Lost Dramas of Classical Athens Greek Tragic

LOST DRAMAS OF CLASSICAL ATHENS
GREEK TRAGIC FRAGMENTS
Papyrus finds over the last hundred years have drastically altered and
supplemented our knowledge of ancient Greek tragedy. The large body
of Greek tragic fragments now known to us gives access to an enormous
amount of information both about the tragic genre and the society in
which it was produced; recent publication of editions of some of these
fragments means that they are now readily available for study.
Lost Dramas of Classical Athens offers an exciting range of new and

traditional approaches to fragmentary Greek drama. Its main focus is on
the lost works of the three most famous Athenian tragedians: Aeschylus,
Sophocles and Euripides. Incorporating cutting-edge work by world
authorities from the fields of tragedy, tragic fragments and beyond, the
collection confirms the important role Greek fragments play in the study
of ancient drama and their significance to disciplines as diverse as
philosophy, cultural history and gender studies. The book also raises key
questions about the contextualization, manipulation and definition of
tragic fragments.
Editors: Fiona McHardy is Lecturer in Classical Civilisation at Roehampton

University. She co edited Women’s Influence on Classical Civilization (2004) and is
currently completing a book on revenge in ancient Greece. James Robson is
Lecturer in Classical Studies at the Open University and is currently completing
a book entitled Humour and Obscenity in Aristophanes. David Harvey is a former
Lecturer in Classics at the University of Exeter and has published widely on
Greek antiquity; in particular he co edited University of Exeter Press’s Food in
Antiquity (1995).
LOST DRAMAS OF
CLASSICAL ATHENS
GREEK TRAGIC FRAGMENTS
Edited by Fiona McHardy,

James Robson and David Harvey
First published in 2005 by
University of Exeter Press
Reed Hall, Streatham Drive
Exeter, Devon EX4 4QR
UK
www.exeterpress.co.uk
Reprinted 2008
© Fiona McHardy, James Robson, David Harvey
and the individual contributors 2005
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

A catalogue record of this book is available
from the British Library
ISBN 978 0 85989 752 5
Printed in Great Britain

by CPI Antony Rowe, Chippenham, Wiltshire
CONTENTS
Acknowledgements vii
Introduction 1
1 Fragments and their Collectors 7

Rudolf Kassel, University of Cologne
2 Tragic Thrausmatology: the Study of the Fragments of

Greek Tragedy in the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries 21
David Harvey, formerly of University of Exeter
3 Euripidean Fragmentary Plays:

the Nature of Sources and their Effect on Reconstruction 49
Christopher Collard, The Queen’s College, Oxford
4 Lycians in the Cares of Aeschylus 63

Antony G. Keen, Open University
5 Spectral Traces: Ghosts in Tragic Fragments 83

Ruth Bardel, formerly of Somerville College, Oxford
6 Death and Wedding in Aeschylus’ Niobe 113

Richard Seaford, University of Exeter
7 From Treacherous Wives to Murderous Mothers:

Filicide in Tragic Fragments 129
Fiona McHardy, Roehampton University
8 Tragic Fragments, Ancient Philosophers
and the Fragmented Self 151
Christopher Gill, University of Exeter
9 Aristophanes on How to Write Tragedy:

What You Wear is What You Are 173
James Robson, Open University
10 HY]<[IPYLE: a Version for the Stage 189

David Wiles, Royal Holloway, University of London
Bibliography 209
Index of fragmentary plays and ancient passages cited 227
General Index 243

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
We would like to thank the University of Exeter for providing funding

towards publication and the Open University for funding the indexing
work. In addition, our thanks go to the South-west branch of the Classical
Association and Dr Larry Shenfield for offering funding for the original
conference.
Professors Richard Seaford and Christopher Gill have given much
valuable help with this project for which we are grateful. We would also
like to thank the anonymous readers from the University of Exeter Press
for their constructive comments and criticism on the original version of
this volume. Special thanks are due to Rowan Fraser for her hard work on
the index. We are also indebted to the Sackler and Bodleian libraries in
Oxford, the Joint Library of the Hellenic and Roman Societies in London,
and the libraries of the Universities of Cardiff, Exeter and Reading.
Finally, many thanks go to Lucy Byrne and Deborah Gentry, without
whom this volume would never have come into being.
INTRODUCTION
This volume appears at a time when classical scholars are turning

increasingly to the study of Greek tragic fragments and scholars of all
disciplines are choosing to engage with fragmentary texts in ways
previously unexplored.1 By their very nature fragments are both
tantalizing and inspirational. Their ability to tantalize stems from the fact
that each fragment is a dislocated piece, a part that once belonged to a
whole. As such, a fragment frequently lacks the context we would need to
make proper sense of it and leads us to speculate about what that whole
may have comprised. Therein also lies their ability to inspire. We seek to
endow the surviving fragment with meaning, whilst pondering the nature
of what has been lost. This lack of a fixed context means that the
possibilities for understanding and interpreting a fragment are manifold.
The inspirational nature of fragments is nowhere more evident than in
the ten contributions found in this collection. What is striking is the range
of approaches that their authors take towards tragic fragments: a diversity
which is apparent both in terms of methodology and subject matter.
Tragic fragments, dealt with and defined differently by different
contributors, are shown to inform discussions in areas ranging from
cultural history through stagecraft to philosophy and to touch on topics as
diverse as the perception of non-Greeks in classical Athens, ghosts on the
1 There has been a similar surge in interest in comic fragments (cf. Harvey and Wilkins
2000). Alan Sommerstein’s edited volume Shards from Kolonos (2003) based on his
conference on the fragments of Sophocles appeared after the chapters in this volume
had been completed.
2 LOST DRAMAS OF CLASSICAL ATHENS
Attic stage and ancient views of artistic creation. This is, we hope, one of
the major strengths of this volume: its breadth of subject matter highlights
the range of uses to which fragments can be put and thus serves to
suggest a number of further areas which might benefit from the
perspective which they have to offer.
As a collection, these contributions also highlight the methodological
problems which fragments can present and illustrate the ways in which
these might be addressed. For instance, the first two contributions, by
Kassel and Harvey, tackle the history of scholarship on tragic fragments,
highlighting both the ways in which fragments have been preserved and
the ways in which scholars have collected and edited them. In other
chapters we see how different kinds of evidence, both ancient (e.g.
dramatic and literary sources) and modern (e.g. comparative
anthropology), help to shed light on fragmentary evidence. One common
thread running through a number of contributions is how vase-painting
can throw light on fragments although this is a source not without its
own interpretative difficulties. Keen, Bardel and Seaford, for instance, all
use vase-paintings to inform their discussions.
The recurring theme of the book is that of contextualization. In order
to be fully understood, fragments require a context (although they may
provide a ‘context’ themselves in that they can also help us better to
understand non-fragmentary sources). It is fitting, then, that the first two
contributions deal with the history of scholarship on tragic fragments,
thus providing a framework of reference a context for the volume as a
whole. Kassel’s essay, ‘Fragments and their Collectors’ (first published in
1991, but presented here for the first time in English), traces the
scholarship from its beginnings in the sixteenth and seventeenth up to the
nineteenth century, finishing with the work of August Meineke. Along the
way Kassel outlines some of the battles which were fought over the
legitimacy of fragments as a proper subject of scholarship. As Kassel
shows, early editions of fragments generally took the form of collections
of moral sententiae. Works in which fragments were meticulously
catalogued and reconstructions of lost plays attempted did not appear
before the eighteenth century, and even then the habit of collecting
fragments as sententiae was the rule rather than the exception. In the
nineteenth century fragments became a concern of mainstream
scholarship, and more modern approaches to collecting and presenting
fragments began to prevail.
Kassel’s piece is followed by Harvey’s contribution, ‘Tragic
Thrausmatology: the Study of the Fragments of Greek Tragedy in the
Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries’, which brings the discussion of the
INTRODUCTION 3
history of scholarship on fragments up to the present day. Harvey begins
by surveying the major collections of fragments from the nineteenth
century before discussing the work of perhaps the most influential scholar
in this field: August Nauck. Here, the discussion covers Nauck’s work at a
time when tragic papyri were virtually unknown, and contains an account
of the exciting discoveries in the late nineteenth century of papyri at
Oxyrhynchus leading to the coining, in 1898, of the name of a new
academic discipline: papyrology. Harvey’s survey continues with an
overview of scholarly editions of fragments and trends in scholarship in
the twentieth century, the highlight of which is, of course, the five volume
Tragicorum Graecorum Fragmenta (TrGF) of Snell, Radt and Kannicht. The
piece also includes a brief overview of scholarly work done on the
fragments of the three major tragedians.
As emerges from Harvey’s survey, one form of scholarship frequently
undertaken in the last century was the (sometimes rash) attempt to
reconstruct the plots of fragmentary plays. In ‘Euripidean Fragmentary
Plays: the Nature of Sources and their Effect on Reconstruction’,
Christopher Collard examines the evidence available to us for
reconstructing the action of Euripides’ Cretan Women and Oedipus.
Collard’s chapter very much sets the tone for the rest of the essays in this
collection, both in focusing closely on the fragments themselves and by
engaging with broader theoretical issues. As his title suggests, his
reconstructions of these plays are not simply ends in themselves, but also
serve as case studies highlighting the diverse nature of the ancient
evidence and exploring different methodologies that we might use when
approaching the fragments of lost tragedies.
Keen’s piece, too, on ‘Lycians in the Cares of Aeschylus’ represents an
attempt to reconstruct the setting and action of a fragmentary tragedy.
Exploring the ways in which these Aeschylean fragments may be
contextualized, however, also allows the author to consider what the
fragments of the play can tell us about a number of issues, most notably
the portrayal of the peoples of the Near East in Attic tragedy. In
discussing the likely setting of the play, Keen considers the ways in which
the names of peoples and places in the Near East are often used
interchangeably by Greek authors and examines various traditions
concerning the origins of such ethnic groups. Keen thus demonstrates
important ways in which fragments can be used by ancient historians to
inform our knowledge of aspects of classical culture.
Bardel’s contribution on ‘Spectral Traces: Ghosts in Tragic Fragments’
demonstrates well the symbiotic relationship which fragmentary and non-
fragmentary evidence can enjoy. On the one hand, the ghosts that appear
in fragments of tragedy may be better understood when judged alongside

those which appear in extant tragedies. However, the opposite is also true:
that is, our understanding of ghosts in extant plays is usefully informed by
looking at their fragmentary cousins. An important point which Bardel’s
study serves to underline is the frequency with which ‘spectral traces’
appear in fragments, suggesting that ghosts were far more common in
tragedy than the evidence of extant plays would suggest. Two fragmentary
plays Aeschylus’ Psychagogoi and Sophocles’ Polyxena and a number of
vase-paintings take centre stage in a discussion in which Bardel also
considers broader issues of the staging of ghostly figures and their
reception by a fifth-century audience.
The symbiotic relationship that we saw in Bardel’s contribution
between extant and fragmentary tragedy is also apparent in Seaford’s piece
on ‘Death and Wedding in Aeschylus’ Niobe’. The mythical Niobe was a
boastful mother who was punished by Artemis and Apollo by the death
of her children. Seaford’s discussion seeks to contextualize a fragment
from Aeschylus’ fragmentary play and in so doing also informs our
reading of several passages in extant tragedies, such as the Antigone and the
Medea, where Niobe is also mentioned. Seaford demonstrates that the dual
presence of death imagery and wedding imagery is evoked in these
passages and seeks to explain the rationale behind the tradition of Niobe’s
eventual transformation into stone an ever-weeping rock as repre-
sented in several remarkable vase-paintings which are thought to have
been directly inspired by Aeschylus’ play. Once again, vase-painting
becomes an important resource for understanding fragments.
We have already had a glimpse of some of the wide range of issues
dealt with in this collection into which tragic fragments allow us an
insight. The contribution with possibly the broadest scope is that of
McHardy, who demonstrates yet another way in which fragmentary
evidence may be used. In her piece, ‘From Treacherous Wives to
Murderous Mothers: Filicide in Tragic Fragments’, McHardy covers a
wide range of material derived not only from fragments of plays by
Aeschylus, Sophocles and Euripides, but also from the minor tragic poets
and Roman tragedy. She draws on these sources in order to assess the
significance of the murder of sons by their mothers in Greek tragedy and
classical Athenian society as a whole. The prominence of metaphors of
madness in the fragments which survive from plays dealing with this
theme suggest a way of understanding how the Athenian audience of the
time interpreted the actions of these women. Moreover, she argues that
whereas the motif of filicide is absent from earlier versions of the same
stories, it seems to have been understood as particularly suitable to
INTRODUCTION 5
tragedy. In her discussion, we once again find that fragments both
become contextualized and themselves help to deepen our understanding
of the society which produced them.
Further contributions lead us to view the subject of tragic fragments
in yet more new lights. Gill, for example, in ‘Tragic Fragments, Ancient
Philosophers and the Fragmented Self’, examines the way in which
ancient philosophers understand and deploy tragic sententiae. In so doing,
he opens up new debates about the relationship of the fragment to the
whole, highlighting the fact that ancient thinkers were often (although, as
Gill shows, not always) interested in the detachable meaning of these
sententiae rather than their significance in their original context. His
discussion touches not only on fragments proper but also on quotations
from extant texts and thus suggests interesting questions about the
relationship between the two. The central theme of Gill’s chapter,
however, is the ancient philosophical debates surrounding the correct way
of understanding the psychology of figures who perform acts harmful to
themselves. This discussion comes to bear both on Euripides’ Medea (thus
tying in with McHardy’s discussion of the child-killing Medea) and on the
reconstruction of Euripides’ first Hippolytus (and especially its relation to
Seneca’s extant Phaedra).
This creation of fragments by ancient philosophers finds a parallel in
Robson’s piece, ‘Aristophanes on How to Write Tragedy: What You Wear
is What You Are’. Robson takes as his starting point two unusual
testimonia: scenes from two of Aristophanes’ plays where the tragic poets
Euripides (in the Acharnians) and Agathon (in the Thesmophoriazusae) are
encountered in the midst of composing their tragedies. Robson’s creation
of these two ‘fragments’ brings yet another methodological approach to
this collection and the resulting discussion examines ancient views of the
act of artistic composition, comparing them with the picture which
emerges from Aristophanes’ plays. Aristophanes was writing at a time
when the process of composition was a topic of great interest, and
Robson’s piece discusses the possibility that Aristophanes may not only
have been responding to contemporary beliefs but may have in fact
contributed to the views of ancient literary theorists. In the course of this
discussion Robson also highlights key aspects of Aristophanes’ own
compositional processes.
The main body of the final contribution, ‘HY]<[IPYLE: a Version for
the Stage’ comprises the script and programme notes of a performance of
this fragmentary play staged in 1997. Wiles’ translation is both a piece of
scholarship in itself (entailing as it does a reconstruction of the play) and
an original work of art. He consciously frames the play as a fragment:
there is a major lacuna, for example, during which, in his version, the
actors perform alternative versions of the same episode. In so doing,
Wiles makes imaginative use of the qualities of the fragmentary form with
which our discussion began: the capacity of fragments to tantalize, inspire
and to suggest multiple possibilities for their contextualization. Thus
Wiles’ piece seems to be an appropriate conclusion to this volume,
highlighting as it does a number of key themes. Its innovative nature, too,
complements well the imaginative range of approaches to tragic fragments
and diversity of subject matter of the volume as a whole.
This volume has its origins in the ‘Tragic Fragments’ conference held
at the University of Exeter in September 1996. The conference was jointly
organized by Fiona McHardy, Deborah Gentry and Lucy Byrne, and
inspired a number of stimulating papers, not all of which have been
included here. The original aim of the conference was to encourage
scholarship on tragic fragments not only by specialists on tragedy, but also
by scholars with differing interests, including ancient comedy, philosophy,
history and society. This aim is reflected in the papers included in this
volume. Alongside selected conference papers, the editors have also
included pieces by Kassel, Harvey and Wiles (versions of which were not
delivered at the conference), so as to create a collection of essays with a
genuine variety of texture which demonstrates effectively the range of
scholarship which tragic fragments can inspire. It is hoped that this
volume will open up further debate on the subject of tragic fragments. We
look forward to future work in this rich field of study.
1
FRAGMENTS AND THEIR COLLECTORS†
RUDOLF KASSEL
In 1619 a book whose title included the names of Aeschylus, Sophocles

