Aristophanes: The Complete Plays

by Aristophanes

  the dastard mettle of their keenness,

  their sense of justice—

  their very glance as hot as mustard.

  [The CHORUS attacks as HATECLEON and XANTHIAS emerge carrying a smoke pot and sticks.]

  HATECLEON: Hey, boy, Xanthias,

  beat off these wasps, boy, from the house.

  XANTHIAS: Exactly what I’m doing. You smoke them out.

  HATECLEON: Shoo! Shoo! Off to the crows with you!

  Your stick, boy, let loose—lay about.

  XANTHIAS: Blow Aeschines306 at them. Blast them with hot air.

  [The CHORUS retreats.]

  HATECLEON: I knew we would fend them off at last.

  LOVECLEON: You wouldn’t have won with such ease

  if they’d been chewing on a ditty of Philocles.307

  CHORUS: Isn’t it now patently clear

  How tyranny creeps up near

  And gets us from behind?

  And you, you noisome nauseating nuisance,

  Deprive us of our long-established legal puissance,

  With no justification

  Of any kind

  But by compulsion.

  HATECLEON: Might I suggest that we deal in dialogue and discussion

  without all this shouting and concussion?

  CHORUS: What? Discussion with you,

  you antidemocratic monarchymonger,

  crony of Brassidas,308 you fringed and curly-bearded creature!

  HATECLEON: My God, I’d be better off to forget about my father,

  instead of this never-ending day-by-day palaver:

  an ocean of disorder its chief feature.

  LEADER: Why, you’re not yet past the rue and parsley,‡

  and there’s a ten-gallon worth of words to come.

  Your discomfort at this moment is quite minimal

  and need not cause excitement.

  But wait till you hear yourself branded as a criminal

  at the indictment.

  HATECLEON: In heaven’s name, stop badgering me! Or has it been decided that we play at flaying and being flayed the livelong day?

  CHORUS: No, I won’t stop,

  so long as there’s a puff of breath still in me—

  not against a man who’s plotting tyranny.

  HATECLEON: Tyranny and conspiracy? There you go again

  the moment one gives an opinion the slightest airing.

  It’s been a good fifty years since I’ve even heard the word,

  but now it’s commoner than pickled herring.

  Just listen to the way it crops up in the marketplace.

  If someone buys perch and not anchovy,

  the anchovy seller in the next stall pipes up: “What a disgrace!

  See him? He buys fish like a tyrant.”

  And if he asks for an onion to pep up his sardines,

  “See that?” says the offended lady selling greens.

  “He wants an onion because he wants to be a tyrant.

  He thinks Athens has to humor him—how errant!”

  XANTHIAS: Yesterday afternoon when I went to my tart’s place

  and said, “Ride me,” she snapped back:

  “So you think you’re that tyrant horsey Hippias!”309

  HATECLEON: Exactly! That’s what people like to hear

  and what’s been applied to me.

  Just because I want my father

  to curb his morning-haunting-courtroom-pleading and his

  suit-pursuing-nuisance-hunger,310

  and live a gentlemanly life like Morychus,‡

  I’m called a conspiratorial tyrantmonger.

  LOVECLEON: Quite right, too! Not for bird milk would I undo the way of life you want to alter; and as for skate and eel, I’d much rather sit down to a meal of lawsuit stew.

  HATECLEON: Of course you would: that’s your peculiar passion,

  but if you’ll just shut your mouth and open your mind

  you’ll find the total nonsense of this fashion.

  LOVECLEON: Judging, nonsense?

  HATECLEON: And this as well:

  you have no idea what a laughingstock you are

  to the people to whom you crawl,

  no inkling you’re a slavish heel.

  LOVECLEON: Slave? The very thought!

  I am master of the lot.

  HATECLEON: Not you. You’re just a lackey who thinks he’s boss.

  Tell me, Papa,

  out of all that’s on offer from Greece,

  what’s your share?

  LOVECLEON: A lot, and I want these here to referee between us.

  HATECLEON: I agree.

  The rest of you can let him free.

  [The SERVANTS who had kept LOVECLEON from bolting go back into the house.]

  LOVECLEON: Then give me a sword.

  If I’m worsted in words with you

  I’m going to fall on a sword.

  HATECLEON: Tell me without hesitation

  what you intend to do

  if you don’t accept the arbitration?

  LOVECLEON: I’ll never take another sip

  of undiluted chartered premium spirit . . . of the law.

  CHORUS: So let’s see what our man will do.

  He’ll have to be smart and, what’s more,

  New. . . . Come cheer him on.

  HATECLEON: Bring my notebook right now on the double,

  And we’ll see what is this fellow’s mettle:

  If that’s what you’re telling him to settle.

  CHORUS: To master the stripling in debate:

  That’s the deal.

  You can see it’s going to be a fight

  And that everything’s at stake. If the youngster—let’s hope not—Comes out on top. . . .

  HATECLEON: I’m keeping the score—to make quite sure.

