by Aristophanes
Boeotia to fire and sword.
DICAEOPOLIS. Two drachmae to those circumcised hounds! Groan aloud, ye people of rowers, bulwark of Athens! Ah! great gods! I am undone; these Odomanti are robbing me of my garlic! Will you give me back my garlic?
THEORUS. Oh! wretched man! do not go near them; they have eaten garlic.
DICAEOPOLIS. Prytanes, will you let me be treated in this manner, in my own country and by barbarians? But I oppose the discussion of paying a wage to the Thracians; I announce an omen; I have just felt a drop of rain.
HERALD. Let the Thracians withdraw and return the day after to-morrow; the Prytanes declare the sitting at an end.
DICAEOPOLIS. Ye gods, what garlic I have lost! But here comes Amphitheus returned from Lacedaemon. Welcome, Amphitheus.
AMPHITHEUS. No, there is no welcome for me and I fly as fast as I can, for I am pursued by the Acharnians.
DICAEOPOLIS. Why, what has happened?
AMPHITHEUS. I was hurrying to bring your treaty of truce, but some old dotards from Acharnae got scent of the thing; they are veterans of Marathon, tough as oak or maple, of which they are made for sure — rough and ruthless. They all set to a-crying, “Wretch! you are the bearer of a treaty, and the enemy has only just cut our vines!” Meanwhile they were gathering stones in their cloaks, so I fled and they ran after me shouting.
DICAEOPOLIS. Let ‘em shout as much as they please! But have you brought me a treaty?
AMPHITHEUS. Most certainly, here are three samples to select from, this one is five years old; take it and taste.
DICAEOPOLIS. Faugh!
AMPHITHEUS. Well?
DICAEOPOLIS. It does not please me; it smells of pitch and of the ships they are fitting out.
AMPHITHEUS. Here is another, ten years old; taste it.
DICAEOPOLIS. It smells strongly of the delegates, who go round the towns to chide the allies for their slowness.
AMPHITHEUS. This last is a truce of thirty years, both on sea and land.
DICAEOPOLIS. Oh! by Bacchus! what a bouquet! It has the aroma of nectar and ambrosia; this does not say to us, “Provision yourselves for three days.” But it lisps the gentle numbers, “Go whither you will.” I accept it, ratify it, drink it at one draught and consign the Acharnians to limbo. Freed from the war and its ills, I shall keep the Dionysia in the country.
AMPHITHEUS. And I shall run away, for I’m mortally afraid of the
Acharnians.
CHORUS. This way all! Let us follow our man; we will demand him of everyone we meet; the public weal makes his seizure imperative. Ho, there! tell me which way the bearer of the truce has gone; he has escaped us, he has disappeared. Curse old age! When I was young, in the days when I followed Phayllus, running with a sack of coals on my back, this wretch would not have eluded my pursuit, let him be as swift as he will; but now my limbs are stiff; old Lacratides feels his legs are weighty and the traitor escapes me. No, no, let us follow him; old Acharnians like ourselves shall not be set at naught by a scoundrel, who has dared, great gods! to conclude a truce, when I wanted the war continued with double fury in order to avenge my ruined lands. No mercy for our foes until I have pierced their hearts like a sharp reed, so that they dare never again ravage my vineyards. Come, let us seek the rascal; let us look everywhere, carrying our stones in our hands; let us hunt him from place to place until we trap him; I could never, never tire of the delight of stoning him.
DICAEOPOLIS. Peace! profane men!
CHORUS. Silence all! Friends, do you hear the sacred formula? Here is he, whom we seek! This way, all! Get out of his way, surely he comes to offer an oblation.
DICAEOPOLIS. Peace, profane men! Let the basket-bearer come forward, and thou, Xanthias, hold the phallus well upright.
WIFE OF DICAEOPOLIS. Daughter, set down the basket and let us begin the sacrifice.
DAUGHTER OF DICAEOPOLIS. Mother, hand me the ladle, that I may spread the sauce on the cake.
DICAEOPOLIS. It is well! Oh, mighty Bacchus, it is with joy that, freed from military duty, I and all mine perform this solemn rite and offer thee this sacrifice; grant, that I may keep the rural Dionysia without hindrance and that this truce of thirty years may be propitious for me.
WIFE OF DICAEOPOLIS. Come, my child, carry the basket gracefully and with a grave, demure face. Happy he, who shall be your possessor and embrace you so firmly at dawn, that you belch wind like a weasel. Go forward, and have a care they don’t snatch your jewels in the crowd.