and Euripides was dedicated Illustribus Ordinibus urbis et Provinciae
Groninganae [to the Illustrious Councils of the City and Province of
Groningen].1 The author, Ioannes Meursius, at that time professor at
Leiden, tells us in his Dedication and in his Preface to the Reader how
deeply he and all viri literati [men of letters] longed to possess the complete
tragedies of the three great poets; but, he says, because this must always
remain a vain hope, he has done all that it was possible to do, and had
collected together the sad remnants (tristes reliquias) of the lost works, like
the scattered timbers of some pitiful shipwreck (ut naufragii valde deplorandi
tabulas). He now hopes to deposit the fruits of his labours in the temple of
the Muses, under the aegis of the magistrates of Groningen.
[† Originally published as ‘Fragmente und ihre Sammler’ in Hofmann (1991: 243 53);
reprinted in Kassel (1991: 88 98); translated by Hazel and David Harvey, who are
also responsible for all material enclosed in square brackets. For ease of reference, the
names of the principal editors of dramatic fragments and a few others have been set
in bold type.]
1 Ioannis Meursii, Aeschylus, Sophocles, Euripides. Sive de Tragoediis eorum, Libri III (Lugduni
Batavorum 1619). The work was republished in the tenth volume of Jacob
Gronovius’ Thesaurus Graecarum Antiquitatum (Lugduni Batavorum 1701; references in
this chapter are to a reprint, Venice 1735). The Dedication and Preface to the Reader
can also be found in J.A. Gruys, The Early Printed Editions (1518 1564) of Aeschylus
(Nieuwkoop 1981), 248 9.
8 RUDOLF KASSEL
Meursius was neither the first nor the last to use the metaphor of a
shipwreck in this context.2 It is a vivid way of expressing an emotion that
affects every scholar who contemplates the mutilated scraps that have
come down to us, an emotion that has inspired repeated efforts to
undertake or revise and update works like that of Meursius. Thus we see
scholars from the period of the renaissance of Greek studies right down to
our own time eagerly engaged in filling that Temple of the Muses with
more and more dedicatory gifts. If we tried to give a complete and detailed
list of all these undertakings, in order to prove the historical legitimacy of
the study of fragments, we would run the risk of behaving like Rektor
Florian Fälbel, the fictional schoolmaster satirized by Jean Paul Richter.
Fälbel was planning to take his sixth-formers on an excursion, so he set up
a preliminary course in Latin to justify the undertaking, in which he
pointed out that excursions had been made even by the most ancient
peoples and individuals. However, the study of fragments is not such an
obvious undertaking as going for a walk and, unlike the pedantic Fälbel,
perhaps we do need to justify it.
In the writings of the early nineteenth century we frequently find
remarks by scholars engaged in studies of this kind to the effect that it is
no longer necessary, as it once had been, to make apologies for
undertaking such works. Meineke, in his first edition of Menander and
Philemon,3 is one example and, shortly before him, August Ferdinand
Naeke of Bonn is another: Multum olim operae in Callimachi fragmentis posui,
he writes, ac nunc quoque neque quod in fragmentis, neque quod in Callimachi
fragmentis posuerim, poenitet. Illud quidem nostris temporibus haud eget excusatione.4
2 The metaphor is also to be found in Hertelius (1560), discussed [on pp. 10 11] below,
and in later writers: for example, at the beginning of the notes to J.J. Scaliger’s Veterum
Graecorum fragmenta selecta, quibus loci aliquot obscurissimi Chronologiae sacrae et Bibliorum
illustrantur [Selected fragments of ancient Greek authors illustrating certain extremely obscure points
in sacred chronology and in the Bible], which he added with separate pagination to the
second edition of his work De emendatione temporum (Colon. Allobrogum, 3rd edn 1629)
9: Hae veterum scriptorum reliquiae, tanquam ex naufragio tabellae in unum libellum a nobis
coniectae sunt, ne iterum naufragium facerent [‘We have gathered together into one volume
these remnants of ancient authors like planks from a shipwreck, to save them from a
second shipwreck’]; in Brunck, Analecta veterum poetarum Graecorum, vol. I (1785) ii;
several times in F.A. Wolf: Prolegomena ad Homerum xiii and Kleine Schriften, vol. I, 467,
vol. II, 824; Meineke, Analecta Alexandrina (1843) 3; Nauck, at the beginning of the
Praefatio to his Aristophanis Byzantii fragmenta (1847); and H. Jacobi in Meineke’s
Fragmenta Comicorum Graecorum V 1(1857) vii. Classical examples of this simile are
collected by Shackleton Bailey on Cicero ad Att. 93 (IV 19) 2.4 [ 1965: vol. II, 226].
3 Menandri et Philemonis reliquiae, ed. A. Meineke (Berlin 1823) i.
4 Opuscula philologica , vol. I (Bonn 1842) 62 (originally published in 1821).
FRAGMENTS AND THEIR COLLECTORS 9
[‘Some time ago I devoted a great deal of attention to the fragments of
Callimachus, and even now I do not regret the labour that I have devoted
to fragments, nor to the fragments of Callimachus. For that certainly
requires no justification nowadays.’] Sixty years had passed since the
publication of the last complete edition of Callimachus, which had
appeared in Leiden in 1761. Its editor, Johann August Ernesti of
Leipzig,[4a] had had the benefit of constructive help on the fragments from
the Dutch scholars Hemsterhuis, Valckenaer and Ruhnken, so that when
he reprinted Bentley’s collection in his new edition, he was able to correct
some details and enrich it with an Auctarium [addenda]. Yet Ernesti refers
to this section of his edition in such an ill-tempered way that it is clear that
he set to work on it with great reluctance.5 He says that he would always
prefer to nourish his spirit with the content and style of works that have
been preserved in full, rather than with the mouldy stench of recondite
glosses. He admits that one ought not to ignore this stuff (ista) completely,
because there was always the possibility that it might contribute to our
knowledge of philology, but he had quite enough difficulties to deal with
already and had no desire to tire himself out with the drudgery involved in
this field of critical and exegetical scholarship. Wyttenbach, who at the end
of the century took a very different view, made a cutting remark about this
confession in his Vita Ruhnkenii [Life of Ruhnken]: he said that Ernesti was
merely belittling the value of a type of scholarship for which he himself, as
he knew very well, lacked the necessary qualifications.6 There is certainly
[4a Perhaps better remembered as the Rector of the Thomasschule with whom J.S. Bach
quarrelled. The relevant documents are collected in David and Mendel (1998: 172 85,
189 96 nos 180 6, 192 6); discussion in e.g. Boyd (1983: 154 7); Wolff (2000:
322 3, 349 50, cf. 423 4).]
5 Callimachi hymni, epigrammata et fragmenta, **4v ff. The attack on the veterum et rarum
verborum foetores [‘stench of old and rare words’] is inspired by Suetonius Augustus 86.1.
6 (Lugd. Bat. 1799) 82. I was led by G. Bernhardy, Grundlinien zur Encyklopädie der
Philologie (Halle 1832) 267 to a declaration of intent by Wyttenbach. In Bibliotheca critica

vol. III part 11 (Amsterdam 1808) 48, commenting on the Diatribe de Aristoxeno by his
pupil Mahne, he wrote: Horum [sc. scriptorum amissorum] quamdiu non singulorum et
universorum quidquid superest et mentionum et reliquiarum sigillatim collectum et uno loco
expositum fuerit, tamdiu de iustae Literarum Historiae confectione desperandum erit. Nunc poenitet
nos ut eam vulgo tractent hodie, qui et majores et minores de ea libros scribunt: agunt nobiscum quasi
cum pueris: reponunt recoctam milies cramben de Scriptoribus, quorum opera supersunt: quorum
perierunt, de his altum silentium: quamquam sine horum cognitione, nullo in doctrinarum genere,
origo, progressus, perfectio, id est Historia, neque adeo ipsorum superstitum laudes et merita intellegi
queant. [‘As long as the remaining testimonia and fragments of these [sc. lost
writers] both of individual authors and of the whole corpus have not been
collected piece by piece and published in a single volume, there is no hope of
compiling a proper History of Literature. People who write books nowadays about
10 RUDOLF KASSEL
some truth in this. But Ernesti had no qualms about belittling it in this
way because he was in accord with the consensus of most of the docti
homines [scholars] of his time. He was convinced that a majority took the
view that one should not waste valuable time on ideas that were often
obscure and preserved only in corrupt scraps of lost works, or on single
words that often had nothing but their rarity to commend them.7
The category of sententiae non admodum probabiles [sententiae7a that are not
entirely acceptable], however, gives us a hint, by converse reasoning, of
what qualified fragments containing a sententia for admission. Many of the
earliest collections of fragments did indeed spring from a desire to enrich
our store of sententiae and for centuries this desire was paramount, or at
least present, in the formation of these collections. This is particularly
obvious in the case of comedy. Here the sequence begins with a book
printed in Paris in 1553 by Guilelmus Morelius, Ex veterum comicorum
fabulis, quae integrae non extant, sententiae [Sententiae from the plays of ancient
comic writers that have not survived complete]. It was followed by the
Vetustissimorum et sapientissimorum comicorum quinquaginta, quorum opera integra
non extant, sententiae quae supersunt [Sententiae from fifty most ancient and most
sapient comic poets, whose works have not survived complete] (Basel 1560) by the
Swiss schoolmaster Jakob Hertel(ius). Hertel was heavily dependent on
Morelius, but he is remembered for a few comments in his apparatus
criticus. Then came the Comicorum Graecorum Sententiae, id est, gnw'mai
[Sententiae, i.e. gnômai, from the Greek comic poets] of Henricus Stephanus
(Paris 1569). All these titles include the word sententiae, which Hertelius
this subject, great and small, generally handle it in a most regrettable way. They treat
us like children: they serve up cabbage that has been reboiled a thousand times about
authors whose works survive but not a word about those whose works have
perished. Yet if we are not acquainted with the latter, it is impossible to understand
anything about the nature, origin, development or maturity of ideas, in other words,
their History, still less the praiseworthy qualities and merits of the surviving authors.’]
7 In referring specifically to Ludolf Küster, Ernesti takes the liberty of generalizing
from a passing exclamation. Küster, in his Suidas (Cambridge 1705) vol. II, 327 A.3,
says that it would be hard on him si lector a nobis exigere velit, ut ex corruptis et laceris
fragmentorum reliquiis verum auctorum sensum semper eruamus [‘if the reader expected us
always to dig out the true meaning of authors from the corrupt and tattered remains
of their fragments’]. He is dealing at this point with Cratinus fr. 208 K A, the precise
meaning of which no scholar in his right mind imagines that he can discover even
today. In the preface to his first volume Küster does not fail to emphasize that tot et
tam praeclara fragmenta veterum scriptorum, hodie amissorum [‘so many splendid fragments of
ancient works that are now lost’] are particularly valuable additions to the lexicon.
[7a A sententia is defined by the Oxford Latin Dictionary as a ‘terse and pointed observation,
esp. of a moralistic tone’; it is the Latin word for a gnwvmh. No English equivalent
seems entirely satisfactory (a sententia is often lengthier than a ‘maxim’).]
discusses at length. He says that many scholars will think little of his work
quod tantum fragmenta sint [because they are merely fragments], but he
would reply that the best authors had used these sententiae like pearls and
precious stones to adorn their writings ob castitatem, paene dixerim etiam
pietatem [on account of their purity, I might almost say their piety]. He
admits that he has taken a teacher’s viewpoint and made a careful
selection. Above all, he has had to omit many sententiae which, because
they were magis mageirikai; quam hjqikaiv [more concerned with cookery
than with morals], were more suited to the kitchens and banquets of the
ancient world than to classroom lessons on ethics in a Christian school.
He has given pride of place (he says) to New Comedy because of its
purity and because it had often come close to our own religion. He puts
the poets of Old Comedy in second place, in recognition of their sinceritas
and semnovth" [honesty and solemn tone]; and last of all the authors of
Middle Comedy, in which culinary humour is over-represented, so that
they must be ranked as inferior to the gnwmikwvteroi [authors who are
richer in sententiae]. He provides each of his fifty selected poets with a
biography and a list of the titles of their comedies, but the fragments are
not arranged according to the individual plays: they are listed under
rubrics, as befits a collection of sententiae. Fragments which did not fit into
this arrangement because they were parum sententiosa [contained too little by
way of sententiae] are placed at the end of each section, where they would
satisfy the needs of any reader who happened to have a particular interest
in lexicology.
The pattern set by Hertelius was followed at a more scholarly level in
the seventeenth century in two works by Hugo Grotius. These are the
Dicta poetarum quae apud Ioannem Stobaeum extant [Sayings of the poets preserved
by Stobaeus] of 1623 and the Excerpta ex tragoediis et comoediis graecis, tum quae
extant, tum quae perierunt [Selections from Greek tragedies and comedies, both extant
and lost] of 1626, both published in Paris. The former work and the origins
of the second date from the period that Grotius had to spend in prison. In
the Dicta he arranges the material thematically, retaining Stobaeus’ division
into chapters. However, the Excerpta which come from other sources are
arranged by author and play in alphabetical order. It is possible that he was
following the example of a manuscript collection left by Theodorus
Canter(us) that Grotius had been able to consult since preparing the
Dicta, thanks to the Jesuit scholar Andreas Schott(us).8 However, this
8 Canter’s collection survives only in part; its history is explained by Gruys in Appendix
III 277 309 of his book (cited in n.1 above). [See now Collard (1995: 243 51)].
Canter aimed at completeness (for his work on the comic poets, see Kassel and
12 RUDOLF KASSEL
approximation to an arrangement of a collection of fragments in a way

with which we are familiar should not cause us to overlook how greatly
the Excerpta differs from such an arrangement. Lines from lost tragedies
and comedies are put together with lines taken from surviving dramas.
There is quite obviously no interest in their source, which is not given in
either case. Many quotations from the poets which simply illustrate the use
of a word are deliberately omitted and others are excluded on the grounds
of exceptional indecency, ob insignem spurcitiem. Grotius even makes
provision for the reader who is more interested in the old thematic
arrangement of his Dicta. By using the marginal rubrics and the Index rerum
at the end, such a reader can harmonize the Excerpta with the headings in
Stobaeus or with others added by the editor. In short, even this work, with
its rich supply of emendations of Greek texts that was to benefit so many
later collections of fragments, differs from them in its adherence to an
established gnomological tradition. After what we have said so far, it is
easy to see that this creates a tension between two different purposes. The
intention to produce a collection of sententiae is incompatible with the
completeness and impartiality required of a collection of fragments. Even
if the concept of sententiae was often interpreted generously and passages
that were beautiful or interesting were also generally included, pride of
place was still given to sententiae morales. The selection favoured the
gnwmikwvteroi poets [those richer in gnômai/sententiae]; the reader was given
the impression that fragments that did not contain sententiae were at best
merely tolerated; and anything indecent was completely excluded. Grotius
had installed two authorities as guardian spirits for his Dicta, one Christian
and one profane, and their advice was printed at length to give the reader
a thorough understanding of the purpose of the undertaking: Plutarch’s
Pw'" dei' to;n nevon poihmavtwn ajkouei'n [How a young man should listen to
poetry] and Basil’s Pro;" tou;" nevou" o{pw" a]n ejx JEllhnikw'n wjfeloi'nto
lovgwn [To young men, on how they may benefit from Greek literature].
If we look back at Meursius from this standpoint, we can see the
contrast between two completely different ideals of polymathy. Meursius
wanted to display the titles of all the lost dramas of the three great
tragedians and to supply all the available references to them. Most of the
Sophoclean titles had already been collected by Casaubon in his
Animadversiones on Athenaeus. If Meursius could have completed this list
with new titles and new references, he would have achieved his purpose.
His work on the three tragedians was conceived as part of a
Austin, Poetae Comici Graeci V, xxi).

comprehensive Bibliotheca Attica, of which the remaining parts were not
printed until 1701 from his Nachlass, in the tenth volume of Gronovius’
Thesaurus Graecarum Antiquitatum.9 Shortly afterwards, this goal of
compiling a polyhistory with a complete notitia auctorum [‘a polymathic
account with a complete register of authors’] reached its culmination in
Fabricius’ Bibliotheca Graeca. Scripta . . . recensui singula distincte [‘I have
edited each work separately’], he says in the preface to his first volume in
1705,10 atque edita quidem prae ceteris; tum etiam si quae in bibliothecis abdita
delitescunt; denique deperdita, quorum vel solos titulos, vel exigua fragmenta reliqua
nobis fecit tempus [‘and published them before the others; next, anything that
has remained hidden in libraries; and finally lost works, of which time has
left us either only the titles, or only tiny fragments’]. Where collections
already existed, he made use of them, but otherwise he did the preparatory
work himself, especially that of indicating the sources. ‘Polyhistory’ thus
contained scholarly aids to seeking out what the gnômologoi [collectors of
sententiae] had dismissed as worthless.
The first attempt to make use of these aids in order to progress beyond
Grotius on the comic fragments was such a disaster that I am tempted to
place a ‘Keep Off!’ sign against my reference to the book in which it was
undertaken. It is the Menandri et Philemonis reliquiae, quotquot reperiri potuerunt
[All the remains of Menander and Philemon that could be found] of Ioannes
Clericus, Amsterdam 1707. It is well known that the only merit of this
botched attempt is that it provoked Bentley’s criticism, which once and
for all brought into proper shape hundreds of lines that had previously
been mishandled or allowed to stand in a corrupt form. We need not dwell
on Clericus’ ignorance of language and metre, his lack of judgment and his
unreliability, but it is of some interest for our historical survey to note how
half-heartedly he set about searching for quotquot reperiri potuerunt [‘as many
as could be found’] as promised on his title-page. According to his own
statement (p.* 4 v), he used Meursius’ Bibliotheca Attica. It is hard to believe
that he failed to notice the existence of the richer collection of Fabricius;
Bentley, who was admittedly determined not to give the slightest credit to
Clericus, simply assumed that he had deliberately concealed his use of the
Bibliotheca Graeca.11 Let us see what Clericus himself said about the result of
his collecting. After naming Hugo Grotius as his main source, he
continues (p.* 4 r): conatus . . . sum ea fragmenta augere iis, quae ex multis
scriptoribus colligi poterant; sed quae, ut verum fatear, tanti non erant, atque ad
9 See n.1 above. The Bibliotheca Attica is printed on pp.1395 1624.

10 Printed in vol. I of the 4th edn by Harles (Hamburg 1790) xxi.
11 J.H. Monk, The Life of Richard Bentley, vol. I (2nd edn, Cambridge 1833) 273, n.28.
14 RUDOLF KASSEL
Grammaticam potius quam ad Ethicam pertinebant.’ [‘I tried to increase these

fragments by adding those which could be gathered from numerous
writers; but these, to tell the truth, were not of much value, and were more
relevant to grammar than morality.’] The same might have been said by
Hertelius or Grotius.
But it would be better if we followed the progress of the gnomological
tradition in the eighteenth century by looking at a work of very much
higher quality, Valckenaer’s Diatribe in Euripidis perditorum dramatum
reliquias [Dissertation on the fragments of the lost plays of Euripides] of 1767.
Valckenaer admired Bentley’s edition of the fragments of Callimachus,
saying that it had set a standard that he himself had not attained and never
could. But his whole book is in fact so well researched and, as a
preparation for an edition of the fragments, is so thorough that it
surpasses Bentley. He is not content, as Bentley was, to collect the
fragments, subject their texts to critical scrutiny and arrange them in a
clear order; he also attempts to give some idea of what had been lost by
attempting ambitious reconstructions of the Antiope and other plays. No
wonder that Wilamowitz, in his chapter on ‘Methods and aims of modern
criticism of Tragedy’ in the introduction to his commentary on Euripides’
Herakles, heaps the highest praise on the Diatribe. ‘This is the point’, he
says, ‘at which scholarship, as it worked its way through the whole expanse
of later literature, finally realised that one could find more in it than a mere
sententia.’12 However, if one consults Valckenaer’s introduction, it is easy to
see that when Wilamowitz uses the diminutive Sentenzchen [a mere sententia]
he is exaggerating in order to make a sharper contrast. The first sentence
of the Diatribe runs as follows: Euripidis in scena Philosophi13 sententiae
pleraeque, ad humanitatis virtutisque pulchritudinem commendandam, aut emendandos
mores, vitamque bene informandam, aut rem publicam administrandam sunt
comparatae; ex perditis autem tragoediis exquisitissimas quasque nobis veteres
custodiverunt, huius inprimis Tragici versibus tanquam veris optimi morum magistri
praeceptis usi, vel tanquam sapientissimi viri testimoniis. [‘Euripides, the
philosopher of the stage, provides us with many sententiae that are
admirably suited to the commendation of the beauty of humanity and
virtue, or the correction of behaviour, and the proper formation of human
life, or to the administration of the state; and it is from the lost tragedies
that the ancients have preserved the most refined sententiae for us, by using
12 Euripides Herakles, vol. I (Berlin 1889) 231 Einleitung in die griechische Tragödie, 232.
13 Valckenaer alludes to the ancient tradition of Euripides the skhniko;" filovsofo"
[philosopher of the stage]: testimonia in vol. I of Nauck’s Teubner edition (1871) xvi,
n.16.
the verses of this Tragedian above all others as the true precepts of an
excellent teacher of morality, or as the utterances of an exceptionally wise
man.’] He then emphasizes that this is the reason why the fragments of
Euripides should not be placed on the same level as those of other poets
such as Callimachus or Nicander. Astonishingly, he adds Sophocles as a
third example of a poet who is not on the same level as Euripides,
although he himself had begun a large-scale collection of Sophocles’
fragments.14 In his view, to; gnwmikovn [gnomic material] is not so central
to Sophocles as it is to Euripides.15 He says that the fragments of
Euripides contain moral sententiae that are superior to all the ramblings of
philosophy, and that we see in him a man who discovered Christian truths
during the dark age of superstition. These ideas are not merely
introductory generalities: they recur again and again in the Diatribe. I will
quote verbatim a sentence from the fourth chapter, the first of three
devoted to demonstrating that passages containing Anaxagorean doctrine
may be found in Euripides (p. 25b): singulae propemodum Euripidis gnw'mai
monstrant . . . in Socratis illum exercitum fuisse palaestra; et haec praesertim popularis
nobis in Euripide placet ad vitam regendam utilis Philosophia. [‘Almost every
single one of the gnômai of Euripides reveals . . . that he had undergone
training in the gymnasium of Socrates; and we most heartily commend this
popular philosophy of Euripides as a useful guide to the conduct of our
lives.’]
Why did the practice of collecting sententiae persist for so many
centuries? It will be helpful at this point to take another look at the
alternative, the all-inclusive approach of the polymaths. All collectors of
gnômai, ancient and modern, were convinced that they and their readers
were dealing with material that was educational and edifying. There was no
need for them to confront the question which hangs like a sword of
Damocles over every polymath: what is the use of it all? ‘I know a lot, it is
true, but I would like to know everything’ that might well be the motto
of the polyhistorian; but we all know how Goethe was revealing his own
personal ambition when he put these words into the mouth of Faust’s
graduate assistant Wagner, and we all know the implications of that
ambition.[15a] Knowing everything that there was to know would not have
14 S.L. Radt, TrGF IV, 9 13.