  LOVECLEON: And if he beats me in debate

  What’s your decision then?

  CHORUS: Then it’s all over for us old men.

  They’ll jeer at us oldies all over town,

  Calling us ancient olive bearers:311

  Mere courtroom husks.

  LEADER: I call you all to set the precedent

  For the whole realm.

  Nurture your stamina, launch your tongue

  Into these tasks.

  LOVECLEON: Indeed I will, and shall immediately make evident

  that the realm of jurisprudence

  is not one whit inferior to a king’s.

  What in the world is there more fortunate and blessed

  than a judge?

  What more cosseted or commanding kudos it brings,

  however old he be.

  For a start, I crawl out of bed for the courthouse

  and there men are waiting for me,

  every one of them a six-foot stooge.

  As I advance,

  one of them, with a hand that has picked the public purse,

  gives me a caress.

  They grovel and whine, pouring out tales of their distress:

  “Pity me, Father, please.

  Perhaps you, too, once dipped your hand in the till

  when you were in charge,

  or when you were caterer for soldiers’ rations.”

  This from someone who wouldn’t have known I existed

  had I not once got him off with cautions.

  HATECLEON: Ah, solicitations? . . . Let me make a note of that.

  LOVECLEON: So, after being solicited and my anger appeased,

  I enter the courts and do nothing, of course,

  about any pledge I had proposed,

  but simply listen to every sort of alibi.

  Is there a single tale of woe that I

  haven’t heard in court?

  Some whine about how poor they are

  and go on and on about their lot

  till it almost seems as desperate as mine.

  Others spin yarns or tell funny tales from Aesop.312

  Others try to make me laugh,

  or crack joke
s as a kind of sop to my anger.

  If any of this fails to move us

  he hauls his kids in by the hand,

  boys and girls,

  and I have to listen and look kind

  while they whimper and grovel in chorus,

  and their father, quivering as if I were a god,

  begs me, for their good,

  not to probe too hard into his livelihood.

  “If you enjoy the bleat of the lamb,

  please pity the cry of the kid.”313

  Indeed!

  If I enjoy a bit of pig, I am, that is, ought to

  be touched by his crying daughter.

  So we muzzle a little our wrath.

  Isn’t that the height of power

  and mockery of wealth?

  HATECLEON: “Mockery of wealth”—let me make a note of that as

  well.

  Now kindly tell us

  what you gain by this supposed hold on Hellas.

  LOVECLEON: Well for a start,

  when boys are paraded for registration

  we get a good look at their dicks.

  And if Oeagrus314 stands in the docks

  he won’t get off till he gives us a recitation

  from Niobe315—his most famous part.

  And should a piper earn his

  claim, the fee he pays us attorneys

  is to dress up in his uniform

  and pipe us an envoi as we leave the courtroom.

  And if a father on his deathbed

  bequeaths to someone his millionairess daughter

  we simply tell that will and testament to stand on its head,

  same with the pretty little clasps and solemn seals,

  and we award that girl

  to someone we consider oughter

  make it worth our while . . . and all this is done

  with no accounting to anyone:

  a feat unique in all officialdom.

  HATECLEON: That last remark, out of all you’ve said,

  is the only thing that I applaud,

  and to make free of the heiress’s fortune

  is very bad.

  LOVECLEON: But there is more.

  When Senate and Public

  are baffled in an important matter

  they vote to hand over the delinquents to the Law.

  Meanwhile, Euathlus‡ here and Kolakomenus,§

  our hefty, ever so brave buckler chucker,

  swear never to undermine the fabric

  of any of us but fight for the populace.

  No one is to propose a bill in Parliament unless

  the proposer proposes a recession

  after the very first session.

  And Cleon himself, the greatest barker,

  is not going to bite us.

  Oh no, he’s going to hug us

  with one arm and swat flies with the other. . . .

  You’ve never done as much for your father.

  But Theorus,

  who’s no less Mr. Big than Euphemius,316

  is there on the spot with brush and bottle

  to clean and polish my shoes.

  So you see all the perks you’re making me lose

  by locking me up and trying to throttle

  my every endeavor, which you intended to spoil,

  insisting they were nothing less

  than slavery and toil and moil.

  HATECLEON: Go on, deflate yourself!

  You’ll stop waffling, I daresay—in time

  and exhibit yourself as an arsehole in its prime

  that none of your solemn affidavits will wash away.

  LOVECLEON: But the nicest part of the lot,

  which I almost forgot,

  is when I come home with my pay.

  Everyone welcomes me at the door because of the loot.

  First my daughter washes my feet

  and anoints them and bends down for a kiss,

  murmuring: “Dear, dear Papa!”

  as she fishes for the three-obol piece

  I tried to hide in my cheek.

  Next the little wife spoils me and cuddles,

  and brings me barley scones and cake,

  then sits by my side and wheedles:

  “Eat this. Taste that.”

  All of which I adore, and I don’t have to make

  overtures to your butler to discover

  when he’ll deign to dish up my dinner

  (cursing all the time and muttering).

