Aristophanes: The Complete Plays Page 7

  For, of all things,

  He was the one who sent me away

  At the Lenaean Festival without any dinner.

  I’d very much like

  To see him ravenous for squid one day

  By the shore

  And have it come grilled and sizzling to his plate

  And just as he’s about to take a bite

  Have a mongrel snatch it and bolt away.

  That’s one disaster for him. Here’s another:

  Let this curse

  Happen at night when he’s walking homewards shivering

  After galloping his horse.

  Let some drunken bugger

  Mad as Orestes98 give him a crack

  On the head,

  And when he tries to find a rock

  He fumbles in the dark

  And grasps a brand-new turd,

  And with this sleek weapon in his hand

  Let him attack

  But miss his adversary and go smack

  Into the face of Cratinus.

  [THIRD MESSENGER enters shouting and bangs on LAMACHUS’ door.]

  THIRD MESSENGER:

  Water, water! Servants of Lamachus’s home,

  get hot water ready quick,

  and ointment, poultices, bandages, lint:

  he’s done his ankle grievous harm.

  He hit a stake when jumping a ditch

  and twisted his ankle out of joint,

  cracking his head upon a rock. . . .

  He certainly awoke

  the Gorgon on his shield by that!

  And when he saw

  his helmet feathers scattered on the stone,

  he let out a most pathetic roar:

  “You glorious face of the Sun,

  I look on you for the last stretch—

  my days are done.”

  He said this as he hit the ditch

  but roused himself and rallied his fleeing men

  and went after the Boeotian brigands with his spear. . . .

  And they ran.

  But here he is. Throw open the door.

  [LAMACHUS comes in limping on crutches, supported by SOLDIERS.]

  LAMACHUS:

  Ouch! Ah! Ouch!

  The horrible ice of my pains is worse than hell.

  The enemy’s lance has lanced me to the ground:

  But an agony worse than all

  would be to let Dicaeopolis see my wound

  and gloat to see me in this bind.

  [DICAEOPOLIS totters in drunk held up by two DANCING GIRLS.]

  DICAEOPOLIS: Gee whiz! Yippie! Nice! Such tits—round and plump as quince! Give me a kiss, my golden lassies: this one smack on the kisser, the other lolling her tongue in my mouth, because of the drinking bout I won.

  LAMACHUS: What I am suffering couldn’t be worse. My wounds, oh my wounds—the curse!

  DICAEOPOLIS: Hi there! Hullo, my little Lamachins!

  LAMACHUS: I’m quite beyond pity.

  DICAEOPOLIS: [to one of the girls] Ooh! Are you offering your titty?

  LAMACHUS: My misery’s fierce.

  DICAEOPOLIS: D ’you mean at the Pitcher Festival you had to pay for

  tickets?

  LAMACHUS: Paean! Apollo! God of healing, come!

  DICAEOPOLIS: But it’s not his feast day today.

  LAMACHUS: Coddle this leg of mine, my friends. I’m lame.

  DICAEOPOLIS: And you two girls,

  coddle my thick cock.

  LAMACHUS: My head whirls . . . struck with a stone . . .

  swimming in the dark.

  DICAEOPOLIS: I, too, am ready for bed,

  and stiff as a pole

  and dying to fuck in the dark.

  LAMACHUS: Carry me gently, friends, to Pittalus’ clinic.

  DICAEOPOLIS: And me to the judges and the festival head.

  I want the wineskin I won.

  LAMACHUS: I’m pierced right through by a spear,

  right to the bone.

  [LAMACHUS is carried away.]

  DICAEOPOLIS: [drinks from a pitcher, then holds it up] Behold, there’s nothing in it! Salute a winner.

  LEADER: Bravo! Bravo! As you order,

  you senior champion!

  DICAEOPOLIS: Yes, yes, the wine was neat

  and I swilled it down.

  LEADER: Well done, old fellow! You’ve won a wineskin.

  DICAEOPOLIS: So I have. Rejoice and follow. Sing: Cheers for the hero!