15 Valckenaer speaks of this difference again when he discusses the authenticity of the
Rhesus in Diatribe 95c.
[15a Faust Part I line 601. Wagner wants to learn all that can be known, but he lacks
human feeling; since his knowledge does not come from the heart, he cannot
communicate with other human beings (lines 534 45). Eventually he creates the semi
human Homunculus, but is himself condemned to a life of scholarship (Part II Act
16 RUDOLF KASSEL
brought Grotius in his prison cell the consolation that he found in his
preoccupation with the sententiae of Stobaeus. It is true that he could have
created a valuable and enduring work of reference if he had combined
wide learning with the superb skill in emendation of a Bentley, if he had
set himself the task of tackling the great mass of textual problems that
present themselves in an especially acute form in the case of texts
preserved as fragments. But neither he nor any of his fellows could
pretend to be a Bentley, and Valckenaer had remarked in passing that the
uniqueness of Bentley’s achievement had become something of a
deterrent to his successors.16 Thus in the eighteenth century the situation
was still precariously balanced. The polymaths’ ideal of a complete notitia
auctorum [collection of information on the authors] did not in the long run
stimulate further study. On the other hand, the notion of a collection of
sententiae was, as we have seen, ill-suited in more than one way to the
requirements of an edition of fragments. So how can we account for the
complete reversal in scholarly thinking which made the ‘fragmentologists’
of the nineteenth century so confident that they felt no need to provide
even one word of justification for their approach?
Shortly before the turn of the century, the young Friedrich Schlegel
claimed to be the ‘Winckelmann of Greek literature’ that Herder had
longed for. In his ambitious project, a Geschichte der Poesie der Griechen und
Römer [History of the Poetry of the Greeks and Romans] of 1798, which
unfortunately failed to progress further than early and middle epic and a
first chapter on lyric poetry, he speaks of the necessity of having ‘a
constant concern for the overall context’.17 ‘Everything depends on
countless small details. Nothing is insignificant, because nothing is isolated
. . . That is why the classical scholar must regard even the fragment of a
fragment as sacred, and should scrutinize even the faintest surviving trace
with unhurried dedication.’ There was no need for an outsider to
introduce such ideas to academic philologists. Schlegel greatly admired
Wolf’s Prolegomena ad Homerum. He seems to have borrowed the phrase
2.6987 99).]
16 Opuscula philologica, vol. II (Lipsiae 1809) 77 8. In his work on Callimachus, Pfeiffer’s
predecessor Otto Schneider had based his own 1873 edition on the complete text of
Bentley’s collection, cuius vel unam perire sententiam nefas duximus [‘because we thought it
would be a crime to allow even a single one of his opinions to perish’] (Callimachea,
vol. II, 2). And even Pfeiffer shows a trace of anxiety when he expresses the hope that
it will not be construed as lack of pietas if he becomes the first scholar not to reprint
Bentley’s text alongside his own, and to change Bentley’s numbering in the light of
new discoveries (vol. II, xlv).
17 Critical edition of Friedrich Schlegel by E. Behler, vol. I (1979) 398. [By ‘middle epic’
Schlegel meant post Homeric but pre Hellenistic works, including the Epic Cycle.]
‘faintest trace’, (verloschne Spur), from an article by Wolf on his Prolegomena.18
In the Prolegomena and in his published lecture notes we see Wolf
combining the old metaphor of a shipwreck with other images and similes
of the same kind: only a few shelves from a huge library have come down
to us; a man who read only the surviving works of Greek literature would
have no more idea of the whole than a man who read only the
publications available at one single Leipzig Book Fair would have of the
whole of German literature. Tenor rerum tantis iacturis interruptus, quoad fieri
potuit, integrandus est et iunctis variis deperditorum operum notitiis egregii corporis
compages restituenda.19 [‘We need, as far as possible, to repair the gaps in the
course of <literary> history caused by these great losses, and to restore
the framework of this superb body of literature by bringing together the
various references to lost works.’] He says later, in the Darstellung der
Altertumswissenschaft [Outline of Scholarship on the Ancient World] which he
dedicated to Goethe, that the fragments have been used ‘to reconstruct
the ground plan of a building that has fallen into ruins after the loss of so
many works.’20 He will, he says, use the heaps of material assembled by
the ancient polymaths to create a ‘living whole’; the history of literature
will no longer consist of a mere portrait-gallery of authors, a series of
obituaries, but rather a reconstruction of the course of an organic
development in its totality and complex variety. His aim is ‘to make the
acquaintance of ancient humanity’. This aim did not allow the researcher
to limit himself to aesthetically complete works. Every scrap that such an
approach would ignore nevertheless has its historical value as a document
and as evidence.21 Such an all-embracing view of classical studies, with an
18 Kleine Schriften, vol. II, 727 (originally published in 1795: it is a polemic against
Herder’s article ‘Homer, a Favourite of Time’).
19 Prolegomena ad Homerum xiii, Kleine Schriften, vol. I, 467; cf. his Vorlesung über die Geschichte
der griechischen Litteratur, ed. J.D. Gürtler, (Leipzig 1831) 13 14.
20 Kleine Schriften, vol. II, 845.
21 Kleine Schriften, vol. II, 692, 828, 846, 883. Here, too, we should acknowledge, as so
often, the role of Heyne as Wolf’s predecessor: cf. Heyne’s Opuscula academica, vol. I
(1785) 94 on the Alexandrian poets: verum de poetis his iudicandi licentiam nemo sibi arroget,
qui ea tantum, quae ad nostra tempora servata sunt, scripta inspexerit; fragmenta expendenda sunt
et tituli amissorum operum numero et recensu haud paullo numerosiorum: quibus perlectis demum
intelligitur, quae illa aetate scripta fuerint carmina, eruditi pleraque et exquisiti argumenti fuisse.
[‘But no one should allow himself to pass judgment on these poets if he has read only
those works that have survived to our day; the fragments too must be assessed, and
the titles of lost works, which are no fewer in number and require just as much
attention: it is only when he has read these that he will be in a position to understand
that most of the poems of that (sc. the Hellenistic) period treated themes of an
erudite and refined nature.’]
18 RUDOLF KASSEL
understanding of the history of literature like this at its heart, meant that
no collector of fragments would ever again need to spend time justifying
his activity. Hoc toto fragminum colligendorum emendandorumque consilio nihil ad
antiquarum litterarum rationem nexumque cognoscendum fructuosius [‘Nothing is
more fruitful for the understanding of the principles and relationships of
ancient literature than this enterprise of collecting and emending
fragments’], says Meineke in the work cited at the outset, as every day
that passed strengthened his conviction that he was capable of judging
their value, so that he did not need to offer any justification of the kind
customary in earlier publications.
Meineke did not think of cutting all the threads that bound him to the
past. In the first version of his edition of Menander and Philemon, the
forerunner of his Fragmenta Comicorum Graecorum, he reprinted the whole of
Bentley’s castigation of Clericus; it amounts to one fifth of the whole
book. In the main part of his work he devoted more than two hundred
pages to the brilliant Latin verse translations of Hugo Grotius.22 In the
Historia critica comicorum graecorum in volume I of the Fragmenta he
acknowledges that he took as his model the Historia critica oratorum
graecorum that Ruhnken provided at the beginning of his edition of Rutilius
Lupus.23 The passage of time, however, meant that it gives a different
impression. Ruhnken was concerned with solving the problem of why the
younger Gorgias, translated by Rutilius, so often took his examples from
orators who were not among the canon of the ten Attic orators. In
contrast, Meineke’s aim in his complete edition for a new age was an idonea
literariae historiae explanatio [‘account suitable for the history of literature’].24
His characterization of Middle Comedy used the surviving fragments to
inaugurate a whole epoch in the history of scholarship on that genre.
Let us now briefly turn our attention to the scholarly activity of the
nineteenth century, so productive that it became a veritable large-scale
industry, and consider one of its directors, Ritschl, as he organized the
necessary work. He regarded the collection of fragments as of prime
importance. This can be seen from passages in his lecture notes, where he
praised the choice of fragments as a subject for a dissertation in glowing
terms: it was, he said, ‘extremely fruitful and beneficial for beginners’.25 I
22 III 647 716, IV 727 856 [where Grotius’ translations are reprinted in full]; so too in
vol. II, where Grotius’ versions of numerous passages from Old Comedy are
sometimes printed in the notes on individual fragments.
23 Lugd. Bat. (1768) xxxiii c; Meineke, vol. I (1839) vii.
24 vol. I, 3 Quaestionum scenicarum specimen primum (Programm des Berliner
Joachimsthalschen Gymnasiums 1826) 1.
25 O. Ribbeck, Friedrich Wilhelm Ritschl (Leipzig 1879) vol. I, 335; cf. 58, 127, 281 2 and
do not know what teachers these days would make of this advice, but
Ritschl’s own students at any rate were happy to follow it, and if the
beginner was a Ribbeck or a Vahlen, the result was an astonishingly good
first work. The novices finished their theses quickly, but, curiously
enough, their teacher made slower progress with the fragments. He
wanted to include the fragments in his edition of Plautus, but kept getting
stuck, and in the end did not progress further in the alphabetical sequence
of plays than the Bacaria. He wrote to a friend:26 ‘It is hard to find words
to express what immeasurable trouble this work has cost me . . . Pity me!’
But we will let Ritschl’s sigh fade away, with sympathy, and return to
the Greek tragic fragments in order to bring this discussion to a happy
conclusion. [Stefan Radt], the editor of the third and fourth volumes of
the new edition [TGrF], a man whose merits we take this opportunity to
commend, has explained in two articles what the contents of those two
volumes contribute to the history of literature and to our picture of two
great poets.27 It is only the fragments that allow us to confirm the truth of
Aeschylus’ statement that his tragedies are ‘slices from the great feasts of
Homer’.[28] It is in the fragments that we see him dramatizing episodes
from the main action of the Iliad, or a scene from the Odyssey, and perceive
the artistry with which he adapts individual Homeric motifs so that they
create an entirely new effect. The fragments teach us to appreciate what
amazingly powerful dramatic effects there were in the lost plays, and also
help us to understand the judgment of Aeschylus’ contemporaries, which
at first seems so surprising that he was an unsurpassed master of the
satyr-play. With Sophocles, too, the harvest of fragments is so rich that it
must surely persuade even those who have been most obstinately
contemptuous of fragments to take a more favourable view of them. But
now, as I draw to a close, I must mention a benefit of a special, personal
kind. I refer to two quotations from Sophocles that are particularly close
to the editor’s heart. When Professor Radt lies in bed listening to the rain
drumming on the roof, he remembers the iambic trimeters of Sophocles
preserved by Stobaeus, which capture the phenomenon better than
303, where the passage cited above from Wolf’s Darstellung der Altertumswissenschaft is
quoted verbatim (though Ribbeck seems unaware of it).
26 In Ribbeck vol. II (1881) 431, n.3.
27 S.L. Radt, ‘Der unbekanntere Aischylos’ [‘The lesser known Aeschylus’], Prometheus 12
(1986) 1 13; id., ‘Sophokles in seinen Fragmenten’ [‘Sophocles in his fragments’] in

Sophocle (Entretiens sur l’Antiquité classique 29, Vandoeuvres Genève 1982) 185 222,
reprinted in [Hofmann 1991] 79 110.
[28 Radt (1977: 69, test. 112).]
20 RUDOLF KASSEL
anything written by a northern poet living in a wet climate.[29] And as he

reads Goethe’s famous remark in his Maxims and Reflections about the
greatest happiness of a thinking man,[30] his thoughts turn to the author of
the two lines preserved by a stroke of good fortune:
ta; me;n didakta; manqavnw, ta; dÅ euJreta;

zhtw', ta; dÅ eujkta; para; qew'n hj/thsavmhn.
[What can be taught, I learn; what can be found,

I look for; what can be prayed for I beg of the gods
(fr. 843, trans. Lloyd Jones).]
The modern editor has not allowed the drudgery of his work to
overwhelm his sensitivity nor the capacity for enjoyment characteristic of
the old gnomologists. That is a cause for rejoicing, in which we are happy
to join him.
[29 fr. 636 (Tympanistai):

feu' feu', tiv tou'to cavrma mei'zon a]n lavboi",
tou' gh'" ejpiyauvsanta ka[/tÅ uJpo; stevgh/
puknh'" ajkou'sai yakavdo" euJdouvsh/ freniv…
Ah, ah, what greater joy could you obtain than this,
that of reaching land and then under the roof
hearing the heavy rain in your sleeping mind?
(trans. Lloyd Jones; but the effect of the lines lies in the sound of the Greek.)]
[30 ‘Das schönste Glück des denkenden Menschen ist das Erforschliche erforscht zu
haben und das Unerforschlichen ruhig zu verehren’ (‘The greatest joy for a thinking
man is to have discovered what can be discovered and to be content to revere what
cannot.’) Goethe (1991: 919, Maxim 1207).]
2
TRAGIC THRAUSMATOLOGY†
The Study of the Fragments of Greek Tragedy in the Nineteenth
and Twentieth Centuries
DAVID HARVEY
Rudolf Kassel’s magisterial account of scholarship on tragic fragments1

takes us as far as August Meineke. It falls to our inexperienced hands to
chart the course of scholarship through the nineteenth and twentieth
centuries.
I. Before Nauck
August Meineke (1790 1870),2 who stands at the end of Professor
Kassel’s survey, may perhaps be regarded as the grandfather of dramatic
fragments, both comic and tragic. His edition of the Greek comic
†
Cf. Kassel’s chapter, pp. 7 8. As in that chapter, the names of the principal editors of
dramatic fragments have been set in bold type.
I am most grateful to Richard Seaford for reading the penultimate version of this
chapter, to John Mair for guiding me to the apposite quotation in n.58, to Paul
Cartledge for alerting me to the remarkable performance at Delphi mentioned in
section VI, to James Diggle for providing me with further information and a copy of
the programme, and to Russell Shone for details of the Chloe productions. I am also
most grateful to Fiona McHardy for having suggested a practical method of reducing
my sprawling draft to a more manageable form, and for having performed the surgery
herself. Our apologies to the Minores.
1 As a striking illustration of one of Kassel’s main themes, the importance ascribed to
gnômai, we may note that in some of the more recent manuscripts of tragedies, verses
of a ‘sententious’ nature are written in red ink (Horna 1935: 84).
2 Sandys (1908: vol. III, 117 9; portrait 116).
22 DAVID HARVEY
fragments (1839 57) was the forerunner of the collection edited by

Theodor Kock (1880 88)3, which was indeed originally intended to be no
more than a revision of Meineke’s work. As for tragedy, Nauck was
Meineke’s assistant and collaborator at Berlin; it was Meineke who
encouraged him to work on a tragic fragments as he himself had done on
comic; and it was to Meineke that Nauck dedicated the first edition of his
work.4
Nauck’s collection established itself as the standard work to such a
degree that earlier nineteenth-century publications that is, those of
Dindorf, Hermann, Welcker and Bothe may conveniently be grouped
together under the heading ‘pre-Nauck’.5
The collection of fragments most commonly used in the earlier part of
the nineteenth century was one or other of those issued by the
astonishingly productive Karl Wilhelm Dindorf (1802 83)6, who started
publishing editions of Greek authors at the age of seventeen and poured
them out unremittingly for the next sixty-one years.7 A list of the authors
that he edited takes up nearly two pages in Sandys, who speaks of his
‘habit of indomitable industry, not unaccompanied by a certain lack of
principle’.8
Dindorf issued numerous annotated editions of the individual
dramatists, whose texts were incorporated with few changes in his bumper
volumes of Poetae Scenici Graeci: Poetae Scenici, be it noted, not Tragici,
because these volumes included the works of Aristophanes (fragments and
all) as well as the surviving plays and fragments of the three tragedians.
They did not, however, include the minor tragedians, nor the adespota. The
first version of this work appeared in 1830, when, as Dindorf put it, ‘the
3 Meineke’s Comic Fragments, says Wilamowitz (1982: 114), is ‘entirely admirable, and
students of the subject should not be content with any inferior edition of the same
material’ (he means Kock).
4 Zielinski (1894: 13 14); Sandys (1908: vol. III, 117 20, with further bibliography at
119 n.4).
5 This section discusses only those scholars who worked on all the Greek tragedians; it
does not include those who concerned themselves solely or (like Hartung) primarily
with individual dramatists.
6 Sandys (1908: vol. III, 144 6, with further bibliography at 145 n.1).
7 As his younger brother Ludwig ‘never appeared in public, a legend arose that he did
not exist, but was invented by Wilhelm to help to account for the extraordinary
number of editions that appeared under the name of Dindorf’ (Sandys 1908: vol. III,
146).
8 Sandys (1908: vol. III, 144). It is not clear whether Sandys means moral or editorial
principle. Perhaps both, though his reliance on the work of others might suggest the
former.
TRAGIC THRAUSMATOLOGY 23
critical study of the dramatic poets, and the tragic poets in particular, was
still in its infancy’.9 His collections were published in Oxford and London
as well as in Leipzig, sometimes simultaneously, and there was also a
pirated version, not to mention his separate editions of the individual
tragedians.10 The result is thus something of a bibliographical jungle.
Furthermore, what are labelled as successive ‘editions’ of Dindorf are
sometimes, but not always, what we would call reprints, with few if any
changes.11
Successive generations of scholars have criticized Dindorf for the
‘absence of rigorous and uniform method’.12 He relied heavily on the work
of earlier editors: Porson for Aeschylus, Brunck (= Valckenaer; see Radt
1977: 9 13) for Sophocles, and Matthiae for Euripides.13 It would be easy
to dismiss him as slipshod: indeed, his productivity was so great that one
might wonder how he had the time to read anything, let alone do anything
accurately.14 But that would be unfair, since he possessed ‘the knack of
getting things right, even when he was working at top speed’.15 His
annotations to fragments, however, are often exiguous, or totally lacking.
The importance of Dindorf lies in his ubiquity, rather than the quality
9 Dindorf in Schenkl (1863: 312).

