Delphi Complete Works of Aristophanes (Illustrated) (Delphi Ancient Classics)

by Aristophanes

  CHORUS. Eternal Clouds, let us appear, let us arise from the roaring depths of Ocean, our father; let us fly towards the lofty mountains, spread our damp wings over their forest-laden summits, whence we will dominate the distant valleys, the harvest fed by the sacred earth, the murmur of the divine streams and the resounding waves of the sea, which the unwearying orb lights up with its glittering beams. But let us shake off the rainy fogs, which hide our immortal beauty and sweep the earth from afar with our gaze.

  SOCRATES. Oh, venerated goddesses, yes, you are answering my call! (To Strepsiades.) Did you hear their voices mingling with the awful growling of the thunder?

  STREPSIADES. Oh! adorable Clouds, I revere you and I too am going to let off my thunder, so greatly has your own affrighted me. Faith! whether permitted or not, I must, I must shit!

  SOCRATES. No scoffing; do not copy those accursed comic poets. Come, silence! a numerous host of goddesses approaches with songs.

  CHORUS. Virgins, who pour forth the rains, let us move toward Attica, the rich country of Pallas, the home of the brave; let us visit the dear land of Cecrops, where the secret rites are celebrated, where the mysterious sanctuary flies open to the initiate…. What victims are offered there to the deities of heaven! What glorious temples! What statues! What holy prayers to the rulers of Olympus! At every season nothing but sacred festivals, garlanded victims, are to be seen. Then Spring brings round again the joyous feasts of Dionysus, the harmonious contests of the choruses and the serious melodies of the flute.

  STREPSIADES. By Zeus! Tell me, Socrates, I pray you, who are these women, whose language is so solemn; can they be demigoddesses?

  SOCRATES. Not at all. They are the Clouds of heaven, great goddesses for the lazy; to them we owe all, thoughts, speeches, trickery, roguery, boasting, lies, sagacity.

  STREPSIADES. Ah! that was why, as I listened to them, my mind spread out its wings; it burns to babble about trifles, to maintain worthless arguments, to voice its petty reasons, to contradict, to tease some opponent. But are they not going to show themselves? I should like to see them, were it possible.

  SOCRATES. Well, look this way in the direction of Parnes; I already see those who are slowly descending.

  STREPSIADES. But where, where? Show them to me.

  SOCRATES. They are advancing in a throng, following an oblique path across the dales and thickets.

  STREPSIADES. ’Tis strange! I can see nothing.

  SOCRATES. There, close to the entrance.

  STREPSIADES. Hardly, if at all, can I distinguish them.

  SOCRATES. You must see them clearly now, unless your eyes are filled with gum as thick as pumpkins.

  STREPSIADES. Aye, undoubtedly! Oh! the venerable goddesses! Why, they fill up the entire stage.

  SOCRATES. And you did not know, you never suspected, that they were goddesses?

  STREPSIADES. No, indeed; methought the Clouds were only fog, dew and vapour.

  SOCRATES. But what you certainly do not know is that they are the support of a crowd of quacks, both the diviners, who were sent to Thurium, the notorious physicians, the well-combed fops, who load their fingers with rings down to the nails, and the baggarts, who write dithyrambic verses, all these are idlers whom the Clouds provide a living for, because they sing them in their verses.

  STREPSIADES. ’Tis then for this that they praise “the rapid flight of the moist clouds, which veil the brightness of day” and “the waving locks of the hundred-headed Typho” and “the impetuous tempests, which float through the heavens, like birds of prey with aerial wings, loaded with mists” and “the rains, the dew, which the clouds outpour.” As a reward for these fine phrases they bolt well-grown, tasty mullet and delicate thrushes.

  SOCRATES. Yes, thanks to these. And is it not right and meet?

  STREPSIADES. Tell me then why, if these really are the Clouds, they so very much resemble mortals. This is not their usual form.

  SOCRATES. What are they like then?

  STREPSIADES. I don’t know exactly; well, they are like great packs of wool, but not like women — no, not in the least…. And these have noses.

  SOCRATES. Answer my questions.

  STREPSIADES. Willingly! Go on, I am listening.

  SOCRATES. Have you not sometimes seen clouds in the sky like a centaur, a leopard, a wolf or a bull?

  STREPSIADES. Why, certainly I have, but what then?

  SOCRATES. They take what metamorphosis they like. If they see a debauchee with long flowing locks and hairy as a beast, like the son of Xenophantes, they take the form of a Centaur in derision of his shameful passion.

