by Aristophanes
CRITYLLA: Leave her to me. I’ll grill her well and proper
about last year’s festivities.
Step aside. A man’s not supposed to hear.
[to MNESILOCHUS]
What was the first revelation made to us?
MNESILOCHUS: Well, now, let me think. . . .
First . . . er . . . we had a drink.
CRITYLLA: And what came second?
MNESILOCHUS: A toast.
CRITYLLA: Someone’s prompting him. . . . And the third?
MNESILOCHUS: Xenylla asked for a bucket. There was no chamber pot.
CRITYLLA: Absolute rot!
Cleisthenes, quick, grab him. He’s the man you want.
CLEISTHENES: [advancing] Now what do I do?
CRITYLLA: Strip him. His story doesn’t stand up.
MNESILOCHUS: [haughtily] Don’t tell me you’re going to strip
a mother of nine?
CLEISTHENES: Off with that bra!
MNESILOCHUS: What a nerve!
[CLEISTHENES yanks off the brassiere.]
CRITYLLA: My word! She’s well upholstered and sturdy,
and her boobs are not like what we have.
MNESILOCHUS: [pathetically] You see, I’m sterile. I’ve never had a baby.
CRITYLLA: Really? A moment ago you were the mother of nine.
CLEISTHENES: Stand up straight. Ha ha! Stuffing your cock out of sight?
CRITYLLA: [darting behind his back] Gee, it’s here! Sticking out behind! Such a healthy color, too, sweetheart!
CLEISTHENES: Now where is it?
CRITYLLA: Gone back in front.
CLEISTHENES: I don’t see it.
CRITYLLA: No, it’s gone behind again.
CLEISTHENES: Man, you’ve got a better shuttle service for your prick
than the Isthmus of Corinth has for its ships.709
CRITYLLA: Yes, what a scumpot the man is. No wonder he defended Euripides.
MNESILOCHUS: I’m in a bad way, a real mess.
CRITYLLA: [to CLEISTHENES] Well, what now?
CLEISTHENES: Guard him closely in case he slips
out of our grasp. I’ll report to the authorities.
[CLEISTHENES departs. CRITYLLA and her MAIDS, together with MICA and MANIA, holding the baby, stand guard over MNESILOCHUS. Meanwhile the CHORUS prepares for the torch dance.]
LEADER: It’s perfectly obvious: that which we have to do next
is light every flare,
Roll up our sleeves, and do our best to discover
if there’s another
Antagonist lurking anywhere near. So we must scan
the hill of the Pnyx.710
Let us let fly on silent feet as fast as we can
and scour the scene.
We mustn’t delay, for this is hardly the moment to dawdle.
The time has come for me to pilot the raid on the double.
[The CHORUS members light their torches at the altar of Apollo and begin to march in a slow circular dance.]
CHORUS:711 Go ye forth, get on the trail Of any man else lingering near
Ambushing somewhere in our rear.
Scrutinize with the beam of your eyes
Here, there, and everywhere
Now without fail:
You never can tell.
If he is caught, he will be punished
For sacrilege, and he’ll be finished.
He’ll be an example and warning to men
Of hubris and the wages of sin
And the disgraceful ways of the godless man.
He’ll have to admit without a doubt
That the gods exist, and he will learn
That it is wise
To honor the gods and respect the laws
Divine and human and follow the good.
Which if he fails to do, we’ve got
The proof that a culprit caught in a crime
Ends up maddened and aflame.
Everything he does
Will show the sod
That sacrilegious men and women
On the dot
Are punished by God.
LEADER: We’ve searched the premises thoroughly and there isn’t a
sign
of another conspirator lurking anywhere near the scene.
[MNESILOCHUS snatches MICA’s baby and runs to the altar for sanctuary.]712
MICA: Hey there, where are you off to? Stop! For heaven’s sake, halt! Right from my very tits he snatched it. MNESILOCHUS: Holler all you want. You’ll never again suckle that brat unless you let me go.
[He picks up the sacrificial knife.]
Right here and now with this blade
I’ll slice up her little behind
and the altar’ll turn a lovely red.
MICA: Help, help, good women, for pity’s sake!
Raise a monumental shout. Don’t turn away
while I’m robbed of my only child.
CHORUS: A—h! You venerable Fates! What an unspeakable affront do I behold!
LEADER: A boldness that goes beyond the pale:
an act, dear women, beyond all evil.
MNESILOCHUS: Yes, an act to crumple your stiff-necked self-esteem.
LEADER: Isn’t this just too awful and too evil?
MICA: Awful indeed, snatching my little one away!
CHORUS: Ah, if he thinks nothing of his crime,
what is there left for me to say?
MNESILOCHUS: And I’m not yet done.
CHORUS: Nevertheless, here you’re stuck and can’t get away
and go off bragging of what you did.
You can’t elude us and you can’t avoid
facing the music.
MNESILOCHUS: Which’ll never take place, I pray.
CHORUS: Can you mention a single deity
who’d come to your rescue after what you’ve done?
MNESILOCHUS: That’s beside the point, and I’ve got the baby girl.