10 On 1 November 1846 Dindorf published a formal notice in the English press
explaining that the Oxford version of 1845 was simply a reprint of his ‘first imperfect
attempt of 1830’, issued without his knowledge or approval, which took no account
of his annotations to the four dramatists published between 1836 and 1841, and not
(as purchasers might have expected) a true revised second edition. Hence his care to
describe the real second edition (‘which will be, in every respect, much superior to the
first’) as ‘correctior’.
11 The fifth edition (Leipzig, 1869, sometimes reported as 1868, the result of misreading
the figure VIIII), makes use of Nauck and is a considerable improvement on its
predecessors, but the sixth (London 1876) appears (at least on cursory inspection) to
be simply another reprint of the second.
12 e.g. Schenkl (1863: 311 2); Jouan and van Looy (1998: lxvii); the frequently cited
survey of scholarship in this volume is by van Looy.
13 In the second, third and fourth editions his English publishers (librarii Oxonienses)
substituted Wagner for Matthiae, as he explains in a footnote of his fifth edition
(1869: 291); in that edition he used the first edition of Nauck (1856). Nauck was not
happy about Dindorf’s treatment of his material: ita egit ut meam recensionem parum
diligenter suos in usus converteret (‘He has proceeded to make his own use of my recension
in a very careless manner’) (Nauck 1889: Preface x).
14 A similar judgment in Fraenkel (1950: vol. I, 53)
15 Zielinski (1894: 10). Cf. Wilamowitz (1982: 144 5) and Fraenkel (1950: vol. I, 53 4):
‘Dindorf never was, and could not possibly be, a reliable editor . . . But . . . as he was a
very able man and one who really knew Greek, he will surprise us every now and
then, in the midst of the most unbelievable carelessness, by a brilliant observation or a
convincing suggestion.’
24 DAVID HARVEY
of his scholarship. During the quarter-century before the publication of

Nauck’s classic work, his edition reigned supreme and unchallenged. The
first edition of Nauck contains a concordance to Dindorf’s edition (1869)
and no other, and there are similar concordances in the volumes of TrGF,
issued well into the twentieth century. And the sheer number of reprints
attests to the popularity of his Poetae Scenici Graeci. Even after Nauck had
appeared, British scholars preferred to use Dindorf, at least for
Euripides,16 perhaps out of habit, or perhaps because it was more easily
obtainable in the United Kingdom. ‘Hasty and superficial as the book was,
. . . it is probably still in more general use than any other edition’, wrote
Pearson as late as 1917.17 Indeed, in the late nineteenth century, copies of
the bumper Dindorf might be awarded on school Prize Days.
Meineke’s teacher, Gottfried Hermann (1772 1848)18 was a scholar of
very different calibre indeed, a major figure in the study of Greek drama
and poetry. A man who ‘knew Greek better than any German before
him’,19 he ‘made a greater contribution than any other scholar to the
emendation of the text [of Sophocles]’.20 He published no collection or
edition of fragments, but he can hardly be omitted here, because his
occasional pieces include a number of discussions of fragmentary plays
that are still very valuable.21
Hermann’s thorough and intimate familiarity with the ancient texts
gave him a ‘fine sense of Greek idiom’, combined with logical precision;
he published detailed studies of metre and syntax, and of particles and
idioms, as well as commentaries and editions. Wilamowitz envisaged him
as a cavalryman, riding straight ahead towards the truth (sometimes he
lectured in a blue riding-coat, high boots and spurs); he believed he knew
what the poet ought to have said, quid debuerit poeta dicere.22 ‘When one’s
head is awhirl after reading all the well-versed and perverse (gelehrte und
verkehrte) stuff about a controversial passage, and then someone with true
knowledge of the language seems to hit the nail on the head without any
fuss or bother . . . that is the breath of the spirit of Hermann’.23
16 Jouan and van Looy (1998: lxvi n.166).

17 Pearson (1917: xcii).
18 See Wilamowitz’s balanced assessment (1895: 233, 236 40); see also Sandys (1908:
vol. III, 89 95 portrait on 94, bibliography in 95 n.1); Pfeiffer (1976: 178 9); E.G.
Schmidt (1990); Lloyd Jones and Wilson (1990: 2 3); Jouan and van Looy (1998: lxv).
19 Wilamowitz (1982: 236).
20 Lloyd Jones and Wilson (1990: 2).
21 Hermann (1827 77).
22 Wilamowitz (1895: 236); Sandys (1908: vol. III, 92, 94); Pfeiffer (1976: 178 9).
23 Wilamowitz (1895: 239 40).
It has become almost traditional to contrast Hermann with Friedrich
Gottlieb Welcker (1784 1868):24 one turns to Hermann for accuracy of
scholarship, to Welcker for imaginative reconstruction. Others before
Welcker, of course, had considered the contexts of dramatic fragments,
but he was the first to do so on a grand scale (in three volumes), and his
work strongly influenced many scholars in the succeeding decades.25 But
he was not such an eager rebuilder as Hartung.26 Nauck was engaged in a
different type of enterprise, but spoke of Welcker with greater respect27
than of Hartung, whose work he dismissed with scorn.28 ‘Welcker’s book
is as readable today’, wrote Pearson in 1917, ‘as when it was first printed.
He had spared no exertion in sifting the whole of the data provided by the
mythographical authorities, and in comparing them with the relevant
indications of the tragic fragments. On the basis of this evidence the plots
were reconstructed with remarkable acuteness; and the results, though
necessarily often conjectural, can be checked, even where they fail to
convince, by the openly displayed material of the sources quoted.’29
Pfeiffer wrote of his ‘profound feeling for Greek religious myth’, and
continues: ‘His outstanding knowledge and his rare understanding of the
Greek genius as a whole [i.e. religion, art and poetry] enabled him to
reconstruct lost parts of Greek poetry . . . It is very easy to blame him for
being too imaginative, and Hermann’s sober scepticism will always be a
sound antidote.’30
Sandys passes a harsh judgment on Friedrich Bothe (1770 1855) who,
he says, ‘spent his whole life in the mechanical manufacture of classical
books. His best work was connected with the Greek and Roman drama.
He repeatedly edited all the Greek Dramatists, including the fragments . . .
In all these works there is a lack of critical method, but there are many
excellent emendations.’31 Pearson cites him as an example of the influence
24 See the papers of the 1984 Bad Homburg and Bonn conferences on Welcker (Calder
1986), especially the contribution by Radt on ‘Welcker und die verlorene Tragödie’.
See also Wilamowitz (1895: 240 2); Sandys (1908: vol. III, 216 7, bibliography at 217
n.9); Pearson (1917: xcii iii); Wilamowitz (1982: 126 9); Jouan and van Looy (1998:
lxiv v).
25 And that influence persists: a recent reconstruction of Sophocles’ Tereus (Fitzpatrick
2001) starts from Welcker, though dissenting from his conclusions.
26 See Hartung (1843 4; 1851; 1855).
27 Nauck (1889: Preface vii ix).
28 See esp. Nauck (1853). Cf. n.38 below.
29 Pearson (1917: xcii iii).
30 Pfeiffer (1976: 179 80). For a fuller assessment, especially of his work on the trilogies
of Aeschylus, see Radt (1986).
31 Sandys (1908: vol. III, 102 3); derived from Bursian (1883: 709 11).
26 DAVID HARVEY
of Welcker, and dismisses his work as ‘not of much independent value’.32

His reputation has, however, recently been reassessed by Diggle, who
shows, in a chapter entitled ‘Apologies to Bothe’, that he should be
credited with many conjectures formerly attributed to other scholars.33
II. Nauck
The first edition of the Tragicorum Graecorum Fragmenta edited by August
Nauck (1822 92)34 was published in Leipzig in 1856.35 It was dedicated to
Meineke (Augusto Meinekio comiti huius operis benevolo), whom he thanks
warmly in his Preface for the hours that he had spent with him in friendly
discussion. ‘He was an exceptionally wise man’, he says, ‘and I never went
away from him without having learnt something, or without increased
affection and respect for his virtues and intelligence.’36
Nauck states his principles clearly in his Preface (esp. vii viii). He has
aimed throughout at brevity and simplicity. He will print only the better
readings. He will name the scholars who originally proposed conjectures,
but not all those who have accepted them; he will cite only a few
conjectures the most probable ones without favouring his own, and
simply omit bold and bad discussions, without laborious refutation. He
has searched out the source of each fragment, and will include
‘imitations’37 when these are certain. He has also printed, or given
references to, ancient accounts of plots and briefly indicated those that
can be plausibly reconstructed; but it is (he says) a waste of time to try to
restore entire plays from tattered fragments.38 He has avoided rudeness to
other scholars and non-scholars (doctos indoctosve homines). And he has only
rarely explained his reasons for adopting readings, for assigning fragments
to plays or for the order in which they are presented.39
32 Pearson (1917: xcii with note).

33 Diggle (1994: 518 20); but he says nothing about the fragments.
34 For a full account of Nauck’s life and achievements see Zielinski (1894); briefly,
Bursian (1883: 870 2) and Sandys (1908: vol. III, 149 52, bibliography at 152 n.2).
35 The book did not spring fully fledged from the head of Nauck: he had published a
series of preliminary articles from 1847 onwards (listed in Jouan and van Looy 1998:
lxvii n.168). These articles provide discussions of readings, as the volume does not.
36 Nauck (1856: Preface viii).
37 Nauck’s word imitationes presumably refers to Latin translations and to passages in
later authors modelled on lost originals.
38 ‘Those who profess the ingenious art of dreaming up whatever they want should look
elsewhere for interpreters of their dreams’ (1856: viii); a swipe at Hartung and his
followers.
39 I take it that Nauck’s laconic phrase in dispositione locorum refers to both types of
A century and a half later, these principles still strike us as admirable.
But the justification he gives for that last one not to give reasons for his
decisions is surprising: those who believe mevga biblivon mevga kako;n
(‘a big book is a bad book’) will forgive him, he says, especially as he wants
to be of service to scholars (eruditi), not to pupils or beginners. But surely
it is the former, not beginners, who would be interested in the reasons that
he has suppressed. In order to keep such a book to a reasonable scale and
get the best of both worlds the best practice is surely to offload
justifications and discussions into separate publications, either articles or
books.40
Nauck’s major achievement was that he was the first to gather all the
tragic fragments in a ‘self-sufficent’ volume, rather than presenting them
as an appendix to one or more of the individual tragedians. And, as van
Looy says, ‘Nauck had put the whole of ancient literature through his
sieve, including lexica, Etymologica and Anecdota . . . What strikes one
above all is on the one hand his rigorous and consistent method and on
the other his scholarly honesty; the only subjective element is the order of
fragments, often based on Welcker.’41 The volume was provided with
thorough indexes and a concordance with Dindorf’s first edition (1830).
Despite Nauck’s claim to have avoided commenta temeraria, he was
criticized on precisely those grounds: ‘While recognizing Nauck’s brilliant
acuity and great gift of divination’, wrote Schenkl, ‘we must nevertheless
reiterate our earlier judgment, that he often goes too far with his
conjectures and deletions, and also attacks readings whose transmission is
perfectly sound; which is why one should handle them in a conservative
manner.’42 Schenkl gives six examples from Euripides and lists about a
dozen discussed by other critics.
As early as 1864 Nauck was considering a second edition of his great
work, but he saw no prospect of completing it; ‘for the time being’, he
wrote, ‘I have decided to bring out a separate fascicle of corrigenda et
addenda. There is no shortage of material for that, but it will be very
difficult to bring it to completion.’43 In fact, he did something rather
different: there was a demand for a new (third) edition of his Teubner
Euripides and he decided to add a third volume to this, containing the
placing.
40 Such as Lloyd Jones (1994), and as indeed Nauck himself had done in his earlier
articles (n.35 above).
41 Jouan and van Looy (1998: lxviii).
42 Schenkl (1863: 490 1); cf. the translator’s note on Nauck’s Sophocles in Wilamowitz
(1982: 147 n.553).
43 Zielinski (1894: 54).
28 DAVID HARVEY
fragments, with condensed critical comments. This amounted to a second

edition of the fragments of Euripides; and for good measure, the volume
also contained a supplement to the fragments of the other tragedians.44
Nauck’s Preface also collected the ‘fragments’ of three surviving plays,
Electra, Heraclidae, Hercules (i.e. passages quoted in later authors) in order to
show what a hazardous business it was to reconstruct entire dramas from
such material;45 this exercise was principally aimed at Hartung, ‘who has
surpassed all others in irresponsible confidence’.46
The progress of the second edition of the Tragicorum Graecorum
Fragmenta can be traced in Nauck’s correspondence.47 In view of the work
of Cobet and others on the tragic fragments, he wrote to a colleague in
1877, ‘I would be very glad if fate would permit me to produce a new
edition of the fragments of the tragedians, on which so much real progress
has been made over the past couple of decades.’ ‘But’, he pointed out in
1886, ‘the second edition will involve more work than the first’.
Fortunately his colleagues provided help in particular, Gomperz, Hense
(with Stobaeus)48 and Maass (with the scholia to Homer)49 and a year
later he was able to say: ‘The new edition of the tragic fragments is so far
advanced that I still hope to be able to complete it’ (he was in his mid-
sixties). ‘I hope I shall live to see the publication of the book.’50
The second edition, ‘enlarged and revised so as to include the latest
available material, appeared in 1889, and has remained the indispensable
foundation of all subsequent work’.51 But Nauck himself was not entirely
happy with it. ‘No-one is more aware of the deficiencies of my book than
I am’, he wrote. ‘No doubt many things could have been improved if it
had been delayed for five or ten years; but old age would have prevented
me from bestowing proper care on it; and even after a longer period of
44 Nauck (1869); supplement at xv xxvi.

45 Nauck (1869: viii xv). K.J. Dover has recently performed a similar experiment for
comedy, using the ‘fragments’ of the Frogs, in his Prelude (‘Frogments’) to The Rivals of
Aristophanes (Harvey and Wilkins 2000).
46 Nauck (1869: viii). See above nn.26 and 38 on Hartung.
47 Zielinski (1894: 54 6).
48 For the importance of Stobaeus in this context see Kassel’s chapter in this volume.
49 Other colleagues are listed and thanked in Nauck’s Preface (1889: xvi xviii). This time
there is no mention of Meineke, who had died in 1870; the work is dedicated instead
to ‘the illustrious school of Porta’, where both Meineke and Nauck were educated.
For other distinguished alumni see Wilamowitz (1982: 113 14, with the translator’s
n.439).
50 Zielinski (1894: 56).
51 Pearson (1917: xciii iv).
time much would still remain that I regretted.’52 He claims credit only for
care and industry, though he is sure that there are things he has
overlooked and adds that his work has been hampered by failing memory
and eyesight.53
Nauck claims in the Preface to the second edition that he has seen no
reason to change his principles, which he reiterates;54 but we find that
these, like the book itself, have been aucta et emendata. He has tried to
attribute emendations and conjectures to their authors, but because of the
vast extent of the literature and the lack of books in St Petersburg,55 he
feels sure there will be plenty of corrigenda. His policy towards conjectures
has been more generous than in the first edition, because (a) even where
they are wrong, they may sometimes lead towards the true reading and (b)
it will prevent conjectures made long ago being put forward again as new
ones.
As for the plots, he has printed probable conjectures as well as
testimonia. He likens the reconstruction of the plots of lost plays from
scraps preserved by chance and from evidence that is frequently
unreliable, to the construction of buildings without a firm foundation,
which will soon collapse. That is why he has rarely cited Welcker. He has
not overlooked the learned and ingenious book of that exceptional
(egregius) man, but he has rarely mentioned it: Nauck has been reluctant to
tackle the types of enquiry that Welcker undertook, on the grounds that
they are too slippery; conversely, Welcker had not distinguished himself in
emending the text of the poets, which Nauck sees as his primary task. ‘If it
can be proved that I have done less than justice to Welcker or any other
philologist by passing over in silence matters on which they have arrived
at the right conclusions, put it down to carelessness or forgetfulness or
to anything other than malice, a vice far removed from my nature.’ ‘It goes
without saying’ he adds, ‘that the work that I have undertaken is of a kind
that cannot be successfully carried out by one single person, nor even
within a single century by a cooperative effort.’56
52 Zielinski (1894: 55).