DICAEOPOLIS. Xanthias, walk behind the basket-bearer and hold the phallus well erect; I will follow, singing the Phallic hymn; thou, wife, look on from the top of the terrace. Forward! Oh, Phales, companion of the orgies of Bacchus, night reveller, god of adultery, friend of young men, these past six years I have not been able to invoke thee. With what joy I return to my farmstead, thanks to the truce I have concluded, freed from cares, from fighting and from Lamachuses! How much sweeter, Phales, oh, Phales, is it to surprise Thratta, the pretty wood-maid, Strymodorus’ slave, stealing wood from Mount Phelleus, to catch her under the arms, to throw her on the ground and possess her! Oh, Phales, Phales! If thou wilt drink and bemuse thyself with me, we will to-morrow consume some good dish in honour of the peace, and I will hang up my buckler over the smoking hearth.
CHORUS. It is he, he himself. Stone him, stone him, stone him, strike the wretch. All, all of you, pelt him, pelt him!
DICAEOPOLIS. What is this? By Heracles, you will smash my pot.
CHORUS. It is you that we are stoning, you miserable scoundrel.
DICAEOPOLIS. And for what sin, Acharnian Elders, tell me that!
CHORUS. You ask that, you impudent rascal, traitor to your country; you alone amongst us all have concluded a truce, and you dare to look us in the face!
DICAEOPOLIS. But you do not know why I have treated for peace. Listen!
CHORUS. Listen to you? No, no, you are about to die, we will annihilate you with our stones.
DICAEOPOLIS. But first of all, listen. Stop, my friends.
CHORUS. I will hear nothing; do not address me; I hate you more than I do
Cleon, whom one day I shall flay to make sandals for the Knights.
Listen to your long speeches, after you have treated with the Laconians!
No, I will punish you.
DICAEOPOLIS. Friends, leave the Laconians out of debate and consider only whether I have not done well to conclude my truce.
CHORUS. Done well! when you have treated with a people who know neither gods, nor truth, nor faith.
DICAEOPOLIS. We attribute too much to the Laconians; as for myself, I know that they are not the cause of all our troubles.
CHORUS. Oh, indeed, rascal! You dare to use such language to me and then expect me to spare you!
DICAEOPOLIS. No, no, they are not the cause of all our troubles, and I who address you claim to be able to prove that they have much to complain of in us.
CHORUS. This passes endurance; my heart bounds with fury. Thus you dare to defend our enemies.
DICAEOPOLIS. Were my head on the block I would uphold what I say and rely on the approval of the people.
CHORUS. Comrades, let us hurl our stones and dye this fellow purple.
DICAEOPOLIS. What black fire-brand has inflamed your heart! You will not hear me? You really will not, Acharnians?
CHORUS. No, a thousand times, no.
DICAEOPOLIS. This is a hateful injustice.
CHORUS. May I die, if I listen.
DICAEOPOLIS. Nay, nay! have mercy, have mercy, Acharnians.
CHORUS. You shall die.
DICAEOPOLIS. Well, blood for blood! I will kill your dearest friend. I have here the hostages of Acharnae; I shall disembowel them.
CHORUS. Acharnians, what means this threat? Has he got one of our children in his house? What gives him such audacity?
DICAEOPOLIS. Stone me, if it please you; I shall avenge myself on this. (Shows a basket.) Let us see whether you have any love for your coals.
CH
ORUS. Great gods! this basket is our fellow-citizen. Stop, stop, in heaven’s name!
DICAEOPOLIS. I shall dismember it despite your cries; I will listen to nothing.
CHORUS. How! will you kill this coal-basket, my beloved comrade?
DICAEOPOLIS. Just now, you did not listen to me.
CHORUS. Well, speak now, if you will; tell us, tell us you have a weakness for the Lacedaemonians. I consent to anything; never will I forsake this dear little basket.
DICAEOPOLIS. First, throw down your stones.
CHORUS. There! ’tis done. And you, do you put away your sword.
DICAEOPOLIS. Let me see that no stones remain concealed in your cloaks.
CHORUS. They are all on the ground; see how we shake our garments. Come, no haggling, lay down your sword; we threw away everything while crossing from one side of the stage to the other.
DICAEOPOLIS. What cries of anguish you would have uttered had these coals of Parnes been dismembered, and yet it came very near it; had they perished, their death would have been due to the folly of their fellow-citizens. The poor basket was so frightened, look, it has shed a thick black dust over me, the same as a cuttle-fish does. What an irritable temper! You shout and throw stones, you will not hear my arguments — not even when I propose to speak in favour of the Lacedaemonians with my head on the block; and yet I cling to my life.
CHORUS. Well then, bring out a block before your door, scoundrel, and let us hear the good grounds you can give us; I am curious to know them. Now mind, as you proposed yourself, place your head on the block and speak.