CHORUS: All the same, it won’t be long
Before your elation comes to nil
And your speechifying does as well.
We’ll match your godlessness with ours—
With which no godlessness compares.
There’ll be a U-turn in your luck
That’ll bring you soon to book.
LEADER: You ought to have gone to get the flares,
not to mention fetching wood
to cremate this criminal and sizzle him up
just as fast as ever we could.
MICA: Let’s go and get the kindling, Mania, without delay,
and as for you, you Mnesilochus dope,
I’m going to turn you into a bonfire this very day.
[MICA and MANIA go into the house.]
MNESILOCHUS: [calling after them] Go ahead! Light me up and burn me down. And you, my little goo-goo-goo, let’s unwrap you as fast as we can. But take note of this, my little one, you’ll owe your demise to a single woman, none other than your blessed mother.
[He unwraps the bundle.]
Aha! What have we here. Ha ha!
The baby girl’s a skin of wine. . . . Women, oh women,
so hot for drinking, and of course
a godsend to the bar, but for the rest of us
an awful bore.
As for looking after our worldly goods,
they’re something worse.
[MICA and MANIA reenter with firewood.]
MICA: Heap it up, Mania, in a nice deep heap.
MNESILOCHUS: That’s right, heap it up, but tell me this:
[pointing to the wineskin]
Is this offspring yours?
MICA: Ten months enceinte with it I was.713
MNESILOCHUS: Were you really?
MICA: By Artemis, I was!714
MNESILOCHUS: Seventy-five proof, or nearly!
MICA: What a nerve! You’ve undressed her!
It’s outrageous—a tiny mite!
MNESILOCHUS: A tiny mite? At least three or four
wineskins Festival-full, that
is.
MICA: Something like that, plus a Dionysia . . . I want it back.
MNESILOCHUS: So help me, Apollo, standing there,715
get back this babe, you shan’t.
MICA: In which case, we’ll frazzle you to a cinder.
MNESILOCHUS: Go on, frazzle away, but this little blighter
[producing a knife]
is going to get it in the sacrificial neck.
MICA: Oh I beg you not! I’ll do anything you want
for the wee one’s sake.
MNESILOCHUS: Mother love, eh, what? All the same, she’s going to get her throat cut.
MICA: My poor babe! Give me a bowl, Mania,
so I can catch my baby’s blood.
MNESILOCHUS: Yes, hold it well under. . . . I’m doing you a good turn.
[He slashes the wineskin with the knife. Wine spurts into the bowl, into his mouth, and everywhere.]
MICA: Blast you to hell, you ruthless, loathsome cad!
MNESILOCHUS: The priestess gets the skin.
CRITYLLA: [coming out of the house] The priestess gets what?
MNESILOCHUS: Catch it—that!
[He throws the empty wineskin at her.]
CRITYLLA: My poor Mica, your precious baby lass! You’ve had a puncture. . . . Who did it? . . . What a loss!
MICA: This scoundrel here, but now that you’ve come,
keep watch over him while I go and find Cleisthenes
and let the prefects know what this man has done.
[MICA and MANIA leave.]
MNESILOCHUS: Well now, what plans can I make to save my skin? What scheme advance, what strategy pursue? The man who plunged me into all of this is not to be seen, at least not yet. So what I’ve got to do is somehow get a message to him. . . . I know what: I’ll borrow from Euripides, his Palamedes,716 and imitate the fellow who wrote his message on oar blades. Ah, there’s a hitch! Not an oar blade in sight! Where, oh where, can I find an oar blade? What if, instead of oar blades, I wrote on these votive tablets and scattered them around? That’s more like it! They’re wooden, too, similar to oars.
[He breaks into song.]
Dear fingers of mine,
You’ve got to pull up your socks and do what you can.
And you tablets of board, put up with my scores
That tell the tale of my woes. . . . Oh damn,
This R is a brute!
Never mind, never mind. I think I’ve got it!
Off with you, then, in every direction,
This way and that way as fast as you can.
[He tosses the tablets around.]
LEADER: Let’s stick our necks out and sing the praise Of ourselves as women because the tribe of males Has nothing good to say about the female race, Declaring us a pest to all humanity: Seedbed of troubles, arguments, and quarrels, Backbiting, disagreeableness, and war. Well, if we’re such a pest, what do you marry us for? And if we’re such a pest, why do you shut the door On us? Forbid us to poke a nose outside or roam? Funny that! Wanting to keep a pest at home! And if little wifey stays away, you roar Like maniacs, instead of drinking to the gods And giving thanks. That, I find extremely odd If wifey’s such a pest they surely should be glad To find us not at home and missing. They shouldn’t grouse If we fall asleep in someone else’s house Having had a bit of fun; but you husbands come Scouring all the bedrooms to find that awful curse. And if we take a peep out of our chamber windows All eyes are riveted on the wretched curse, Which shamefacedly withdraws leaving those Curiositymongers straining for another glimpse: Yes, of the curse! So all this makes it clear enough That compared to men we’re on a higher plain. Here’s a way, I think, of putting it to the proof: Set the sexes side by side and examine Which is worse; we say it’s you, and you it’s us. We’ll pit the names against each other, man and woman: Charminus first, he’s far worse717 Than Nausímakè—Mistress of the Sea—
As the records make absolutely plain;
And Cleophon’s worse than Salabaccho the courtesan.718
And what man can equal a Victoria—
The glory of Marathon or, say, a Stratónikè—
Triumphal Army. . . ? Or take that nonentity
Who last year as a city Councillor
Resigned, funking his job; you can’t say he’s better
Than Mistress Euboule—Good Counsel—or
At least, not logically; and so naturally
We say we women are better than men. What woman
Would filch a million from the treasury
And drive in state to the Acropolis in a hansom?