53 Zielinski (1894: 57) gives a detailed account of Nauck’s eye trouble and how the half
blind scholar dutifully struggled to read his proofs.
54 Nauck (1889: Preface vii ix).
55 As both editions of the Tragicorum Graecorum Fragmenta were published in Leipzig,
casual users of the volume might well imagine that Nauck spent his working life in
Germany; in fact, he was elected Member of the Academy of St Petersburg in 1859,
was professor of Greek Literature in that city from 1869 to 1883 and remained there
until the end of his life.
56 Nauck (1889: Preface ix).
30 DAVID HARVEY
The importance of Nauck’s collection may easily be measured by the

fact that for over a century it has been impossible to discuss the
fragmentary plays without frequent use of the abbreviation N. As Snell
points out: ‘Nauck laid such solid foundations for the study of Greek
tragic fragments that for 115 years no-one working on lost Greek dramas
could fail to take his book as their starting-point.’57
But finishing the book had left a gap in Nauck’s life. ‘Up to the end of
last year I was so engrossed in the tragic fragments that I had no time to
be ill’, he wrote in 1889. ‘But when the work was completed, I began to
suffer from exhaustion and a kind of lethargy that I have still not
completely overcome.’58 The gap was soon filled, however, by a task that
he had already envisaged two years previously.
‘I would be very happy if some younger scholar could be found who
would prepare an Index tragicae dictionis to the second edition’, he wrote in
1887.59 In 1871 I. Bernhardt had published part I of an Index graecitatis
tragicae continens tragicorum minorum fragmenta et adespota, but now a complete
index was needed. Once Nauck’s second edition had been published,
requests for a full Index were renewed; Nauck hesitated because of his
advanced years, but his energetic and scholarly young colleague Peter
Nikitin,60 despite his many other duties, promised to help him; and Nauck
was confident that Nikitin would complete the work if he (Nauck) should
die. Furthermore, the Imperial Academy at St Petersburg recruited other
young men61 to help collect material that Nauck was to organize. But it
was a far from pleasant task (laborem minime iucundum): ‘I would never have
asked anyone to tackle it, if I had had any idea of the trouble it would
cause; but once begun, it was impossible to give it up.’
The chief problem was coordinating the manuscripts of different
contributors, which arrived in varying proportions and had often been
compiled on differing principles. Nauck needed to establish a consistent
style (and manageable quantity) and to ensure accuracy and completeness.
57 Snell (1971b: Preface ix). For other assessments see Weil (1889: 323); Zielinski (1894:
16 17); Wilamowitz (1895: 201 2); Pearson (1917: xciii); Wilamowitz (1982: 147).
58 Zielinski (1894: 56). Cf. Marrou (1977: 45): ‘We have learned, in Péguy’s words, “that
intellectual work (le travail spirituel) is paid for by its own peculiar kind of inexpiable
fatigue”.’ In addition, there was further deterioration of his eyesight (n.53 above).
59 This material in this paragraph is taken from Nauck (1892: Preface iii vi) and the
correspondence quoted by Zielinski (1894: 56 7).
60 Rostovtzeff was an undergraduate at St Petersburg at this date (1890 92), and Nikitin
was one of his tutors (Fears 1990: 406).
61 These collaborators are duly acknowledged in Nauck’s Preface (1892: iv), where
exotic names such as Krascheninnikof and Slaschtschefski flash out between the
paragraphs of his elegant Latin.
When the material had been collected, he and Nikitin went through it
adding omitted words, deleting delenda, lengthening or shortening the
quotations, correcting errors, and then trying to reduce it all to reasonable
proportions. Some colleagues had neglected to observe the prescribed
order of examples, so that some of the lengthier entries had to be copied
out again. ‘I will not say how much valuable time we wasted on this
tedious task; again and again I wished I had never embarked on it. Now I
am glad to have finished with all the troubles of the work; but I rejoice still
more that a work useful to philologists has come into being. If competent
judges approve of it, it is Peter Nikitin above all whom they should thank.’
Although the individual volumes of the new TrGF have numerous and
thorough indexes, there has been no comparable work, even after 110
years. The Index begins with a twenty-five page Supplementum ad tragicorum
graecorum fragmenta (viii xxxii), of which the fragment of Euripides’ Antiope
(223 Kannicht), then only just published,62 is the most extensive. It was a
sign of what was to come.
III. Papyri63
In the Preface to the second edition of his work, Nauck wrote: ‘Many new
tragic fragments, some of them of exceptional interest (egregiae), have come
to light during these thirty-three years [since the publication of the first
edition].’64 He must be alluding above all to the discovery of texts on
papyrus. The first edition of Tragicorum Graecorum Fragmenta is a papyrus-
free zone and only a single papyrus, Aeschylus fr. 99 (Radt) from his Cares
or Europa,65 appears in the second edition of 1889. But three years later, in
1892, Nauck wrote in the Preface to his Index ‘the study of Greek
literature is in a ferment, we see new fragments of poetry dragged forth
from the store-rooms (claustris) of libraries and from the tombs66 of Egypt,
there is an increasing number of things for us to learn and unlearn every
62 By Mahaffy (1891).
63 We say nothing here about the numerous papyri that preserve fragments of plays
already familiar to us from the medieval manuscript tradition, because they are not
fragments in the sense used in this volume. They are generally included in statistical
and other surveys.
64 Nauck (1889: ix). He adds an accurate forecast: ‘and soon a new crop of supplements
will be shooting up as well, to increase the size of our collection; nor will there be any
cessation of scholarly dispute, to which we owe so many corrections, some resting on
manuscript support, others discovered by perceptive conjecture.’
65 The subject of Antony Keen’s chapter in this volume.
66 Some texts did come from mummy cartonnage, but many more from rubbish heaps.
32 DAVID HARVEY
day.’67 Indeed, as we have seen, he felt it necessary to preface his Index

with a twenty-five-page supplement. These manuscripts that were being
‘dragged forth’ are not only fascinating in themselves, but the story of
their discovery is also of some interest.68
Papyri were first discovered at Herculaneum in 1752; unfortunately
they were carbonized and in a very fragile condition, so that it has not
been possible to unroll them and read them until quite recently.69 None of
these were tragic texts. A new phase opened in the 1870s, when
excavations of the rubbish heaps of ancient Egypt began. The years 1888
to 1891, during which Nauck was producing his second edition and
struggling to compile his Index, have been described as the ‘heroic years’:
they saw the discovery and publication of papyri of lost works of
Bacchylides and Hyperides, the Oxyrhynchus historian, the Aristotelian
Constitution of Athens and the Mimes of Herodas.70
Sir Frederick Kenyon, speaking in his seventy-fifth year to the Fifth
International Papyrological Congress, recalled the time when a scholar
could have a working knowledge of all extant papyri,71 the days before the
word ‘papyrology’ was coined:72 ‘a single life-time covers the emergence of
this whole department of humanistic science, as it has covered the
emergence of the bicycle from a toy to a universal means of transport, and
in this town [Brussels] a danger to life . . . ’.73
The vivid yet careful contemporary accounts by the excavators
themselves convey much of the excitement of those early days:74
. . . the difficulty was to find enough baskets in all Behneseh [=

Oxyrhynchus] to contain the papyri. At the end of the day’s work no
67 Nauck (1892: v vi).

68 The sketch that follows owes much to Turner (1968). Some reviewers criticized this
book harshly on account of a number of trivial errors; these do not prevent it from
being the most helpful book on the subject.
69 Among those who tried was (Sir) Humphry Davy, the inventor of the miner’s safety
lamp: Sandys (1908: vol. III, 449 n.1).
70 Turner (1968: 21 31).
71 Kenyon (1938: 11).
72 Kenyon (1938: 9 n.1) concurs with the OED: its first appearance was in the Athenaeum
on Christmas Eve 1898: ‘In the department of papyrology, if we may use such a
word.’
73 Kenyon (1938: 2).
74 Tony Harrison’s The Trackers of Oxyrhynchus (1991) is an imaginative tour de force that
sets the circumstances of excavation on stage in counterpoint with elements of
Sophocles’ Ichneutae, with virtuosic ingenuity of rhyme. The published text contains
two versions: one performed at Delphi in 1988, the other at the National Theatre,
London, in 1989.
less than thirty seven good sized baskets were brought in from this
place, several of them stuffed with fine rolls three to ten feet long,
including some of the largest Greek rolls I have ever seen. As the
baskets were required for the next day’s work, Mr Hunt and I started
at 9 p.m. after dinner to stow away the papyri in some empty packing
cases which we fortunately had at hand. The task was only finished at
three in the morning, and on the following night we had a repetition
of it, for twenty five more baskets were filled before the place was
exhausted.75
A total of sixty-two baskets of Byzantine archives, that is, not of tragic

fragments. But papyri of tragedy did emerge, as we have seen, though not
in basketfuls; neither a trickle nor a flood, but a steady stream which has
changed the whole landscape of the study of fragments.76
In 1912 A.S. Hunt (1871 1934) brought out an Oxford Classical Text
of Fragmenta Tragica Papyracea: it contained pieces of Sophocles’ Ichneutae,
Eurypylus and Achaiôn Syllogos, Euripides’ Hypsipyle, Cretans and Melanippe
Desmotis, and an anonymous Satyri now tentatively assigned to Sophocles
(fr. 1130 Radt, a dubium).77 It thus served as a useful supplement to Nauck.
There were seventy-four pages of text and the book cost three shillings.
The apparatus was brief and the texts admirably clear (readers could make
their own conjectures). ‘It cannot be said that the texts here collected add
anything of the highest value to our stock of Greek literature’, remarked
the anonymous reviewer in the JHS, rather sniffily, though he praises the
editor’s work as ‘excellent’.78
By the 1930s ‘the golden era, when almost every month, certainly every
year, might be expected to bring some startling discovery, was coming to a
close’; the period that followed ‘was largely one of consolidation’.79
In dealing with papyri, scholars had had to accustom themselves to a
type of textual criticism that differed from traditional methods: it was no
longer a matter of attempting to put right a corrupt text, but of filling
lacunae (most often at the beginnings and ends of lines, because of the
way in which documents were folded before they were thrown away).
75 Grenfell’s account, reprinted at some length in Turner (1968: 27 30); Rees (1960: 12
13); cf. Hunt (1922).
76 For the years that followed see Turner (1968: 31 41).
77 Some of these were very recent discoveries.
78 anon. (1913). Cf. also Kenyon (1919), who wrote: ‘Of tragedy, unfortunately, there is
not much to be said.’
79 Rees (1960: 13 14). Cf. Pickard Cambridge (1933) for a level headed and somewhat
leisurely discussion of the major finds, with texts, translations and discussions that
place the fragments in their plots. His chapter is still well worth reading.
34 DAVID HARVEY
These lacunae were like a crossword puzzle without any clues other than
sense, grammar, metre, the number of spaces and (if you were lucky) the
traces of a few letters, and without any cross-checks. A number of
conventions for the publication of epigraphic texts (different types of
bracket, sublinear dots etc.) was agreed on at the International Congress of
Orientalists at Leiden in 1931, and these were adopted by papyrologists
too.80 This means, of course, that papyri have a distinctive look on the
printed page.81
One of the most striking features of the earlier lists of tragic papyri is
the absence of Aeschylus. Thus in J.G. Winter’s book of 1933 Aeschylus
scores nil, Sophocles 13, Euripides c.40. ‘The goddess of papyrology, ei[te
Tuvch ejsti;n ei[te Yammw; h] w/|tini ou\n ojnovmati caivrei ojnomazomevnh
[Fate or Sandy or whatever name she rejoices in], has not been very kind,
at any rate so far, to Aeschylus’, said Fraenkel, memorably, in 1942.82 It
would have been easy and mistaken to conclude that Greek settlers in
Egypt found him too difficult. The trouble was that the tomb of a
venerated holy man, Sheikh Ali-Gamman, sat on top of one mound and
Grenfell and Hunt’s workmen were at first unwilling to search there.
Eventually King Fuad I intervened and Italian excavators from 1928
onwards uncovered pieces of Aeschylus’ Niobe, Myrmidons, Glaucus Potnieus,
Xantriae, and the satyr-plays Glaucus Pontius, Theori or Isthmiastae and
Dictyoulci83 from the same mound, but not in the same hand.
Of particular interest among these were the fragments of satyr-plays,
since this was a genre for which Aeschylus was said to been especially
famous (Paus. 2.13.6; cf. Diog. Laert. 2.133). But the fragments were too
tattered to tell us as much as some had hoped. Nevertheless, the increase
in our knowledge of satyr-plays is one of the most striking results of the
finds from the sands of Egypt. Previously Euripides’ Cyclops had been the
only known example of the genre. Now the papyrus texts include a
disproportionate number of them, from some seventy plays, and these
include some of the most substantial dramatic fragments that we have (e.g.
S. Ichneutae).84
80 See Woodhead (1959 ch.1, 6 11); Turner (1968: 70, 179 80).
81 Nauck (1889) transcribes Aeschylus fr. 99 (Radt) in capital letters without word
division before offering it in a more reader friendly style.
82 Fraenkel (1942: 237).
83 Turner (1968: 33); Martin (1947: 90); a slightly different account in Fraenkel (1942:
237, 248 9).
84 The handsome volume edited by Krumeich and others (1999) will now replace
Steffen (1952) as the standard collection. We are also fortunate in having
Seidensticker (1989), a useful collection of twenty articles on satyr plays, with an
The next important publication of dramatic papyri after Pickard-
Cambridge’s chapter (n.79) was in the Loeb collection edited by D.L.
Page (1907-78).85 Page included most tragic papyri that were of any
significance, relegating some scrappier items to a footnote. Each fragment
is prefaced by a substantial bibliography and introduction summarizing
what is known of the play. In his Preface Page put his finger on a matter
of editorial principle which was to remain controversial: ‘I began eager to
fill every gap with flawless fragments of my own composition; I ended
with the desire too late to remove all that is not either legible in the
papyrus or replaceable beyond reasonable doubt. At the eleventh hour,
indeed, I expelled handfuls of private poetry: yet far too much remains,
hard though I tried to print nothing which is inconsistent with spaces and
traces in the papyrus.’86 The (expensive) ideal, surely, would be to print a
scrupulously minimal transcript facing a text that contains what the editor
believes to be the most plausible supplements.87
Because Page’s work appeared in the Loeb series, he was obliged to
provide English versions. ‘Of my translations I cannot think with any
satisfaction’, he confesses. Neither could his reviewer, Davison, who was
unhappy with Page’s style.88 Furthermore, the lack of square brackets in
the English versions is disturbing: for example, when the innocent reader
finds E. Antiope fr. 223.43 4 (Kannicht) translated as ‘Ignorant of the toils,
if it be God’s will, this king shall soon fall wounded in the house’, (s)he
cannot know that the Greek has only the seven words ‘if a god wills it’ and
‘in the house’. However plausible the supplements, this is very mis-
leading.89 These however are comparatively trivial blemishes in a very
handy volume, which contains much more than the dramatic papyri, and
has served us well for half a century.
Page included thirty-six fragments in his collection: 2 (+ 1) Aeschylus, 5
(+ 5) Sophocles, 11 (+ 3) Euripides, 8 adespota (figures in brackets are
admirably thorough bibliography. These works make it unnecessary to cite further

literature here, though we can hardly omit Seaford’s perceptive and wide ranging
discussion (1984a: 1 48).
85 Pickard Cambridge (1933); Page (1942). For an entertaining brief biography of Page
see Dawe (1990).
86 Page (1942: viii).
87 A procedure similar to, but not identical with, that devised by Lobel for the
Oxyrhynchus publications (see Turner 1968: 71).
88 ‘at times deformed by specimens of that “translator’s English” which has long been
used . . . as a reproach to classical scholarship’, (Davison 1943: 19).
89 The same criticism may be levelled at Lloyd Jones’ Loeb Sophocles fragments (1996).
Geoffrey Arnott’s Menander volumes in the Loeb series (1979 2000) show that it can
be done, and in a way that is unlikely to intimidate the ‘general reader’.
36 DAVID HARVEY
fragments hesitantly ascribed); but after the earliest years, it becomes

difficult (and unrewarding) to measure the progress of tragic papyrology
simply by counting fragments, if only because of the differing criteria by
which lists are compiled. As numbers increased, and papyri were
published and discussed in widely dispersed journals and fascicles, scholars
needed bibliographic assistance. The first attempt to provide a listing was
Oldfather (1923), which was superseded in 1952 by Pack’s bibliography,
whose second edition of 1965 is now the indispensable standard work.
The full title of Oldfather’s book is The Greek Literary Texts from Greco-
Roman Egypt: a Study in the History of Civilization and we should not overlook
that subtitle. Quite apart from the increased number of papyri published
after 1923, Oldfather’s bibliography is much skimpier than Pack and the
book contains two essays on the history of civilization (quite unlike Pack).
Pack carefully lists literary papyri alphabetically (first extant works, then
‘new’ ones) under each author, with a brief indication of the nature of
most discussions (‘reedits the text’, ‘on the legend’, ‘on the plot’, ‘queries
the attribution’ etc.).90 A team of scholars at Liège is now preparing a third
edition, of which some sections have already been published.91
Recent years have not seen a dramatic accession to our stock of tragic
papyri. Parsons (1982) writes, ‘Recent papyri [of drama] have provided
only snippets.’ He lists A. Psychagogoi (?), S. Aias, Niobe; E. Antigone or
Antiope; and the hypotheses to Auge, Archelaus (?), Alexandros; one piece of
(?) Astydamas, and an anonymous asigmatic play about Atlas. Succeeding
years have yielded an even sparser harvest: Luppe’s surveys report one
word of Aeschylus;92 half a word of Sophocles;93 twelve lines, scarcely
legible, from Sophocles (junior?)’s Achilles;94 and the hypothesis to E.
Melanippe Sophe.95
Hypotheses (plot-summaries) of ancient dramas are one of the most
important groups of tragic papyri, even though they do not contain any
fragments of tragedy at all. Outstanding among these is P.Oxy. 2455,
90 Corrigenda will be found in Willis (1968: 206 7 n.3) and a hefty list of addenda (six
pages of small type) in Uebel (1974).
91 For an abridged version of the Euripides section see Bouquiaux Simon and Mertens
(1992); for other authors see p. 97 of that article.
92 Luppe (1991: 77).
93 Luppe (1997a: 93).
94 Luppe (2001: 187).
95 Luppe (1992: 86). Earlier lists for tragedy, with discussion, in Collart (1943). For
divergent views on the value of such statistics, see Willis (1968: 205 with n.2). A more
significant kind of progress in improved readings, interpretation and under
standing cannot be quantified.
published in vol. 27 (1962) of the series, which contains hypotheses to no
fewer than twenty-one plays of Euripides, all but three previously
unknown. But it is not unique: Dr van Rossum-Steenbeck’s valuable and
informative book on the subject, wittily entitled Greek Readers’ Digests?,
catalogues twenty such dramatic papyri in all, including two unpublished
ones.96 It is difficult to know whether Hartung would have been overjoyed
or overwhelmed. Van Rossum-Steenbeck classifies hypotheses of the type
preserved in P.Oxy. 2455 as ‘narrative hypotheses’; there are also three
‘learned papyri’ and, in a category of its own as a ‘descriptive hypothesis’,
the comic P.Oxy. 663, Cratinus’ Dionysalexandros.97 Part I of her book is
concerned with identifying the readership for which these summaries were
intended and with relating them to their subliterary context: she looks at
them in their own right, not as scaffolding for reconstructing plays. But
tragic scholars who use these documents should now turn to her careful
and judicious work first, especially as it contains (in Part II) revised and
improved texts of all the relevant papyri, based on autopsy.98
IV. After Nauck

Since Nauck, the main focus of scholarly attention has been the papyri,
which we have just surveyed. After all, they provided new texts and their
study transformed the entire subdiscipline of post-Nauckian fragmentary
scholarship. There have, however, been other developments.
One immediate effect of the appearance of Nauck’s work, both the
first and second editions, was the publication of articles containing
sheaves of emendations.99 A fever for emendation, an insanabile kakoethes
emendandi, seems to have infected scholars working in this field. One feels
that, just as some people try to complete the crossword after breakfast
every day, these men had a shot at a daily dozen or more emendations
after dinner. Scholars active indeed, in some cases overactive in this
field include F.H.M. Blaydes, who ran a veritable ‘emendation factory’. He
‘astonished the world of classical scholarship with the almost unbelievable
quantity of his conjectures, most of which are no more than marginal
notes, thrown off completely at random’.100 Others included C.G. Cobet,
W. Collmann, R. Ellis, R. Enger, T. Gomperz, W. Headlam, H. van
96 van Rossum Steenbeck (1998: 12 22).