  STREPSIADES. And when they see Simon, that thiever of public money, what do they do then?

  SOCRATES. To picture him to the life, they turn at once into wolves.

  STREPSIADES. So that was why yesterday, when they saw Cleonymus, who cast away his buckler because he is the veriest poltroon amongst men, they changed into deer.

  SOCRATES. And to-day they have seen Clisthenes; you see … they are women.

  STREPSIADES. Hail, sovereign goddesses, and if ever you have let your celestial voice be heard by mortal ears, speak to me, oh! speak to me, ye all-powerful queens.

  CHORUS. Hail! veteran of the ancient times, you who burn to instruct yourself in fine language. And you, great high-priest of subtle nonsense, tell us your desire. To you and Prodicus alone of all the hollow orationers of to-day have we lent an ear — to Prodicus, because of his knowledge and his great wisdom, and to you, because you walk with head erect, a confident look, barefooted, resigned to everything and proud of our protection.

  STREPSIADES. Oh! Earth! What august utterances! how sacred! how wondrous!

  SOCRATES. That is because these are the only goddesses; all the rest are pure myth.

  STREPSIADES. But by the Earth! is our Father, Zeus, the Olympian, not a god?

  SOCRATES. Zeus! what Zeus? Are you mad? There is no Zeus.

  STREPSIADES. What are you saying now? Who causes the rain to fall? Answer me that!

  SOCRATES. Why, ’tis these, and I will prove it. Have you ever seen it raining without clouds? Let Zeus then cause rain with a clear sky and without their presence!

  STREPSIADES. By Apollo! that is powerfully argued! For my own part, I always thought it was Zeus pissing into a sieve. But tell me, who is it makes the thunder, which I so much dread?

  SOCRATES. ’Tis these, when they roll one over the other.

  STREPSIADES. But how can that be? you most daring among men!

  SOCRATES. Being full of water, and forced to move along, they are of necessity precipitated in rain, being fully distended with moisture from the regions where they have been floating; hence they bump each other heavily and burst with great noise.

  STREPSIADES. But is it not Zeus who forces them to move?

  SOCRATES. Not at all; ’tis aerial Whirlwind.

  STREPSIADES. The Whirlwind! ah! I did not know that. So Zeus, it seems, has no existence, and ’tis the Whirlwind that reigns in his stead? But you have not yet told me what makes the roll of the thunder?

  SOCRATES. Have you not understood me then? I tell you, that the Clouds, when full of rain, bump against one another, and that, being inordinately swollen out, they burst with a great noise.

  STREPSIADES. How can you make me credit that?

  SOCRATES. Take yourself as an example. When you have heartily gorged on stew at the Panathenaea, you get throes of stomach-ache and then suddenly your belly resounds with prolonged growling.

  STREPSIADES. Yes, yes, by Apollo! I suffer, I get colic, then the stew sets a-growling like thunder and finally bursts forth with a terrific noise. At first, ’tis but a little gurgling pappax, pappax! then it increases, papapappax! and when I seek relief, why, ’tis thunder indeed, papapappax! pappax!! papapappax!!! just like the clouds.

  SOCRATES. Well then, reflect what a noise is produced by your belly, which is but small. Shall not the air, which is boundless, produce these mighty claps of thunder?

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p; STREPSIADES. But tell me this. Whence comes the lightning, the dazzling flame, which at times consumes the man it strikes, at others hardly singes him. Is it not plain, that ’tis Zeus hurling it at the perjurers?

  SOCRATES. Out upon the fool! the driveller! he still savours of the golden age! If Zeus strikes at the perjurers, why has he not blasted Simon, Cleonymus and Theorus? Of a surety, greater perjurers cannot exist. No, he strikes his own Temple, and Sunium, the promontory of Athens, and the towering oaks. Now, why should he do that? An oak is no perjurer.

  STREPSIADES. I cannot tell, but it seems to me well argued. What is the thunder then?

  SOCRATES. When a dry wind ascends to the Clouds and gets shut into them, it blows them out like a bladder; finally, being too confined, it bursts them, escapes with fierce violence and a roar to flash into flame by reason of its own impetuosity.

  STREPSIADES. Forsooth, ’tis just what happened to me one day. ’Twas at the feast of Zeus! I was cooking a sow’s belly for my family and I had forgotten to slit it open. It swelled out and, suddenly bursting, discharged itself right into my eyes and burnt my face.