DICAEOPOLIS. Here is the block; and, though I am but a very sorry speaker, I wish nevertheless to talk freely of the Lacedaemonians and without the protection of my buckler. Yet I have many reasons for fear. I know our rustics; they are delighted if some braggart comes, and rightly or wrongly loads both them and their city with praise and flattery; they do not see that such toad-eaters are traitors, who sell them for gain. As for the old men, I know their weakness; they only seek to overwhelm the accused with their votes. Nor have I forgotten how Cleon treated me because of my comedy last year; he dragged me before the Senate and there he uttered endless slanders against me; ’twas a tempest of abuse, a deluge of lies. Through what a slough of mud he dragged me! I nigh perished. Permit me, therefore, before I speak, to dress in the manner most likely to draw pity.
CHORUS. What evasions, subterfuges and delays! Hold! here is the sombre helmet of Pluto with its thick bristling plume; Hieronymus lends it to you; then open Sisyphus’ bag of wiles; but hurry, hurry, pray, for our discussion does not admit of delay.
DICAEOPOLIS. The time has come for me to manifest my courage, so I will go and seek Euripides. Ho! slave, slave!
SLAVE. Who’s there?
DICAEOPOLIS. Is Euripides at home?
SLAVE. He is and he isn’t; understand that, if you have wit for’t.
DICAEOPOLIS. How? He is and he isn’t!
SLAVE. Certainly, old man; busy gathering subtle fancies here and there, his mind is not in the house, but he himself is; perched aloft, he is composing a tragedy.
DICAEOPOLIS. Oh, Euripides, you are indeed happy to have a slave so quick at repartee! Now, fellow, call your master.
SLAVE. Impossible!
DICAEOPOLIS. So much the worse. But I will not go. Come, let us knock at the door. Euripides, my little Euripides, my darling Euripides, listen; never had man greater right to your pity. It is Dicaeopolis of the Chollidan Deme who calls you. Do you hear?
EURIPIDES. I have no time to waste.
DICAEOPOLIS. Very well, have yourself wheeled out here.
EURIPIDES. Impossible.
DICAEOPOLIS. Nevertheless….
EURIPIDES. Well, let them roll me out; as to coming down, I have not the time.
DICAEOPOLIS. Euripides….
EURIPIDES. What words strike my ear?
DICAEOPOLIS. You perch aloft to compose tragedies, when you might just as well do them on the ground. I am not astonished at your introducing cripples on the stage. And why dress in these miserable tragic rags? I do not wonder that your heroes are beggars. But, Euripides, on my knees I beseech you, give me the tatters of some old piece: for I have to treat the Chorus to a long speech, and if I do it ill it is all over with me.
EURIPIDES. What rags do you prefer? Those in which I rigged out
Aeneus on the stage, that unhappy, miserable old man?
DICAEOPOLIS. No, I want those of some hero still more unfortunate.
EURIPIDES. Of Phoenix, the blind man?
DICAEOPOLIS. No, not of Phoenix, you have another hero more unfortunate than him.
EURIPIDES. Now, what tatters does he want? Do you mean those of the beggar Philoctetes?
DICAEOPOLIS. No, of another far more the mendicant.
EURIPIDES. Is it the filthy dress of the lame fellow, Bellerophon?
DICAEOPOLIS. No, ’tis not Bellerophon; he, whom I mean, was not only lame and a beggar, but boastful and a fine speaker.
EURIPIDES. Ah! I know, it is Telephus, the Mysian.
DICAEOPOLIS. Yes, Telephus. Give me his rags, I beg of you.
EURIPIDES. Slave! give him Telephus’ tatters; they are on top of the rags of Thyestes and mixed with those of Ino.
SLAVE. Catch hold! here they are.
DICAEOPOLIS. Oh! Zeus, whose eye pierces everywhere and embraces all, permit me to assume the most wretched dress on earth. Euripides, cap your kindness by giving me the little Mysian hat, that goes so well with these tatters. I must to-day have the look of a beggar; “be what I am, but not appear to be”; the audience will know well who I am, but the Chorus will be fools enough not to, and I shall dupe ‘em with my subtle phrases.
EURIPIDES. I will give you the hat; I love the clever tricks of an ingenious brain like yours.
DICAEOPOLIS. Rest happy, and may it befall Telephus as I wish. Ah! I already feel myself filled with quibbles. But I must have a beggar’s staff.
EURIPIDES. Here you are, and now get you gone from this porch.
DICAEOPOLIS. Oh, my soul! You see how you are driven from this house, when I still need so many accessories. But let us be pressing, obstinate, importunate. Euripides, give me a little basket with a lamp alight inside.
EURIPIDES. Whatever do you want such a thing as that for?
DICAEOPOLIS. I do not need it, but I want it all the same.