97 van Rossum Steenbeck (1998: 37 9).
98 75 in all, since the work covers much more than dramatic hypotheses. It represents ‘a
much firmer basis than hitherto for future research’, Luiselli (2000: 151).
99 Indeed, some reviews of Nauck took the form of strings of emendations.
100 Jouan and van Looy (1998: lxxiii).
38 DAVID HARVEY
Herwerden,101 S. Mekler, F.W. Schmidt,102 M. Seyffert, T.G. Tucker and

N. Wecklein. Some of these ‘emendationists’ published whole bookfuls of
emendations.103 Of these, Cobet is a major figure.104 Wilamowitz credits
him with ‘a mastery of language such as only a few men have ever
possessed or ever will possess’.105
Several histories of Greek literature have given due consideration to the
fragmentary plays. Schmid’s accounts in the multi-volume Schmid-Stählin
(1934, 1940), part of Iwan von Müller’s multi-shelf Handbuch der
Altertumswissenschaft, are now elderly, but remain unrivalled in their scale
and for their detailed bibliography of the earlier literature. Lesky’s
magisterial work (third edition, 1972) is the finest general account of
Greek tragedy and his surveys of the fragmentary dramas could hardly be
bettered.106
Searching for more book fragments would, one might think, have been
scraping an already well-scraped barrel. However, in 1959 Professor Linos
Politis discovered a manuscript of the complete Lexicon of the patriarch
Photius, ‘the best of the Byzantine scholars’, in the remote monastery of
Zavorda, south of Kozani in Western Macedonia. Until then, the Lexicon
had been known only from a defective manuscript in Cambridge, which
lacked the opening pages; eventually the new material was incorporated
into a new edition of the entire Lexicon (ed. Theodorides 1982). This
discovery provided the world with a handful of new fragments of classical
authors, including six of Aeschylus and thirty-five of Sophocles, nearly all
single words,107 now incorporated into the relevant volumes of TrGF.
Other sources of fragments have benefited from more recent, better,
editions: to take a single example, only the first volume of the edition of
Stobaeus, that great source of sententious fragments, by C. Wachsmuth
101 Jouan and van Looy (1998: lxix n.175) list van Herwerden’s articles; assessment in
Wilamowitz (1982: 91).
102 Jouan and van Looy (1998: lxx); starting from conservative principles (potius est
conservare quam destruere), his ingenuity led him to increasingly bold conjectures.
103 E.g. van Herwerden (1862; 1887); Cobet (1854; 1858; 1876; 1878); Schmidt (1886
1887); Blaydes (1894; 1898; 1899; 1902; 1906; 1907). Cf. Jouan and van Looy (1998
lxviii lxxiii).
104 Sandys (1908: vol. III, 282 7, portrait at 274); Wilamowitz (1982: 89 91).
105 Wilamowitz (1982: 91).
106 It includes separate sections on the fragments of Aeschylus, Sophocles and the
Minores; those of Euripides are mostly integrated with the discussions of the extant
dramas. The book pre dates most of TrGF. There is an English translation (Lesky
1983).
107 Details of the discovery will be found in the articles listed in Politis (1961); on the
progress of work on the MS, see Theodorides (1982: ix x, xxvii xxix).
and O. Hense (1884 1923) was available to Nauck.
And progress could be made on the book fragments without using new
material, as Buchwald’s dissertation Studien zur Chronologie der attischen
Tragödie 455 bis 431 (1939) demonstrated. Its title is misleading: although
the second part concentrates on chronology, the larger first part consists
of annotations (amounting to commentaries) on the fragments of
Sophocles’ Tereus and of six Euripidean tragedies.
Another and much more substantial way in which the study of the
fragmentary tragedies has been enriched has been through the use of
visual evidence, above all the images on painted pottery. Nauck does not, I
think,108 mention any artistic representations in his introductory notes to
each play. This would be, if not unthinkable, at least regarded as highly
reprehensible in any modern publication. Vases are cited wherever
appropriate in the apparatus to TrGF and in the new Budé edition of
Euripides’ fragments (Jouan and van Looy 1998 2003), where they are
more easily picked out, since the bibliographies to each play have a
separate section of ICONOGRAPHIE. The introductions to each of the
plays contained in Collard, Cropp and Lee (1995) also contain
bibliographies and discussions of Illustrations.109
A pioneering work in this field, on a generous scale, was that of L.
Séchan (1926), who ‘takes one by one all the plays of Aeschylus,
Sophocles and Euripides which treat of subjects conjecturally or
unquestionably represented in the art of the vase-painter’. The book,
which covered both the surviving and the fragmentary plays, with an
emphasis on the latter, was ‘a model of French lucidity of treatment and
accurate scholarship’.110
Trendall and Webster’s Illustrations of Greek Drama (1971) has long been
the best book on this subject to refer to and to browse in: it provides very
clear photographs, with attributions and dates, as well as discussions of a
large number of tragedies111 (and comedies). But its title, Illustrations of
Greek Drama, is in my view unfortunate, since that is precisely what they
are not though the authors do not, of course, take a naïvely
108 I have merely looked at one or two where a reference might be expected; for a
confident negative assertion it would be necessary to read each of them with greater
care.
109 For other works, see Jouan and van Looy (1998: lxxiv v, esp. nn.204 5), and
Trendall (1989: 276).
110 anon. (1927).
111 164 by the major tragedians.
40 DAVID HARVEY
‘photographic’ view of their material.112

Vase-paintings constitute an important source but they need to be
handled with caution. They may illustrate a myth, not a tragedy based on
that myth;113 or they may reflect a painting illustrating the myth. If they do
depict a drama, the image may not be of one particular moment: the artist
may fuse different scenes from the play, or even scenes from different
plays; or he may try to include all the main characters (who may not all
appear on stage at the same time), in the way that posters for films often
show all the leading actors together. They are not photographs of a
production. They ‘offer us, as it were, an artist’s recollection of the play, in
which he gives us the principal characters, a striking scene from the play,
and perhaps a hint of what may be the aftermath’;114 or they may depict
‘the denouement of the tragedy, which could not of course be performed
on the actual stage.’115 They do not show the stage or masks,116 though
they can be informative about costume. Trendall’s excellent chapter (1991)
guides us though the most important vases that may help towards the
reconstruction of lost dramas.117 But we still lack a tragic counterpart to
J.R. Green’s entertaining and informative article on gesture on the comic
stage (2001).
During the past century, there have been two major advances in this
area. First, the dedicated work of Sir John Beazley and others above all
Trendall on the South Italian vases (which provide a disproportionately
large quantity of the relevant images) has enabled us to place vases in
their chronological context with some confidence. Second (rarely
commented on, though it is striking enough), there has been an enormous
improvement in the quality of photographic reproduction, especially of
colour images, throughout the twentieth century.118 Thus Séchan’s book
(1926) is illustrated with over 160 line-drawings, but no photographs, and,
seven years later, Pickard-Cambridge (1933) boasts a single clear photo
(Fig. I) and a number of line-drawings labelled without any indication of
112 Cf. also J.R. Green’s book on the Greek theatre (1994), which makes copious use of
the visual evidence and is aware of the care needed in handling it (esp. 24 6).
113 Trendall (1991: 177 8).
114 Trendall (1991: 170; cf. 173).
115 Trendall (1991: 169).
116 Vallois (1928: 143 4); Trendall (1991: 171 2, 176 7).
117 Trendall (1991: 179 82).
118 In addition, many Greek vases may now be contemplated on the internet (in colour).
However, photographing vases presents problems because of curving surfaces and
reflection from glossy surface, and sometimes a good drawing may be preferable
(Cook 1972: 282 4).
provenance or date (unknown at that time).119
Now we have the sixteen stately volumes of the Lexicon Iconographicum
Mythologiae Classicae (1981 99), a multilingual enterprise edited by an
international team of scholars. This of course is of enormous value in
many branches of scholarship, not only tragedy: it contains full lists (with
references) of artistic representations (in all media) of mythological
personages (individuals and groups); since many of them are characters in
Greek drama, one has only to look up (say) Oedipus or Niobe to find all
that one needs. The lists are preceded by references to literary sources and
a full, authoritative discussion. The second volume of each pair contains
photographs of a generous selection of representations (asterisked in the
lists). It is a tribute to the editors that such a huge venture has been
brought to completion in less than twenty years.
Also worthy of comment is Musa Tragica (1991), a beautifully produced
volume containing a generous selection of testimonia and fragments of
some thirty of the minor tragedians. The texts are taken from TrGF, with
a reduced critical apparatus, supplemented with a facing German
translation and notes. The book has (remarkably) been edited by a group
of students and Doktoranten from the philological seminar at Tübingen,
with the collaboration of Richard Kannicht.120 Six editors are named on
the title-page, but, as the preface makes clear, the enterprise involved
numerous people121 over a period of ten years. It was stimulated by the
appearance of the first two volumes of TrGF, which the editors hoped to
make accessible to a wider readership. This admirable and ambitious
project ‘does enormous credit to the care and perseverance of the students
involved’.122
Collard (1999) begins his thoughtful and exceptionally thorough review
of James Diggle’s selection of tragic fragments (1998) with ‘a loud
welcome and louder applause’. ‘When has there been such a full selection
before, let alone one of this quality?’, he asks. It is a slim and elegant
volume, with a fuller apparatus than Hunt (1912). In some respects,
though, it is not self-sufficient, and the reader will need to consult TrGF
(see West 1999), which was still incomplete at the time it was published.
There is little bibliographical guidance: we are told who made conjectures
but not where. This policy of names without addresses is of course
119 In the text and notes we get at most e.g. ‘a famous Campanian crater’ (109), ‘the vase
is signed by Lasimus’ (128 n.1); but that name is a modern addition to the vase
(Trendall 1989: 14); contrast Trendall and Webster (1971: 91).
120 In this context, perhaps to be understood as ‘under the guidance of’.
121 Eight others are named (1991: 6).
122 Ireland (1992: 452).
42 DAVID HARVEY
standard practice in Oxford Classical Texts, but particularly unfortunate in

this context. That said, the quality and presentation of the texts themselves
could hardly be bettered.
But the major event since Nauck has been the publication of the
Tragicorum Graecorum Fragmenta (TrGF). Towards the end of the twentieth
century, a new edition had become desirable for several reasons: scholarly
work on the fragments and their sources had been continuing steadily
through the decades and, as we have seen, an increasing number of
entirely new fragments had accrued as a result of the gradual discovery
and publication of papyri. In place of Nauck’s single volume of over a
thousand pages, there are now six large tomes; a great achievement and
the single most important development since Nauck. All volumes, of
course, follow the same editorial principles, though these are not set out in
the Prefaces more Nauckiano. The editors, whose work has evoked a
universal chorus of praise and admiration, are Bruno Snell, Stefan Radt
and Richard Kannicht. The volumes are vol. I (Snell 1971b) Didascaliae
tragicae, catalogi tragicorum et tragoediarum, testimonia et fragmenta tragicorum
minorum; vol. II (Kannicht and Snell 1981) Fragmenta adespota, testimonia
volumini 1 addenda, indices ad volumina 1 et 2; vol. III (Radt 1985) Aeschylus;
vol. IV (Radt 1977) Sophocles and vol. V.I and V.II (Kannicht 2004)
Euripides.123
Each volume begins with a list of abbreviations, which constitutes a
bibliography of scholarship on the fragments (fifteen pages for Aeschylus,
ten for Sophocles); then come the ancient Vitae and the testimonia to the
events of the dramatist’s life and to his works (165 in all for Aeschylus,
including some 800 lines of Aristophanes’ Frogs; 184 for Sophocles),
divided into clear sections and all with full apparatus. The Aeschylus
volume follows this with a list of tetralogies, divided into certain and
hypothetical, the latter with bibliography.
At the heart of each volume are of course the fragments themselves,
with an introduction (in Latin) to each play (what is known of the plot, the
production of the play; vase-paintings that may be related (fortasse
referendae) and a very full double apparatus: an upper one giving the
source(s) and context of each fragment, and the lower one the apparatus
criticus (with bibliography); all this is much fuller than Nauck (whose
equivalent of the upper one cited only Apollodorus and Hyginus). The
fragments are arranged in traditional order, alphabetically by the name of
the play (A. nos. 1 281; S. 1 730; E. 1 844); then those incertarum
fabularum (A. 281a 451b; S. 730a 1116c; E. 845 1106), then dubia et spuria
123 See also Kannicht (1997).

(A. 451c 489; S. 1117 1154; E. 1107 1033). Radt mercifully retains
Nauck’s numbering for Aeschylus, numbering addenda as 000a etc., but
this proved impossible for Sophocles. Aeschylus’ fragments thus occupy
some 400 pages of Radt (as opposed to Nauck’s 125), Sophocles some
550 (about 230 in Nauck). Euripides now has two full volumes to himself.
The Aeschylus volume ends with three indexes: (1) of words to be
added to Italie’s Index (1964); (2) fontium; (3) a concordance with the
numbering of Mette, including his Supplementum (1939) and Nachtrag
(1949). Similarly for Sophocles: (1) addenda to Ellendt’s Index (1872); (2)
fontium; (3) a concordance with Nauck and with Dindorf’s final (1869)
edition.
It is a pleasure to end our general survey with a work of such very high
scholarly quality. Competent judges agree that the texts consistently merit
confidence. The volumes are ‘definitive and worthy of Nauck’,
‘magnificent’, ‘splendid’.124
V. Individual dramatists, individual dramas

Proper consideration of scholarship on the individual tragedians would
double the length of this chapter; we therefore offer summary lists of
editions, with a scattering of comments.
Aeschylus
The chief editions of the fragments of Aeschylus since Nauck, other than
Radt’s volume (1985), are: Wecklein (1885; see Fraenkel 1950: vol. I, 56
7); Sidgwick’s Oxford Classical Text (1900; this, unlike its successors,
includes the fragments); Wilamowitz (1914, selected fragments only); Weir
Smyth’s Loeb Aeschylus II (1926) and Lloyd-Jones’ Appendix to its 1957
reprint (with English translation, ideal for rapid consultation); and a series
of publications by the energetic Mette (1939, 1949, 1959, 1963, 1968),
notorious for his over-optimistic supplements (see Lloyd-Jones 1961). A
new Loeb Aeschylus, including selected fragments, has been com-
missioned from Sommerstein (forthcoming 2007).
Editions of and commentaries on the papyrus fragments include
Fritsch (1936); Cantarella (1948); and Watt (1982). There is also a separate
commentary on the Dictyulci by Werre-de Haas (1961).
124 These two paragraphs are heavily indebted to van Looy (1987) and other reviewers.
44 DAVID HARVEY
Sophocles
The chief editions are: Campbell (1881, with brief notes in the style of the
abridged Jebb); Pearson (1917, in three volumes, complementing Jebb’s
notable series of commentaries on the extant plays); Diehl (1913, with
rash supplements); Carden (1974, an outstanding edition of the papyri);
Paduano (1982, Radt’s text, with full biblio. at 93 8); Lucas de Dios (1983,
Spanish trans., no Greek, substantial introductions to each play and
generous annotation); and again the marvellously convenient Loeb volume
by Lloyd-Jones (1996). Radt’s TrGF 1977 volume was issued in a
corrected edition in 1999. And now the Centre for Ancient Drama and its
Reception (CADRE) at the University of Nottingham aims ‘to create an
edition of nine selected tragedies with translation and commentary’ edited
by Sommerstein, Fitzpatrick and others. The volume, which will be
uniform with the Collard-Cropp-Lee Euripides (below), will include
Syndeipni (= Achaiôn Syllogos), Polyxena, Troilus, Hermione (= Phthiotides),
Tereus, Phaedra, Tyro A and B and Niobe. Sommerstein (2003), which casts
its net wider, gives us a foretaste and will eventually serve as a companion
volume.
The surviving fragments of the Ichneutae are substantial, and it has
therefore attracted numerous commentaries. Among pre-war publications
we single out the commentaries by Terzaghi (1913), as perhaps the first
separate edition of any fragmentary play; Walker (1919) as the most
eccentric editor; and Siegmann (1941), whose dissertation was ‘far above
the average . . . its importance has been widely acknowledged’ (Johansen
1963: 278).125 More recently the following editions have appeared: Steffen
(1960); Ferrante (1958), with ‘very rash supplements’; (Johansen 1963:
276); Sutton (1979); Maltese (1982).
Euripides
It would be difficult to improve on the splendid survey of Euripidean
scholarship by van Looy in Jouan and van Looy (1998: lviii lxxix).126
Among the publications that have appeared between Nauck and
Kannicht’s TrGF volume we may single out Murray (1904: 313 52), a
gentle introduction to the fragmentary plays with translations, which
should not be overlooked simply because Murray has become
125 The author came to London in August 1939 to make one final check of the papyrus,
but found the British Museum closed immediately after his arrival (Siegmann 1941:
6). His name cannot have recommended him to the authorities.
126 To which this chapter is deeply indebted.
unfashionable; von Arnim (1913), unsatisfactory; Snell’s (1956)
supplement to Nauck, a standard work republished in 1964 together with
a reprint of Nauck (1889); the hypotheses in P.Oxy. vol. 27 (1962; see pp.
36 7 above); and Austin (1968) for the papyri. Three bilingual editions
have appeared in recent years: Seeck (1981: see the appreciative comments
in Jouan and van Looy 1998: lxxvii); Collard, Cropp and Lee (1995); and
Jouan and van Looy (1998 2003) in the Budé series. Jouan and van Looy’s
work is on a large scale four volumes, plump but pleasant to handle.
They offer all the fragments, with translations, helpful introductions and
full bibliographies, and their publishers are to be congratulated on
reprinting the first two volumes so promptly after the disastrous fire that
destroyed most of their stock. West’s review (1999) is largely critical, but
most of his criticisms concern superficial blemishes (misprints etc.);
Luppe’s verdict (1998: 221) is ‘excellent’ (vorzüglich). English readers are
very fortunate to have the admirable edition by Collard, Cropp and Lee of
nine selected plays (and the promise of nine more in vol. II, though sadly
Lee died recently). This ‘Cerberus-edition’ gives us not only very good
texts, translations, introductions and bibliographies, but most generous
and helpful notes as well. We are indeed living in the golden years of
Euripidean thrausmatology: besides these works, Kannicht’s TrGF
volumes have just appeared, and David Kovacs’ Loeb Euripides will
eventually be completed with a version of the fragments by Hugh Lloyd-
Jones, iam senior, sed . . . viridis senectus. Scholars and Greekless readers alike
will then owe him thanks for accessible and judicious bilingual editions of
the fragments of all three tragedians.
Although we are confining ourselves in this section to texts and
translations, we should perhaps make an exception for Webster (1967),
the most ambitious work of reconstruction in English. The ‘rapid and
authoritative’ tone of this book (Burnett 1968: 310) may lead an unwary
reader into believing that it rests on more secure foundations than it really
does. Webster has been sharply criticized above all for his method of
dating the plays and of grouping them into trilogies; his reconstructions of
individual tragedies have, however, generally found more favour.127
The following commentaries on individual plays have appeared since
the Second World War, most with bibliographies of earlier publications:
Alexander: Coles (1974), Scodel (1980); Andromeda: Bubel (1991), Klimek-
Winter (1993); Antiope: Kambitsis (1972); Archelaus: Harder (1985); Cretans:
Cantarella (1963); Erectheus: Martinez Diez (1975); Carrara (1977);
127 It is well worth reading a selection of reviews: Burnett (1968), Borthwick (1969), van
Looy (1969), Conacher (1970), Garvie (1971).
46 DAVID HARVEY
Hypsipyle: Bond (1963), Cockle (1987); Cresphontes: Musso (1974), Harder

(1985); Palamedes: Scodel (1980);128 Phaethon: Diggle (1970, 1996); Telephus:
Handley and Rea (1957), Preiser (2000).
VI. Whatever next?