  CHORUS: And we in homage follow,

  singing: Long live the champion—he and his skin of wine.

  KNIGHTS

  Knights was first produced in the late winter of

  424 B.C. at the Lenaean Dionysia and took first

  prize, defeating Cratinus, who came in second

  with Satyrs.

  THEME

  Cleon, a self-made politician though only a tanner by trade, and other warmongers like him are all that Aristophanes detests: shifty, ambitious, scrambling for personal status, blackmailers and embezzlers, smooth talkers who stop at nothing to feather their own nests, but worst of all, deceivers of the people, tricking them into supporting a ruinous and unnecessary war.

  CHARACTERS

  NICIAS, servant of Demos (Athenian general)

  DEMOSTHENES, servant of Demos (Athenian general)99

  SAUSAGEMAN, seller of sausages (Aristophanes?)

  PAPHLAGON, steward of Demos (Cleon)

  DEMOS, Attic householder (People of Athens)

  CHORUS, knights of Athens

  SILENT PARTS

  SERVANT BOY, offered by Sausageman

  TWO TRUCES, two girls

  SERVANTS, of Demos

  THE STORY

  Demos has bought himself a new steward, Paphlagon (“Scolder”),100 who turns out to be a bully. The servants complain but can do nothing. Then they discover among Paphlagon’s papers a prediction that a sausageman will appear and supplant him. Such a sausage seller duly appears; in chicanery and lack of scruples, he is more than a match for Paphlagon. After he ousts Paphlagon from his post as steward, he then returns to being the honest character he really is. The sausageman makes Demos young again by boiling him in a pot, and Demos, with the sausage seller as his guide, abjures his past mistakes and is happily sent home to his farm, taking with him a fetching “joyboy” and two girls.

  OBSERVATIONS

  Knights was Aristophanes’ fourth play but the first that he produced in his own name, the other three being produced by Callistratus, an experienced producer and comic poet. In Acharnians, produced the year before, he ranged his wit and humor against the idiocy of war, contrasting it with the blessings of peace. But the Athenians, enjoying the comedy though they did (and awarding it first prize), were not to be dissuaded from pursuing their war with Sparta. In Knights, Aristophanes felt compelled to make another onslaught against the warmongers, singling out Cleon and Demosthenes as the chief culprits—particularly Cleon, whom he lampoons with vicious effect.

  Cleon was then in his prime as a demagogic politician, having just brought off a small but significant military coup. The Athenian general Demosthenes had captured Pylos in the western Peloponnese, opposite which, on the island of Sphacteria, 292 Spartan hoplites found themselves stranded.

  Nobody seemed to know what to do next, for the hoplites would certainly resist capture and fight to the last man, as they did at Marathon. Then, seeing that Nicias and the other generals were nervous about attacking the Spartans, Cleon rose in the Assembly and declared that, if he were given the authority and sent to Pylos, he would kill or capture the Spartans within three weeks.

  Cleon must have been a very persuasive talker (far too smooth for Aristophanes’ liking) because not only did the Assembly agree to the proposal, but the Spartan soldiers themselves, far from resisting, allowed themselves to be captured without raising a spear and brought as prisoners to Athens, where Cleon was the hero of the hour and the war party triumphant.

  Yet this precisely was the moment that Aristophane
s chose to make his onslaught against Cleon. Foolhardy it may have been, but it showed amazing courage: undoubtedly the courage of an “angry young man,” for Aristophanes was, at the most, still only thirty or thirty-one years old. What is also amazing is that the Athenians, who generally supported the war, should have given him first prize. It speaks well for their open-mindedness.

  The Knights—Hippeis—were an equestrian order within a fourfold economic structure of Athenian society, which varied considerably and was by no means permanent. First came the Eupatridai—the aristocracy—whose property yielded five hundred measures of grain or oil; next, the Knights, whose property yielded three hundred measures, enabling them to afford to keep horses; third, the yeoman class, with two hundred measures; and last, the artisans and workmen, with less than two hundred.