She might pinch a peck of flour from her hubby719
But she’d pay it back at night as a chariot.
It wouldn’t be difficult to show
That many men standing here would do
Suchlike things and be, more than us,
Robbers, muggers, gluttons,
Pullers of strings; and in the home
Clueless managers compared to us.
We have our needles still, our looms,
Our baskets of wool and our nice
Parasols. But what have our husbands got?
They’ve mislaid their spears,
The shafts no longer with the point;
And many others
Threw away in the thick of the fight
The shield of their umbrellas.
So you see, we have good reason to complain
About our husbands; and what’s especially galling
Is to bear a son useful to the State:
Potential general or admiral might be his calling,
And to receive no recognition or honor for it:
No front seats at the Stenia and Scira720
Festivals, or this one that we celebrate.
But if a mother has a son
Who’s a coward and a wanton
And should be given a seat well in the rear
Of a mother who bore a hero, and has cropped hair,
I ask you citizens, surely it isn’t right
For the mother of Hyperbolus,721
With flowing locks and dressed in white
To get to sit next to Lamachus,722
Wheeling and dealing in usurious loans at crippling
interest
Which no borrower should ever be asked to pay. ’Twere best
To snatch her bag of cash and say: “Hey, woman,
How dare you make a profit when all you’ve ever done
Is make a rotten, ineffectual son!”
MNESILOCHUS: My searchlight’s going blind. Where is the man?
What’s keeping him?
Is it embarrassment that his Palamedes bombed?723
Now what play of his can I use to lure him? . . .
I’ve got it.
I’ll send up his brand-new Helen.724
After all, I’m already dressed for the part.
CRITYLLA: Hey, you, what mischief are you machinating, mumbling
there?
You’ll get a hell of a Helen in a minute
if you misbehave before the police get here.
MNESILOCHUS: [striking a pose and pretending to be Helen] Behold the fair ones, the nymphs of the Nile,
Which flows so smoothly flooding the fields
Of the people of Egypt and freeing their bowels.
CRITYLLA: Holy Hecate of the Flare,725 I swear
you are the prince of rascals.
MNESILOCHUS: The land of my birth had a title: Sparta. Tyndareus was my sire.
CRITYLLA: Was he indeed, you creep! More likely Phrynondas the foul.726
MNESILOCHUS: “Helen” was my label.
CRITYLLA: Continuing to pretend you’re a woman? What crap! And you haven’t even been punished yet for being in drag.
MNESILOCHUS: Many were the lives lost in the waters
Of the Scamander because of me.
CRITYLLA: You should have been one of them, so don’t brag.
MNESILOCHUS: Here I am but my wretched husband,
Meneláu
s, has not arrived.
So why am I still alive?
CRITYLLA: Because the crows have gone to sleep.
MNESILOCHUS: ’Tis because in my heart I have. . . . O Zeus, damp thou not my hope.
[EURIPIDES, dressed as one of the shipwrecked mariners, comes dripping on to the scene. The burlesque of EURIPIDES’ Helen continues.]
EURIPIDES: Pray, who is lord of this lofty mansion here? Will he succor a shipwrecked mariner Tossed by the tempest upon this shore?
MNESILOCHUS: To Proteus727 do these halls belong.
CRITYLLA: To Proteus, you paragon of liars! He’s having you on: Proteus is dead: ten years gone.
EURIPIDES: On what shores, pray tell, have we put in?
MNESILOCHUS: Egypt.
EURIPIDES: Woe is me! What a place to port!
CRITYLLA: Don’t believe a word of that nasty man Mnesilochus, who’s awaiting a nasty end here at the Thesmophoria.
EURIPIDES: Is Lord Proteus at home or is he out?
CRITYLLA: You must still be seasick, sir,
to ask if Proteus is in or out
when you’ve just been informed he’s dead.
EURIPIDES: Dead? Oh my! Where’s his tomb?
MNESILOCHUS: His tomb’s right here
exactly where I sit.
CRITYLLA: Oh disastrous remark calling for disaster:
to say this altar is his sepulcher!
EURIPIDES: Mysterious mistress with visage veiled
why sit you on this sepulchral seat?
MNESILOCHUS: Against my will I am to wed Proteus’ son728—a morsel for his bed.
CRITYLLA: Up yours, you wacky nerd! Your lies are wild.
[to EURIPIDES]
Sir, the man’s a criminal and the reason he’s here