We can expect that scholars will continue studying the texts hoping to
arrive at plausible readings and to reconstruct the action of the lost plays.
In reconstruction, naturally, the more informative the fragments and
testimonia, the greater the chance of success, or at least of plausibility.
Others will look at how the thoughts, characters and dramatic technique
in the fragmentary plays relate to those of the complete plays. All that is
obvious enough. What else?
1. ‘ej apparently followed by c or n, next a round-topped letter, e or o,
then faint traces of the top and bottom of an upright, then the bottom
of an upright; after the gap, a spot of ink on the line, the greater part of
an upright of which the top has gone, probably i, and a slightly curved
upright most like the first stroke of p or n’ wrote Lobel of the end of
col. II, line 17 (=815) of fr. 47a of Aeschylus’ Dictyulci (P.Oxy. 2161)129
with characteristically scrupulous conscientiousness. Despite his
painstaking description, however, this is not easy to visualize and
there are many other annotations like it. Thanks to modern technology,
however, it is now possible to call up the Oxyrhynchus papyrus online
and look at a startlingly good photograph of it, which enables us to see
not only the ipsissima verba of Aeschylus, but the ipsissimos litterarum ductus
of the scribe. The more tragic papyri that are made similarly available
on our screens, the happier we shall be.130
2. Splendid though the volumes of TrGF are, they do not lend themselves
to rapid consultation. They are marvellous for the study of individual
fragments, or an individual play; but the very quantity of the
information that they offer makes them less suitable for anyone
skimming rapidly through for views on (say) slavery or women. There
128 I relegate Sutton (1987) on Palamedes and Pirithous to a footnote, in view of the
exceptionally harsh comments in Harder (1990, beginning ‘This is an appalling
book’); cf. Craik (1988).
129 Radt prints these letters simply as e ... [.] ... [ .
130 Images of the papyri contained in Volumes 41 to 67 of the Oxyrhynchus Papyri may
now be summoned up on the Oxyrhynchus website (and a list of the contents of all
volumes). So too the Duke University database of documentary papyri and a very
useful checklist of editions of papyri. An online collection of tragic fragments on
papyrus would require international cooperation.
is surely a case for something in a handier format, an editio minor,
though the editors of the large volumes can hardly be asked to add this
task to those they have already accomplished.
3. There is also much to be said in favour of issuing a reprint of Nauck (I
cannot recall ever having seen a second-hand copy). Such a reprint
should be made available at a reasonable price, so that individual
scholars would be able to purchase it and university libraries acquire a
second copy if need be.
4. We have already applauded the initiative and perseverance of the young
graduate scholars whose collaborative efforts produced the Musa Tragica
volume.131 This is surely an example that might profitably be followed
in other areas of scholarship (and not only classical scholarship);
perhaps it is the answer to the question implicitly posed at the end of
point 2 above?
5. From an insular point of view, an English version of Musa Tragica
would be very welcome and of the volume by Krumeich et al. on
satyr-play (1999; n.84 above) too.
6. It is unlikely that anyone will attempt to write anything like Tony
Harrison’s Trackers of Oxyrhynchus, if only because it requires a dramatist
who possesses not only Harrison’s vision and skill in fusing satyr-play
with historical drama (the exploits of Grenfell and Hunt) but also his
dramatic flair and ingenuity in rhyme (the last is admittedly optional).
Besides, it is difficult to imagine what other themes there are which
could be combined in this way. But if someone could do it, or if Mr
Harrison (or Mr Stoppard?) were to create some other work of a similar
nature, we might safely predict that it would be a remarkable
contribution to literature.
7. David Wiles in this volume has done something rather different in
filling in the gaps in a fragmentary drama and in a way that can be
performed on stage. He has chosen the Hypsipyle, a play of which we
possess substantial fragments, so his task was neither as difficult nor as
risky as it would have been with more lacunose dramas. But it would be
interesting if others were to follow his example (or if Professor Wiles
were to tackle another play). There are at least two possible approaches:
the modern dramatist might try to write in the style of Aeschylus; or he
might give free rein to his imagination. Either method might produce
catastrophic results or a rewarding theatrical experience.132
131 Gauly et al. (1991); see above p. 41.

132 Anthony Payne has produced a posthumous performing version of Elgar’s Third
Symphony, a fine work, which sounds thoroughly convincing; but he had the
48 DAVID HARVEY
8. There have been a number of stagings of lost dramas in recent years.

The pioneers here have been Chloe Productions, who presented
Euripides’ Andromeda in London in 1996, directed by its reconstructor
and translator Russell Shone. The reconstruction made use of
Aristophanes’ parody in Thesmophoriazusae, the few surviving fragments,
iconographic evidence from South Italian vases and later treatments of
the myth, and its structure was modelled on the Helen. The same team
performed Sophocles’ Trackers in 1998, basing the later part of the play
(not preserved on the papyrus) on the Homeric Hymn to Hermes. The
innovative performance of Euripides’ fragments by the National
Theatre of Luxembourg (director Hansgünther Heyme) at a conference
at Delphi in July 2003 was a venture of yet another kind. It took the
form of monologues and conversations among a group of actors
representing survivors of the war gathered together in a bistro in
Germany in the early 1950s. There was no narrator: one set of
fragments flowed into the next. The fragments Cretans, Theseus,
Stheneboea and Bellerophon, Erectheus, Phaethon, Hypsipyle and some shorter
ones were translated by Kannicht. The production was highly praised;
whether anything else can be successfully presented in this style
remains to be seen.
9. And is it not time that the goddess of papyrology, ei[te Tuvch ejsti;n
ei[te Yammw; h] w/|tini ou\n ojnovmati caivrei ojnomazomevnh,133
favoured us with a spectacular find from the sands of Egypt (or the
private collections of Switzerland)?
advantage of familiarity with the whole of Elgar’s output, as well as the composer’s
sketches which is unattainable in the case of ancient drama.
133 See p. 34 above.
3
EURIPIDEAN FRAGMENTARY PLAYS

The Nature of Sources and their Effect on Reconstruction
CHRISTOPHER COLLARD
Part I of this paper amplifies some of the observations which I made

about sources in the General Introduction of Euripides: Selected Fragmentary
Plays (hereafter SFP).1 Parts II and III illustrate some of the difficulties in
reconstructing plays when there is great variation in the character of the
sources, texts and evidence, on the basis of two plays, the early Cretan
Women and the much later Oedipus.2 For both plays reconstruction has
been complicated by papyri.3
I. Sources
The Table below gives a rough count of sources for some seventeen
fragmentary plays, including almost all of those included in SFP I and II.
The categories are:
1. play ‘hypotheses’ (or ‘introductions’), on papyrus or in quotation as
book fragments, with those asterisked which contain ten lines or more,
and those of negligible content marked with an ‘x’; the same markings
are used in (3) for fragmentary papyrus play texts;
1 Collard, Cropp and Lee (1995: 1 4).
2 I treat the Oedipus in its entirety in the forthcoming Volume II of SFP.
3 The testimonia (symbol: T) and fragmentary texts (symbol: F) are numbered as they
appear in Vol. 5 of Tragicorum Graecorum Fragmenta, an asterisk indicating uncertain
attribution; I thank the volume’s editor Professor Richard Kannicht for permission to
use his numbering in advance. All texts are cited in translation, from Nauck (1964) for
Cretan Women and from Austin (1968) for Oedipus, or elsewhere as indicated.
50 CHRISTOPHER COLLARD
2. testimonia, i.e. secondary information whether documentary or literary;

3. texts, both on papyrus and in quotation either as book fragments or in
anthologies, chiefly gnomologies;
4. the total number of fragmentary lines surviving from a play of which
more than a single word survives or can be made out.
The figures are approximate only; other calculators might both
categorize and count differently. For fragments in quotation the main
source alone has been reckoned in; many fragments are attested in whole
or part in manifold sources. Such approximation does not imperil the
Table’s sole purpose, which is to illustrate the great variability of sources
in nature and number between plays. For some plays some categories are
unrepresented, while for others there are heavy concentrations in just one
or two categories.
Table
1 2 3 4
Hypotheses Testimonia Text Total
pap. b. fr. doc. liter. pap. b. fr. anth.
Aeolus 1* 1 10+ 10 22 65+
Alexandros 1* 2 ?9 1* ?9 19 350+
Andromeda 1 ?14 (1) 22 20 110+
Antigone 2 1 (1) 6 15 55+
Antiope 3 1 13 2*4+2x 22 27 225+
Archelaus 2 ?5 2* 5 30 145+
Bellerophon 1*+1x 9+ 12 20 105+
Cresphontes 1 ?7 2*+1x 8 3 160+
Cretans 1 ?5 2+ 6 0 (!!) 110+
Cretan Women ?5 6 6 25+
Erectheus 12+ 1* 13 11 240+
Hypsipyle 1* 6* 2* 14 3 610+
Oedipus 1x ?3 1*+2x 2 16 85+
Phaethon 1x 2 ? 2* 10 5 330+
Philoctetes 1* 1 1 45 14 6 40+6
Stheneboea 2x 1 1 5 8 4 55+
Telephus 1x 1 1 10+ 3*+1x 27 5 190+
4 I accept Luppe’s attribution of P.Oxy. 3317 to Antiope, which both Budé editors and
Kannicht in TrGF keep for Antigone as F *175 (lines 14 15 of the papyrus fr. 175
Nauck2).
5 Two of these testimonies are very, even uniquely, extensive, Dio of Prusa (‘Chryso
stom’), Orations 52 and 59: see Note 2b below the Table.
6 I do not try to reckon in the extensive prose paraphrase of one episode in Dio 59,
from which some early scholars attempted to reconstruct the original dialogue
trimeters.
EURIPIDEAN FRAGMENTARY PLAYS 51
Here are a few remarks on the principal categories in the Table.
1. Hypotheses: I have nothing to add here to SFP I (1 2).

2a. Testimonia: documentary evidence of performance only seldom helps
to fix the date of composition; but what help is such a date to recon-
struction or appreciation? Euripides’ dramatic style was notoriously
variable, but there seem to have been periods of consistency in both
plot types and styles. For example, Cretan Women is early in date and
the adulterous Aerope had a major part; but may it be assumed that
this play had the style of other early ones about sexually deviant
women, such as Cretans (undated, but probably early) or Stheneboea
(probably before 429)? Cretan Women is from the same year as Alcestis
and the Telephus, plays of very different content and manner. I return
to this point at the end of Part II.
2b. Literary testimonia can be very helpful to both reconstruction and
appreciation, where the sources give incidental information: good
examples are F 360 from Erectheus (SFP I: 148 9, 158 61), F 771 from
Phaethon (SFP I: 200, 204) and especially Philoctetes: much of its
prologue-speech (F 787 9, 789a, 789b) and one whole scene (F 789d)
are summarized or paraphrased in Dio (Orations 52 and 59); and 52
compares the Philoctetes plays of both Aeschylus and Euripides with
the surviving one of Sophocles.
3. The texts themselves show the greatest randomness in the number,
nature and extent of sources. It is surprising that the most even
distribution across the plays is of papyri but only in raw numbers,
because both extent and quality are so variable. Book fragments and
quotations in anthologies vary extraordinarily in number from play to
play, both between themselves and in relation to papyri. Philoctetes and
Andromeda are at one extreme: many of Andromeda’s fragments come
both from one source and from one part of the play, its opening
scenes in the parody by Aristophanes in his Thesmophoriazusae. At
another extreme is Cretans, with hardly any book fragments and no
anthological quotations whatever, yet with two papyri. There are very
few anthological fragments for Hypsipyle, and only two are overlapped
by the approximate third of the play’s total text which survives on
papyrus; yet this is the most extensive single papyrus from any tragedy,
complete or fragmentary.
4. The aggregate number of lines surviving for any one play is quite
misleading as a guide to the extent of possible reconstruction. The
opening scenes of Andromeda and the famous debate scene of Antiope
can be seen in outline, while much of the other episodes is conjectural.
For two plays in the Table, Cresphontes and Phaethon, there are even
overlapping papyri, in both cases in their choral parodos. Phaethon and
Hypsipyle have the greatest number of lines surviving, but their
reconstruction is still only partial.7
II. Cretan Women

The first reconstructions were definitively assessed by Lesky (1922 3:
182 3 = 1966: 526 7). The evidence available to him had not changed for
Webster in 1967 (37 9). Webster’s discussion was merely summarized by
del Freo (1996: 198 200); del Freo was it seems unaware of Gronewald
(1979) who identified in P.Harris 13 a fragmentary commentary on the
play (*T v below). Aélion (1983: 83 90, esp. 84 6), Luppe (1997b) and
van Looy in the Budé edition (Jouan and van Looy 2000: 289 301) have
discussed the papyrus.
T iii.a: Sophocles Ajax 1295 7 (Teucer insulting Menelaus): ‘You yourself
had a Cretan mother; she was caught in adultery with an outsider
by your father (Atreus: 1293), who sent her to be destroyed by
dumb fish’ (i.e. after her drowning in the sea fish would eat and
leave no identifiable trace of her body nor be able to give a report
of her death); here, Scholia in mss. L etc. 1297a Christodoulou
have ‘the story (is) in Euripides’ Cretan Women, that when she had
been secretly seduced by a servant her father (Catreus) handed her
over to Nauplius with instructions to drown her; but he did not do
this, giving her instead in marriage to Pleisthenes’.
T iii.b: Aristophanes Frogs 849 50: ‘You collector of Cretan monodies,
and introducer of unholy unions!’, on which Scholia to 849b
Chantry record among others the interpretation of Apollonius,
‘that this could also have been said about Aerope in Cretan Women,
whom (Euripides) brought on stage behaving like a whore’.
T iii.c: [Apollodorus] Library 3.2.2: ‘Catreus gave Aerope and Clymene to
Nauplius to sell in differing mainland countries. Pleisthenes
7 The Table omits figures for testimonia from ‘art’, although some very approximate
ones were provided at the oral presentation. Artistic testimonia are dangerous for
reconstruction; enough is said in SFP I (3 4 and e.g. 22, 24 on Telephus and 81 2 on
Stheneboea, with bibliography). They are also especially variable in number, some plays
(or rather, some prominent myths) being strongly represented, such as Alexandros. For
other plays very few or no such testimonia survive, where any artistic reflection would
at least aid speculation. There are no such testimonia yet for Cresphontes and Archelaus,
although both plays may well have had vivid contemporary reference and presumable
influence upon painters.
married Aerope and fathered Agamemnon and Menelaus, Nauplius
married Clymene’.
T iv: Aristophanes Acharnians 433: ‘(of) the rags of Thyestes’, on which
Scholia in mss. Er and Lh 433 Wilson have ‘either in the Cretan
Women or in the Thyestes itself’.
*T v: P.Harris 13 as re-edited and supplemented by Gronewald (1979):
‘ . . . [it] would [be] illogical (Line 2) for the women to be sent by
Catreus from [Crete], (3) [illogical] too (4) for them to [go away] of
their own accord abandoning (5) [their own families (or ?sons)].
The chorus too [would be] blind (6 8) [if it not only did not
recognize] Atreus in a royal and armed [?retinue], but also
[(?)almost . . . ’
This text was studied and slightly revised by Luppe (1997b), who reads
and supplements: ‘ . . . (Line 5) The chorus too [would be being (or perhaps
‘would have been’)] blind (6 8) [for not only not recognizing] Atreus
[approaching] in a royal and armed [?retinue], but also [ . . . ’
Reconstructors must consider four literary testimonia, five book
fragments (F 465 9), six anthological quotations (F 460 4, 470a; but the
last is a mere lemma without text) and one lexicographic fragment (F 470).
There is a noteworthy imbalance between testimonia and fragments in
their usefulness to reconstruction; but the reverse holds for Oedipus. My
discussion of Cretan Women relates very largely to the possible contribution
of the new literary testimony, *T v.8
The essence of the myth used by Euripides is given by T iii.a, b and c:
the Cretan king Catreus detected his daughter in an illicit and demeaning
union, either seduced by a servant (T iii.a) or as a result of her own lust (T
iii.b). He sent her to Nauplius, a king of the mainland Argolid, to be
drowned (T iii.a) or sold into slavery (T iii.c). Nauplius however married
her to Pleisthenes and she bore his sons Agamemnon and Menelaus (T
iii.a, c).
The scholia to Aristophanes’ Wasps 763a Koster, which afford F 465
(‘<Hades> (supplied by editors from the context in Aristophanes) will
judge these (? matters).’), attest Atreus in Cretan Women making or about to
make a judgement in relation to Aerope; her husband in myth is indeed
Atreus, and not Pleisthenes as in T iii.a and c. This apparent discrepancy is
of little moment, since the lineage and marriages of the entire family are
8 van Looy (Jouan and van Looy 2000: 293, n.7) observes that since the papyrus does
not name the dramatist (or indeed the play), its commentator may be annotating the
Cretan Women either of Agathon (39 F 1 TrGF) or of Carcinus (70 F 1); unlikely, given
the paucity of surviving commentaries on the minor tragedians? Cf. n.10 below.
notoriously variable.9 A bigger problem is that condemnation of Aerope