  TIME AND SETTING

  The time is about midday outside the house of DEMOS on Pnyx Hill,101 where one of DEMOS’ servants is seen sitting disconsolately. His mask shows him to represent the general DEMOSTHENES. A second servant, wearing a mask representing the general NICIAS, comes running out of the house howling.

  NICIAS: Ooh! . . . It hurts! . . . Ouch! Ooh! Damn and blast that upstart Paphlagon! I wish the gods would snuff him out—him and his chicaneries!

  Ever since he came into this house

  he gets us beaten, on and on,

  and we’re homebred servants, too.

  DEMOSTHENES: I know!

  I’d like to scuttle the whole Paphlagon species—

  him first, lies and all. Wouldn’t you?

  NICIAS: You poor thing! . . . How are you doing?

  DEMOSTHENES: As bad as you are.

  NICIAS: Come and join me and let’s start howling.

  A fluty duet out of Olympus102 will do.

  NICIAS AND DEMOSTHENES: Boohoo boohoo boohoo boohoo boohoo.

  NICIAS: What’s the point of our howling here?

  We ought to be thinking of how to save our skins—

  not just howling.

  DEMOSTHENES: All right, say “get a,” but run it together.

  NICIAS: Getta.

  DEMOSTHENES: Now after “getta” say “wiggle on.”

  NICIAS: Getta wiggle on.

  DEMOSTHENES: Good. Now pretend you’re jerking off

  and say “getta wiggle on,” but faster and faster.

  NICIAS: [pulling at his stage phallus]

  Getta getta getta wiggle on—I’m off!

  DEMOSTHENES: There, wasn’t that nice!

  NICIAS: Zeus, yes . . . But I worry about my skin.

  DEMOSTHENES: Why on earth?

  NICIAS: Because wankers get to lose their skin.

  DEMOSTHENES: Well then, the next best thing

  is to find a suitable god and grovel before his image.

  NICIAS: Image be hanged! Don’t tell me you believe in the gods?

  DEMOSTHENES: Sure do.

  NICIAS: What’s your proof ?

  DEMOSTHENES: The gods and I are at crossed swords. Isn’t that enough?

  NICIAS: Enough for me,

  but there are other things we’ve got to think of.

  P’raps I should put our audience in the picture.

  DEMOSTHENES: Not a bad idea, but ask them seriously

  to make it absolutely clear

  by the look on their faces

  whether they’re enjoying our comedy.

  NICIAS103: Right, let me explain.

  We have a master with a farmer’s mind:

  a crusty old grouch known as Demos of Pnyx Hill—

  a half-deaf flaky little man.

  Last market day he bought a servant, a tanner

  by the name of Paphlagon—a real heel

  and a consummate liar.

  Forthwith, this leathery rascal,

  this Paphlagon, studies every phase of his master’s character

  and proceeds to fawn and flatter,

  oiling up and toadying,

  all to get on the right side of him

  with offerings of phony scraps of leather,

  and saying things like: “Oh don’t you bother

  with more than one hearing at a time,”

  and “Here’s a little titbit for you:

  I’ve upped the fee to three obols a case. . . .

  Like me to cook you a little supper?”

  Whereupon this Paphlagon swipes

  whatever one of us has put together

  and serves it up as his own to the master.

  The other day, for instance,

  I baked a cake with Pylos in it

  and Paphlagon sidles up, snatches it,

  and passes it off as his own—

  my bloody cake, that is.

  He blocks us off from the boss

  and won’t let anyone near him, and while the master

  is having dinner he stands by with a leather swatter104

  and wallops any politicians in the offing.

  Then, knowing what a simpleton the master is

  and how he dotes on sibyls,

  he chants oracles.

  Oh this Paphlagon’s a genius at fibbing

  and tells lies about us all so’s we’ll get a beating.

  “You saw how I got young Hylas strapped,” he says.

  “Better make a deal with me if you value your lives.”

  We pay up of course; otherwise

  the old man’ll whip the shit out of us

  at eight times the price.

  [turning to DEMOSTHENES]

  So, pal, what we’ve got to figure out at once

  is where to go from here and to whom.

