218–249 –Epitr. 218–375 –Epitr. 225 –Epitr. 236 –Epitr. 238 –Epitr. 1123–1126 –Per. 725 –Per. 768–827 –Per. 788 –Per. 809 –Sic. 176–177 –Sic. 176–271 –Sic. 182 –Sic. 188 Mythographi Graeci II I 7 P.Oxy. 852 P.Oxy. 2536

PSI 1286 P.Stras. 2342–2344

62 117 79, n. 232 97, 125 40, n. 120, 93 92–93 97, 117

Parthenius –Narr. Amat. 3 –Narr. Amat. 14

62 62

P.Oxy. 3650 P.Oxy. 5283 15 23 65 49 69

15–16, 75, n. 224 98–99, 124, 125 98, n. 293, 103, n. 305, 110 26–27, 32, 56 27

35 35 34, 53, 56 35 35 35 56 54–55 53 56 56 56 53, 56 56 58

Pausanias –1.14.3

–2.18.1 –2.19.6

26, n. 51, 30 and n. 68 89 77

Pherecydes –FGrH3 F11 79, n. 232, 85 89–90 113

41 41

Plato –Lg. 701a 3 –Lg. 873c 2–7

71 45

162 | Index of Passages Discussed

Plutarch –Alex. 17.5 –Mor. 998e

70 24, n. 47, 34 64–65, 76, 77 15

–OC 118–122 –OT 1110–1185 –Phineus fr. 707 R. –Tyro 325–333

19 19 19 19 20 20 19 23 20 21 111, 112 22, 111, 112 50 121 68 56

Solon –fr. 4.26–29 W.2

22, 42

Sophocles –Ai. 348–595 –Ai. 1048–1049 –Ant. 100–154 –Ant. 220

Theodectes –Alcmeon fr. 2 –Helen fr. 3 –Orestes fr. 5 –fr. inc. 10

65, 78 65 65, 78 78

112 19 18 19

Varro –L.L. 5.55

75 103, n. 305, 110

[Plutarch] Decem Oratorum Vitae 841f

2

Sallustius –Argum. S. Ant. II

15

Sannyrion –Danae fr. 8 K.–A. scholia vetera E. Hipp. 58 scholia vetera E. Or. 872 scholia vetera S. Ant. 1351

–Ant. 469–470 –Ant. 471–472 –Ant. 672–676 –Ant. 736–739 –Ant. 781–800 –Ant. 790–792 –Ant. 1029–1030 –Ant. 1115–1154 –Ant. 1220–1241 –Ant. 1240–1241 –Ant. 1293–1301 –Ant. 1301–1305

104, n. 311