  CHORUS. Oh, mortal! you, who desire to instruct yourself in our great wisdom, the Athenians, the Greeks will envy you your good fortune. Only you must have the memory and ardour for study, you must know how to stand the tests, hold your own, go forward without feeling fatigue, caring but little for food, abstaining from wine, gymnastic exercises and other similar follies, in fact, you must believe as every man of intellect should, that the greatest of all blessings is to live and think more clearly than the vulgar herd, to shine in the contests of words.

  STREPSIADES. If it be a question of hardiness for labour, of spending whole nights at work, of living sparingly, of fighting my stomach and only eating chick-pease, rest assured, I am as hard as an anvil.

  SOCRATES. Henceforward, following our example, you will recognize no other gods but Chaos, the Clouds and the Tongue, these three alone.

  STREPSIADES. I would not speak to the others, even if I should meet them in the street; not a single sacrifice, not a libation, not a grain of incense for them!

  CHORUS. Tell us boldly then what you want of us; you cannot fail to succeed, if you honour and revere us and if you are resolved to become a clever man.

  STREPSIADES. Oh, sovereign goddesses, ’tis but a very small favour that I ask of you; grant that I may distance all the Greeks by a hundred stadia in the art of speaking.

  CHORUS. We grant you this, and henceforward no eloquence shall more often succeed with the people than your own.

  STREPSIADES. May the god shield me from possessing great eloquence! ’Tis not what I want. I want to be able to turn bad lawsuits to my own advantage and to slip through the fingers of my creditors.

  CHORUS. It shall be as you wish, for your ambitions are modest. Commit yourself fearlessly to our ministers, the sophists.

  STREPSIADES. This will I do, for I trust in you. Moreover there is no drawing back, what with these cursed horses and this marriage, which has eaten up my vitals. So let them do with me as they will; I yield my body to them. Come blows, come hunger, thirst, heat or cold, little matters it to me; they may flay me, if I only escape my debts, if only I win the reputation of being a bold rascal, a fine speaker, impudent, shameless, a braggart, and adept at stringing lies, an old stager at quibbles, a complete table of the laws, a thorough rattle, a fox to slip through any hole; supple as a leathern strap, slippery as an eel, an artful fellow, a blusterer, a villain; a knave with a hundred faces, cunning, intolerable, a gluttonous dog. With such epithets do I seek to be greeted; on these terms, they can treat me as they choose, and, if they wish, by Demeter! they can turn me into sausages and serve me up to the philosophers.

  CHORUS. Here have we a bold and well-disposed pupil indeed. When we shall have taught you, your glory among the mortals will reach even to the skies.

  STREPSIADES. Wherein will that profit me?

  CHORUS. You will pass your whole life among us and will be the most envied of men.

  STREPSIADES. Shall I really ever see such happiness?

  CHORUS. Clients will be everlastingly besieging your door in crowds, burning to get at you, to explain their business to you and to consult you about their suits, which, in return for your ability, will bring you in great sums. But, Socrates, begin the lessons you want to teach this old man; rouse his mind, try the strength of his intelligence.

  SOCRATES. Come, tell me the kind of mind you have; ’tis important I know this, that I may order my batteries against you in a new fashion.

  STREPSIADES. Eh, what! in the name of the gods, are you purposing to assault me then?

  SOCRATES. No. I only wish to ask you some questions. Have you any memory?

  STREPSIADES. That depends: if anything is owed me, my memory is excellent, but if I owe, alas! I have none whatever.

  SOCRATES. Have you a natural gift for speaking?

  STREPSIADES. For speaking, no; for cheating, yes.

  SOCRATES. How will you be able to learn then?

  STREPSIADES. Very easily, have no fear.

  SOCRATES. Thus, when I throw forth some philosophical thought anent things celestial, you will seize it in its very flight?

  STREPSIADES. Then I am to snap up wisdom much as a dog snaps up a morsel?

  SOCRATES. Oh! the ignoramus! the barbarian! I greatly fear, old man, ‘twill be needful for me to have recourse to blows. Now, let me hear what you do when you are beaten.

  STREPSIADES. I receive the blow, then wait a moment, take my witnesses and finally summon my assailant at law.

  SOCRATES. Come, take off your cloak.

  STREPSIADES. Have I robbed you of anything?

  SOCRATES. No, but ’tis usual to enter the school without your cloak.

  STREPSIADES. But I am not come here to look for stolen goods.

  SOCRATES. Off with it, fool!