  DEMOSTHENES: Pal, you’re right, and the best course

  is that one of “get a wiggle on.”

  NICIAS: I know, but you can’t keep anything from Paphlagon.

  One leg’s plonked firm

  in Pylos and the other just as firm on the Pnyx;

  and they’re spread so wide apart that his bottom’s fixed

  plumb over Universal Buggerland,

  with his fingers dipping into I-till-ia

  and his mind in Kleptomania.

  DEMOSTHENES: In that case it’s easier just to die.

  NICIAS: Maybe, but we’ve got to die in the manliest way.

  DEMOSTHENES: That needs thought: how to die in the manliest way.

  NICIAS: Exactly: the manliest way?

  Drinking bull’s blood is the answer surely:

  dying the death that Themistocles chose.105

  DEMOSTHENES: I don’t think so. Better a cup of neat wine

  and a prayer to Providence to propose

  the right solution.

  NICIAS: Hark at him! Neat wine!

  You never miss a chance of having a swill.

  How can a drunk come up with anything intelligent?

  DEMOSTHENES: Is that so? You wishy-washy-gush-of-twaddle!

  You have the gall to scoff at wine, so wholly beneficent.

  Can you think of anything more heaven-sent?

  The prosperous are precisely those who imbibe:

  success is theirs, they win in court,

  they are happy people, and they help their friends.

  So go this minute

  and fetch me a flagon of wine.

  I need to irrigate my mind

  and hit on something brilliant.

  NICIAS: O Lord! You and your drink! Where is it going to end?

  DEMOSTHENES: Well, go and get it.

  [NICIAS goes into the house.]

  I’ll sprawl on the ground meanwhile flat out,

  and when I’m sozzled I spatter everything around

  with plots and strategems and every sort of cleverness.

  NICIAS: [returning with a jug, a goblet, and a wreath] Lucky I wasn’t caught nicking this booze!

  DEMOSTHENES: What’s old Paphlagon up to, tell me?

  NICIAS: The stinker’s been licking off the gravy

  from confiscated properties.

  At the moment he’s flat on his back, completely
woozy,

  snoring away on a stack of hides.

  DEMOSTHENES: In that case, pour me a good, untampered-with stiff

  one.

  NICIAS: [pouring] Here you are, and may it fill you with inspiration.

  DEMOSTHENES: [drinking] Guzzle, guzzle, sweet Providence and

  Pramian wine.106

  [suddenly] What a great idea, yours, not mine!

  NICIAS: What idea, pray tell?

  DEMOSTHENES: Quick, go and swipe Paphlagon’s oracles on the

  double while he snoozes.

  NICIAS: [running into the house] All very well,

  but I’ve got a feeling that our sweet Providence

  may not turn out so sweet at all.

  DEMOSTHENES: In that case, I’ll have another drink.

  One has to water the mind to come up with surprises.

  NICIAS: [returning with a parchment] Paphlagon’s in such a

  dense

  snoring, farting slumber, he never twigged

  I was snaffling his scared oracle—and just think,

  the one he guards as extra-special.

  DEMOSTHENES: You genius, let’s have it! Let me scan it

  while you pour me a little swig.

  [unfolding the parchment]

  Mm, what’s in here? Let’s see—what prophecy?

  Quick, I need a drink.

  NICIAS: Well, what’s the oracle say?

  DEMOSTHENES: [holding out his cup] A refill, please.

  NICIAS: “A refill, please”? The oracle says that?

  DEMOSTHENES: Great prophet Bacis107—yes!

  NICIAS: What else?

  DEMOSTHENES: Give me the cup and no delay.

  NICIAS: The prophet certainly likes his juice.

  DEMOSTHENES: [pulls out and peruses a scroll] Paphlagon, you utter

  rotter,

  you were on your guard all the time! No wonder

  you were scared stiff by what

  the oracle says of you.

  NICIAS: And what was that?

  DEMOSTHENES: It foretells herein how he makes his end.

  NICIAS: And?