  And if he’s slow in kneading my dough

  for cookies, I don’t care. I’ve got dough of my own:

  a marvelous shield against suffering.

  And should you not offer me a glass of wine,

  it matters nothing.

  I’ve already filled my donkey flask with wine

  on the way home.

  So I simply tip it up and pour it down.

  And as it opens up it blows out a fart

  at the cup you own, like a sergeant major.

  Am I not as powerful as Zeus?

  The courtroom, say, resounds with noise and abuse,

  And I hear people exclaim: “By Zeus,

  The Judge can stage a

  Mighty thunder;”

  And if I flash

  Like lightning, all the posh and plush

  Scream out: “Hush!”

  And gasp out a prayer

  And pee in their underwear.

  I am quite sure, too, that I fill you

  With fear. Oh yes, I swear

  By Demeter, you fear

  Me, but never do I fear you.

  CHORUS: And never before have we heard anyone

  Expounding the truth with so much acumen.

  LOVECLEON: He thought he’d raid my unprotected vines.

  Now he knows I’m master of what’s mine.

  CHORUS: You covered everything, missing not a thing,

  So sure, that I for one

  Listened in awe as if I saw

  Myself a judge in the islands of the sun.

  Hearing you, I was enthralled.

  LOVECLEON: Yes, we’ve given him the fidgets. He’s not well,

  and today I’ll make him look like someone given hell.

  CHORUS: [to HATECLEON]

  Now you’ll have to twist and twine

  To get unhooked and win your claim.

  It’s pretty hard for a callow lad

  To appease my wrath when what I’ve heard

  Is not in my line.

  LEADER: You haven’t a hope of grinding down my rage

  unless you’ve something exceptional to say.

  So better look for a millstone straight away

  with a rugged gage.

  HATECLEON: It’s a difficult and tricky business trying to cure

  a city with a chronic and long-ingrained disease

  well beyond the brain cells of a comic.

  Nevertheless,

  Son of Cronus and our father, you are—

  LOVECLEON: None of that! Don’t pull fathering!

  The question was: in what way am I a slave?

  If you can’t tell me that straight away

  I’ll have to strike you dead:

  a sacrifice at which I’ll not be fed.317

  HATECLEON: Then listen, Papakins, and wipe away those frowns.

  Reckon roughly on your fingers—no need of abacus—

  how much comes to us

  in revenue from the allied towns.

  Then make a separate list of how much we get in fees,

  mining rights, harbor rights, imports, and court dues,

  markets, rents, and penalties.

  The gross income from all this

  comes to nearly two thousand talents.

  Now calculate what we spend on judges every year—

  all six thousand of them—judges galore!—

  and you come up with—what’s the balance?—

  a measly hundred and fifty talents.

  LOVECLEON: So our salaries


  don’t even come to a tithe of the revenue?

  HATECLEON: Hell, no!

  LOVECLEON: Then where does the rest go?

  HATECLEON: It goes to that horde of the

  “I won’t let down the Athenian people,”

  and “I’ll fight for the hoi polloi.”

  They are the cartel you choose to rule you, Dad,

  and these are the slogans they employ.

  They put the squeeze on the allied cities

  to cough up fifty talents apiece,

  frightening them with: “Pass along the tax,

  or I’ll give your city the thundering bloody ax.”

  Meanwhile, you make do

  with nibbling the rind of your own realm,

  till the allies tumble to the sad fact

  that you and all your dismantled tribes

  are starving on the pittance they get from suits and

  claims,

  hardly daring to spend a penny.

  Naturally they vote you Simpleton of the Year

  while they besiege the courts with bribes:

  smoked fish, wine, carpets, cheese, honey,

  sesame seed, and beer,

  cushions, goblets, capes, crowns, necklaces, and tankards,

  a pretty haul for health and wealth,

  While you,

  you who have trekked and trawled,

  get not from any

  single one of them so much as a bud of garlic for your stew.

  LOVECLEON: Not on your life!

  I had to send to Eucharides318 for three cloves.

  But that’s not the point:

  you’re not enlightening me about my slavery.

  HATECLEON: Slavery? Not half!

  To have all these parasites and their relatives

  holding office and given grants,

  while you thank high heaven for three miserable obols

  earned by sweat and grunts,

  rowing, campaigning, besieging.

  What’s more,

  you’re under orders. It really sticks in my craw

  when some bugger like Chaeras’319 son

  comes undulating along,

  opening up his legs like this,

  all dolled up and wiggling his arse,

  and orders you to report at some unearthly hour

  for courtroom duties, and on the dot,

  and anybody responding to this summons late

  will not, definitely not,

  get his three obols.

  He, of course,

  as court advocate gets his six however late;

  and if there’s a bribe from a plaintiff in the offing,

  he splits it with one of his doubles,

  almost laughing.

  They go at it like a team, a couple

  of men sawing: one pushing, the other pulling.