  STREPSIADES. Tell me, if I prove thoroughly attentive and learn with zeal, which of your disciples shall I resemble, do you think?

  SOCRATES. You will be the image of Chaerephon.

  STREPSIADES. Ah! unhappy me! I shall then be but half alive?

  SOCRATES. A truce to this chatter! follow me and no more of it.

  STREPSIADES. First give me a honey-cake, for to descend down there sets me all a-tremble; meseems ’tis the cave of Trophonius.

  SOCRATES. But get in with you! What reason have you for thus dallying at the door?

  CHORUS. Good luck! you have courage; may you succeed, you, who, though already so advanced in years, wish to instruct your mind with new studies and practise it in wisdom!

  CHORUS (Parabasis). Spectators! By Bacchus, whose servant I am, I will frankly tell you the truth. May I secure both victory and renown as certainly as I hold you for adept critics and as I regard this comedy as my best. I wished to give you the first view of a work, which had cost me much trouble, but I withdrew, unjustly beaten by unskilful rivals. ’Tis you, oh, enlightened public, for whom I have prepared my piece, that I reproach with this. Nevertheless I shall never willingly cease to seek the approval of the discerning. I have not forgotten the day, when men, whom one is happy to have for an audience, received my ‘Young Man’ and my ‘Debauchee’ with so much favour in this very place. Then as yet virgin, my Muse had not attained the legal age for maternity; she had to expose her first-born for another to adopt, and it has since grown up under your generous patronage. Ever since you have as good as sworn me your faithful alliance. Thus, like Electra of the poets, my comedy has come to seek you to-day, hoping again to encounter such enlightened spectators. As far away as she can discern her Orestes, she will be able to recognize him by his curly head. And note her modest demeanour! She has not sewn on a piece of hanging leather, thick and reddened at the end, to cause laughter among the children; she does not rail at the bald, neither does she dance the cordax; no old man is seen, who, while uttering his lines, batters his questioner with a stick to make his poor jests pass muster. She does not rush upo
n the scene carrying a torch and screaming, ‘La, la! la, la!’ No, she relies upon herself and her verses…. My value is so well known, that I take no further pride in it. I do not seek to deceive you, by reproducing the same subjects two or three times; I always invent fresh themes to present before you, themes that have no relation to each other and that are all clever. I attacked Cleon to his face and when he was all-powerful; but he has fallen, and now I have no desire to kick him when he is down. My rivals, on the contrary, once that this wretched Hyperbolus has given them the cue, have never ceased setting upon both him and his mother. First Eupolis presented his ‘Maricas’; this was simply my ‘Knights,’ whom this plagiarist had clumsily furbished up again by adding to the piece an old drunken woman, so that she might dance the cordax. ’Twas an old idea, taken from Phrynichus, who caused his old hag to be devoured by a monster of the deep. Then Hermippus fell foul of Hyperbolus and now all the others fall upon him and repeat my comparison of the eels. May those who find amusement in their pieces not be pleased with mine, but as for you, who love and applaud my inventions, why, posterity will praise your good taste.

  Oh, ruler of Olympus, all-powerful king of the gods, great Zeus, it is thou whom I first invoke; protect this chorus; and thou too, Posidon, whose dread trident upheaves at the will of thy anger both the bowels of the earth and the salty waves of the ocean. I invoke my illustrious father, the divine Aether, the universal sustainer of life, and Phoebus, who, from the summit of his chariot, sets the world aflame with his dazzling rays, Phoebus, a mighty deity amongst the gods and adored amongst mortals.

  Most wise spectators, lend us all your attention. Give heed to our just reproaches. There exist no gods to whom this city owes more than it does to us, whom alone you forget. Not a sacrifice, not a libation is there for those who protect you! Have you decreed some mad expedition? Well! we thunder or we fall down in rain. When you chose that enemy of heaven, the Paphlagonian tanner, for a general, we knitted our brow, we caused our wrath to break out; the lightning shot forth, the thunder pealed, the moon deserted her course and the sun at once veiled his beam threatening no longer to give you light, if Cleon became general. Nevertheless you elected him; ’tis said, Athens never resolves upon some fatal step but the gods turn these errors into her greatest gain. Do you wish that this election should even now be a success for you? ’Tis a very simple thing to do; condemn this rapacious gull named Cleon for bribery and extortion, fit a wooden collar tight round his neck, and your error will be rectified and the commonweal will at once regain its old prosperity.