EURIPIDES. You importune me; get you gone!
DICAEOPOLIS. Alas! may the gods grant you a destiny as brilliant as your mother’s.
EURIPIDES. Leave me in peace.
DICAEOPOLIS. Oh! just a little broken cup.
EURIPIDES. Take it and go and hang yourself. What a tiresome fellow!
DICAEOPOLIS. Ah! you do not know all the pain you cause me. Dear, good
Euripides, nothing beyond a small pipkin stoppered with a sponge.
EURIPIDES. Miserable man! You are robbing me of an entire tragedy.
Here, take it and be off.
DICAEOPOLIS. I am going, but, great gods! I need one thing more; unless I have it, I am a dead man. Hearken, my little Euripides, only give me this and I go, never to return. For pity’s sake, do give me a few small herbs for my basket.
EURIPIDES. You wish to ruin me then. Here, take what you want; but it is all over with my pieces!
DICAEOPOLIS. I won’t ask another thing; I’m going. I am too importunate and forget that I rouse against me the hate of kings. — Ah! wretch that I am! I am lost! I have forgotten one thing, without which all the rest is as nothing. Euripides, my excellent Euripides, my dear little Euripides, may I die if I ask you again for the smallest present; only one, the last, absolutely the last; give me some of the chervil your mother left you in her will.
EURIPIDES. Insolent hound! Slave, lock the door.
DICAEOPOLIS. Oh, my soul! I must go away without the chervil. Art thou sensible of the dangerous battle we are about to engage upon in defending the Lacedaemonians? Courage, my soul, we must plunge into the midst of it.
Dost thou hesitate and art thou fully steeped in Euripides? That’s right! do not falter, my poor heart, and let us risk our head to say what we hold for truth. Courage and boldly to the front. I wonder I am so brave!
CHORUS. What do you purport doing? what are you going to say? What an impudent fellow! what a brazen heart! To dare to stake his head and uphold an opinion contrary to that of us all! And he does not tremble to face this peril! Come, it is you who desired it, speak!
DICAEOPOLIS. Spectators, be not angered if, although I am a beggar, I dare in a Comedy to speak before the people of Athens of the public weal; Comedy too can sometimes discern what is right. I shall not please, but I shall say what is true. Besides, Cleon shall not be able to accuse me of attacking Athens before strangers; we are by ourselves at the festival of the Lenaea; the period when our allies send us their tribute and their soldiers is not yet. Here is only the pure wheat without chaff; as to the resident strangers settled among us, they and the citizens are one, like the straw and the ear.
I detest the Lacedaemonians with all my heart, and may Posidon, the god of Taenarus, cause an earthquake and overturn their dwellings! My vines also have been cut. But come (there are only friends who hear me), why accuse the Laconians of all our woes? Some men (I do not say the city, note particularly, that I do not say the city), some wretches, lost in vices, bereft of honour, who were not even citizens of good stamp, but strangers, have accused the Megarians of introducing their produce fraudulently, and not a cucumber, a leveret, a sucking-pig, a clove of garlic, a lump of salt was seen without its being said, “Halloa! these come from Megara,” and their being instantly confiscated. Thus far the evil was not serious, and we were the only sufferers. But now some young drunkards go to Megara and carry off the courtesan Simaetha; the Megarians, hurt to the quick, run off in turn with two harlots of the house of Aspasia; and so for three gay women Greece is set ablaze. Then Pericles, aflame with ire on his Olympian height, let loose the lightning, caused the thunder to roll, upset Greece and passed an edict, which ran like the song, “That the Megarians be banished both from our land and from our markets and from the sea and from the continent.” Meanwhile the Megarians, who were beginning to die of hunger, begged the Lacedaemonians to bring about the abolition of the decree, of which those harlots were the cause; several times we refused their demand; and from that time there was a horrible clatter of arms everywhere. You will say that Sparta was wrong, but what should she have done? Answer that. Suppose that a Lacedaemonian had seized a little Seriphian dog on any pretext and had sold it, would you have endured it quietly? Far from it, you would at once have sent three hundred vessels to sea, and what an uproar there would have been through all the city! there ’tis a band of noisy soldiery, here a brawl about the election of a Trierarch; elsewhere pay is being distributed, the Pallas figure-heads are being regilded, crowds are surging under the market porticos, encumbered with wheat that is being measured, wine-skins, oar-leathers, garlic, olives, onions in nets; everywhere are chaplets, sprats, flute-girls, black eyes; in the arsenal bolts are being noisily driven home, sweeps are being made and fitted with leathers; we hear nothing but the sound of whistles, of flutes and fifes to encourage the work-folk. That is what you assuredly would have done, and would not Telephus have done the same? So I come to my general conclusion; we have no common sense.