by Atreus naturally suggests that the dramatic scene of her adultery is
Mycenae/Argos, whereas T iii.a and c imply adultery in Crete and her
condemnation there by her father Catreus. I return to F 465 below. Next,
T iv refers the ‘rags of Thyestes’ to Cretan Women or to Thyestes’ name-
play. How would Thyestes fit into Cretan Women, unless the action were in
Mycenae, and why would he wear rags?
The newly adduced papyrus commentary tempts some clarification at
least of these confusing and partial testimonies, particularly because it
seems to offer help with determining the play’s scene. Before it, scholars
had been divided between Mycenae and Crete. Three factors seem to
point to Crete: (1) the stage role of Aerope’s Cretan father Catreus; (2) the
formation of the play’s chorus from women of Crete (an inescapable
implication of the play’s title); and (3) the inference from T iii.b that there
was a ‘Cretan’ monody in the play. Gronewald himself (1979) argued that
the papyrus supports location in Crete. The commentator seems to be
discussing a number of illogicalities in the action, but the condition of the
text leaves it unclear whether they were real or hypothetical only (both
Gronewald and Luppe acknowledge this difficulty; it induced Luppe to
supplement slightly differently from Gronewald). There seems however,
little point to the writer’s criticism unless he had the facts of the play but
found a lack of logic which needed comment if not explanation.10 What is
the significance for reconstruction of the chorus leaving Crete ‘of their
own accord’ and ‘abandoning [their own families (or ?sons)]’? At the same
time, it is stated as illogical that they are ‘sent by Catreus’. Do these
statements in themselves point clearly to Crete as the scene rather than to
Mycenae? One reconciliation between voluntary and involuntary departure
might be their going in company with their mistress Aerope when she was
sent away from Crete: we are familiar with sympathetic and uprooted
female choruses, for example in Hecuba and Iphigenia in Tauris. If the
chorus did go, there might indeed be an illogicality ‘[if it . . . did not
recognize]’ Atreus amid his royal retinue if the women had seen him
before on Crete itself. More likely, if they had left Crete and the play was
set in Mycenae, it would be illogical if they did not know Atreus for what
he was, since his identity as king in his home place would be obvious to
9 Lesky (1922 3: 182 1966: 526); cf. Kakridis (1978); West (1985: 111 and n.188).
10 Luppe (1997b: 49) suggests that the writer may have been relying upon indirect
material and not the play text itself. P.Harris 13 is dated to the second century AD, a
time to which a full play text of Euripides could well have survived.
all, including strangers.11 These considerations reduce the cogency of
factor (2) above; nor is it hard to set aside factor (3): the scholion in T iii.b
may mean no more than that Aerope’s monody (if indeed she had one at
all) acquired the implicitly pejorative label ‘Cretan’ because the lascivious
woman was herself a Cretan. The same problem arises with this passage of
Aristophanes, and the other scholion, 849a Chantry, in relation to an
apparent monody by Icarus in Cretans (SFP I: 55 and there is Aerope’s
wayward daughter Pasiphae in the two Hippolytus-plays, Hippolytus 337ff.
and Hippolytus Calyptomenus F 430).
The apparent stage-role of Catreus himself remains a problem, factor
(1): he punished his daughter Aerope for adultery with a servant,
apparently in Crete, sending her to Nauplius for execution (T iii.a, Scholia
to Sophocles) or for slavery (T iv). But Aerope’s more famous adultery
was the catastrophic liaison with her husband Atreus’ brother Thyestes (T
iii.a, Sophocles; many other accounts, e.g. Euripides Electra 719ff.). Can it
be that Euripides made the two adulteries into one: that the servant on
Crete was in fact Thyestes, who had fled from Mycenae after Atreus’
banishment and would-be execution of Aerope and rejoined her in Crete,
disguised as a servant (and in rags, perhaps to escape detection altogether,
or to avoid punishment when detected)? All this is speculation enough,
and may read like a desperate attempt to keep Crete as the scene, but it is
of the order of conjecture to which all reconstructors of the play in the
end resort (or else, despair). A more extreme speculation might reconcile
the differing locations indicated by the testimonia as a whole: the play
begins in Crete, with Aerope returning to her father after the detected
adultery with Thyestes; and Thyestes too is there, incognito and perhaps
a pursuing Atreus (seen by the chorus, so that their later inability to
recognize him would be illogical: *T v, the papyrus; again, see on F 465
below). Catreus punishes the adultery, perhaps the double adultery, and
the play ends excitingly with Aerope escaping death back in Greece, when
Nauplius marries her to Pleisthenes (who in this outcome is Atreus’
brother, not father; this relationship too is found in some sources: see n.9
above).
Can one go further? F 466 (‘Am I to kill your daughter as a favour to
you?’) is often taken to be Nauplius declining Catreus’ request to drown
Aerope (the fragment comes without dramatic context). If so, we seem to
be locked into Aerope’s banishment, and the presence of Nauplius, and
location on Crete, but the whole point of this story-motif is that
11 This line of thought is followed by Luppe (1997b: 47) in deciding for Mycenae as the
location; he takes the illogicality as a genuine fault in the play.
punishment is (not) carried out by a third party at a distance (for example,

Proetus fails to secure Bellerophon’s death in Stheneboea, T ii.a, SFP I: 84);
and it is impossible to think of Catreus travelling to Mycenae (together
with Aerope!) to ask Nauplius in person. Is F 466 spoken by a cuckolded
Atreus declining a second move by Catreus to kill Aerope, for her second
adultery in Crete, whether with a mere servant or a disguised Thyestes? F
465, ‘<Hades> will judge these (?matters)’, and its source perhaps support
that view, for the Scholia to Aristophanes’ Wasps 763a imply that the
comedian has substituted ‘Hades’ for ‘Atreus’ in his paratragic line, and
editors have accordingly emended it; but ‘Hades’ may have been genuine:
Atreus leaves it to an unspecified ‘death’ to punish Aerope. Even Atreus’
role as a stage character has been doubted: his name in the Scholion to
Wasps 763a, giving judgement on Aerope, which corresponds with
Sophocles Ajax 1295 7 (T iii.a), has been emended to ‘<C>atreus’ (by
Wilamowitz), to match rather the Scholion on Ajax (also T iii.a, cf. iii.c
[Apollod.]). Further, F 467, 468 and 469 describe a rich feast and its
rituals is this an account narrated in Crete of the infamous banquet at
which Atreus tricked his brother Thyestes into eating his children’s flesh,
an innocent-seeming feast turning into cannibalism? Or is it a feast
prepared within the play to celebrate Aerope’s marriage to Pleisthenes
(this is preferred by van Looy)?12 If it is an account, who could narrate
it Aerope, perhaps, but what of Thyestes himself, and in Crete? There is
in fact only one testimony to Thyestes in the play (T iv), and it is not
categoric.
All speculation feeds upon itself; and that is a prime danger. In this
play, it is enough to show where a little further ‘evidence’ may lead already
hazardous conjecture. The anthological fragments (F 460 464) can be
taken to support almost any reconstruction: F 460 suits the concealment
of either seduction or adultery and could be spoken by anybody in this
plot-myth; the same idea and similar wording appear in the Cretans, about
concealing Pasiphae’s scandalous union with the bull (F 472e.31 3, SFP I:
64 5). F 463 and 464 are cynical reflections upon men’s danger from their
wives; they may point to adultery rather than seduction. F 461 and 462 are
typical gnomic generalizations about work and money and defy any kind
of plausible location.
Even if *T v does relate to Cretan Women, then, the play’s plot remains a
thing largely of guesswork and its location is no clearer; and more guesses
are only added to those already made. Van Looy is commendably cautious
in reviewing all the evidence and older speculation; he favours Mycenae as
12 Jouan and van Looy (2000: 294).

the scene and thinks that the family relationship between Atreus and
Pleisthenes is unclear, that establishing a stage role for Atreus is
problematic and that Thyestes does not appear at all.13
There is moreover one final consideration, also a very difficult one; and
it is unaffected by the papyrus. The play’s date of 438 BC and its
companions in Euripides’ tetralogy of that year are known (T i and ii
Kannicht, not quoted here). Does it mean anything that two of those
plays, Alcmaeon in Psophis and Alcestis, show weak or morally flawed
husbands? Then we have contrasts, Cretan Women with its faithless wife (or
daughter) Aerope reversing Alcmaeon with the name-character faithless to
his first wife Arsinoe and her father Phegeus, while the pro-satyric Alcestis
offers lighter comfort and the third tragedy Telephus provides quite
different themes and excitement. Attempts have been made before to
‘unite’ this tetralogy around one theme; del Freo’s whole article of 1996
reviews them. He himself favours the earliest suggestion, by A. Schöll in
1839, that the ‘domestic hearth’ provides the moral focus (and the literal
one!) for all four plays, except that he rewords the theme as ‘hospitality’.
This represents even Alcestis only in part (Admetus’ earlier hospitality to
Apollo in his servitude, and to Heracles amid his own mourning), and
indeed Alcmaeon (the matricidal Alcmaeon received and purified by
Phegeus and then Achelous); it is risky to think of such a theme in Cretan
Women (unless much was made of Thyestes in Atreus’ or Catreus’ house)
and del Freo does not try; and for Telephus he can point with confidence
only to a single fragment, F 721, a one-liner about an abusive host. The
lure of reconstructing ‘thematic’ tetralogies is greatest for Euripides’ plays
of 415 BC, the extant Trojan Women, the half-visible Alexandros (see the
Table in Part I above), the very fragmentary Palamedes and the barely
discernible satyr-play Sisyphus.
III. Oedipus
The principal recent studies of Oedipus (after publication in 1962 of P.Oxy.
2459) are: Vaio (1964); Webster (1967: 242 6); Dingel (1970); Di Gregorio
(1980);14 Aélion (1986: 42 65); Hose (1990); van Looy, in the Budé edition
(Jouan and van Looy 2000: 429 58).
There are more text fragments for Oedipus than for Cretan Women, but
their different sources and character make the problems different too.
13 Jouan and van Looy (2000: 296).
14 This reconstruction is based in part on P.Vindob. 29779; this text, suggested as part
of a hypomnema to the play by Kannicht (1975), was shown to relate to Sophocles’
Oedipus Tyrannus by Luppe (1985), and is now so recognized by Kannicht in TrGF.
There is only one unequivocal testimony of use (T ii, below), unlike the
four or five for the other play, but there are two fairly recent papyri to
promise help in reconstructing the text. One identifies a long-known
adespoton as the play’s first line, but yields nothing more (F 539a =
adesp.378 Nauck2: P.Oxy. 2455); the other gives us thirty or so very
scrappy lines, overlapping a brief book-fragment (F 540, 540a, 540b:
P.Oxy. 2459). There have been as well two indirect gains from papyrus. F
554b is a new book fragment, a quotation within another newly found
text, Menander Samia 325 6 (P.Bodmer 25). F 556 is a quotation
attributed to the play by a fragmentary commentary upon Pindar Pythian
12, at line 25 (P.Oxy. 2536); it fills out a previously known one-word
lexicographic ascription to the play.15 Out of the eighteen book fragments,
however, as many as sixteen are anthological; among them are F 545 and
*545a, almost certainly to be ascribed to one context and perhaps to one
speech;16 *545a reveals a major Euripidean innovation, that Jocasta
intends to accompany Oedipus into his exile. Of the other two book
fragments, one is lexicographic (F 557) and cannot be given a dramatic
context, but the remaining one, F 541, is the most significant of all: it
recounts Oedipus’ forcible blinding by servants of Laius while still known
to them only as the son of Polybus, in contrast with the self-blinding so
powerful in Sophocles’ play and followed as a minor detail by Euripides at
Phoenician Women 60 2.
I deal here chiefly with the material new since Nauck.
F 539a ‘Without Phoebus’ permission (Laius) once got a child . . . ’ is
typical in its abrupt style of an expository prologue, and of its very
beginning. We would need however the entire play text to know whether
the words ‘without Phoebus’ permission’ heralded man’s defiance of
(oracular) god as a significant theme. Many critics who identify a major
role for Creon in the action, as long jealous of Oedipus’ success (F 551
below; compare Oedipus’ accusation of him in Sophocles’ play at 540ff.),
15 F 556 runs ‘ . . . and the tuneful reed which the Black River grows for the skilful
singing of breathy pipes’ (praise of Boeotian reeds, judged to provide the best
sounding pipes). The two verses are dialogue trimeters, surprising for their near lyric
tone. Van Looy (Jouan and van Looy 2000: 443) thinks of preparations for Oedipus’
and Jocasta’s wedding music, after his defeat of the Sphinx brings him the throne of
Thebes; alternatively, Laius’ funeral music is described?
16 F *545a ( 909 Nauck2, from which I translate) was first ascribed to the play in the
nineteenth century, but has been accepted in editions as ‘probable’ only since Austin
in 1968 (but he does not print its text: see the apparatus to his fr. 88); the Budé
edition and the new TrGF admit it as probable; in SFP II it is to be printed
accordingly, but I regard it as authentic to the play.
suggest him as the prologue-speaker; a servant is suggested, most strongly
by Vaio (1964); but a god is more likely, probably Hermes, with perhaps
some later disclosure of Apollo’s will or prophecy for Oedipus; the
dramatic technique would be like that of Hermes’ prologue in Ion.
There has always been intense speculation about T ii, John Malalas’
statement from the sixth century AD that the play is ‘about Oedipus,
Jocasta and the Sphinx’ (Chronographia II.17 Thurn = II.42 Jeffreys = p.
53.12 Dindorf).17 The new texts F 540, 540a and 540b, with their long
description of the Sphinx and its riddle, seem to substantiate Malalas for
the last element; but they also reinforce an old question, why Euripides
may have made the Sphinx so prominent. And why is Jocasta named
apparently with equal weight? Was the drama therefore chiefly about the
event which brought Oedipus to the kingship, his victory over the Sphinx,
and about his ensuing marriage to the dead king’s widow? Were these two
things as important, or more important in the play, than the murder of
Laius, and its detection (F 541)?
F 540, 540a and 540b are unquestionably from a messenger speech, and
not from a narrative prologue: this is shown by the style of the extended
description of the Sphinx coming to rest in the sunlight, which is a full
ecphrasis (F 540), and by the inclusion of hexameter verses when the riddle
is quoted (F 540a.22 4, perhaps also 25).18 Reconstructors must therefore
ask whether the solving of the Sphinx’s riddle was ‘enacted’ within the
play and reported immediately; or whether it preceded the play and was
merely recalled, perhaps by Creon or Oedipus himself. Such a report or
recollection may conflict with Malalas’ apparent implication that the
Sphinx had major importance.
Some scholars have suggested that the Sphinx was defeated before the
death of Laius: that makes the inclusion of an eye-witness account very
difficult unless we suppose with Dingel (1970) that the play’s essential
events were the defeat of the Sphinx, the murder of Laius and the blinding
of Oedipus when revealed as the murderer, and that it ended with
Oedipus’ marriage to Jocasta but not with his discovery as parricide and
incestuous son. Then it is hard to find a plausible context for F 551
(anthological in source), ‘The envy which ruins sense in many men has
destroyed him, and destroyed me with him’, almost certainly Creon’s envy
destroying the speaker Jocasta with Oedipus; and the play would have no
17 The very late date of this testimony means that it is most likely tralatician, rather than
that Malalas saw a complete play text.
18 It is now generally agreed that the style of the description, not least its inclusion of the
hexameters, disqualifies it for the prologue speech.
final catastrophe, in this myth above all something most unlikely for
Euripides.19
It is likely that F 541, the servant’s ‘first-person’ description of the
blinding, is also from a report speech. Two such narratives in one play are
not unusual for late Euripides (e.g. Iphigenia in Tauris, Bacchae); metrical
evidence puts Oedipus late.20 But do two such speeches mean two actions,
with the play in a sense bipartite like Hippolytus or Hecuba? Not necessarily:
the Sphinx description could well have been in the first episode, in a
report speech like that of Iphigenia in Tauris. The blinding would be
reported in the second episode, or in the third, for Oedipus would need to
have been identified as Laius’ murderer, and his revelation also as father-
killer would still lie ahead; it is unthinkable that the play did not end with
his full disaster, as in Sophocles. Hose (1990) has attempted to resolve this
problem with the idea that the narrative of the Sphinx was Oedipus’
own not spoken openly to the Thebans, nor to Jocasta (or we have a
dramatic manoeuvre like that of Sophocles, when Oedipus appears to tell
Jocasta for the first time, after years of marriage, about the incident at the
crossroad, OT 798ff.). Hose suggests that Oedipus is telling his ‘mother’
Periboea, wife of his ‘father’ the Corinthian Polybus, how he came to the
kingship of Thebes; Periboea has come from Corinth to Thebes to bring
her son news of Polybus’ death. Now Hyginus (Fabulae 67) gives a version
of the story, purportedly based on Euripides’ play,21 in which Periboea
tells Oedipus about his exposure as an infant; and the old man who
exposed him now recognizes him from his scarred feet. Hose’s idea, in
association with these details, is very attractive for reconstruction, for it
can accommodate Oedipus’ revelation, first (privately) as foundling and
therefore not the natural son of Polybus, and second (publicly) as the
murderer of Laius: Hose thinks of Periboea arriving at Thebes in the
chariot which belonged to Laius and was in the murder incident; Oedipus
had immediately sent it to Polybus as a gift; Laius’ men recognized the
chariot when it came with Periboea and concluded that Oedipus was the
murderer.22 The chariot thus acts as a ‘recognition-token’ like other such
19 This point was well made by Aélion (1986: 47).

20 Cropp and Fick (1985: 22, 70). The trochaic tetrameters of F 545 and *545a point to a
date around or after 415 BC. The year 410 is suggested by Hose (1995: 197),
developing an idea of C.W. Müller.
21 There has always been caution among editors of Hyginus, and still more among
reconstructors of the play, about the reliability of Hyginus’ source: see in particular
Huys (1997: 17 18). Kannicht in TrGF does not admit Hyginus 67 to the testimonia.
22 Oedipus’ gift of Laius’ chariot to Polybus appears first at Phoenissae 44, then in the
remarkable ‘Peisander’ scholion (Schol.Eur.Pho. 1760 Schwartz Peisandros 16 F 10
material things in tragedy and especially Euripides, for example the cradle
in Ion. Then the public blinding of Oedipus as regicide might lead through
the old man’s recognition of his scarred feet to his full revelation also as
parricide and incestuous son; Creon’s pronouncement of exile as his
further punishment would bring on Jocasta’s astonishing determination to
support and accompany him. This gives a good shape to the play and it
has the merit of leaving much room for development of the relationship
between Oedipus and Jocasta (F 543 8, cf. 551 again), even if it
diminishes Malalas’ significance for the Sphinx.
What happened at the end of the play? Did Oedipus leave Thebes to go
into wandering exile, as in Sophocles or stay, as Euripides had him stay
in Phoenician Women? Was there simply a god, to explain and to foretell, if
not to comfort? That seems most likely. It is here that the new fragment
554b is difficult (‘O citadel of the land of Cecrops, O outspread heaven, O
. . . ’ [the quotation is ‘embedded’ and curtailed for dramatic effect]).
Someone is apostrophizing Athens merely apostrophizing, or actually in
Athens to say the words?23 Di Gregorio (1980) indeed thinks of a final
change of scene. I cannot believe that; and it would be unparalleled so late
in a play. Rather, any final apostrophe of Athens (there seems no reason
to put it earlier in the action) may cohere with F *545a, where a woman,
surely Jocasta, says that physical disfigurement should not deter a wife
from supporting her husband (lines 1 6) and insists on sharing the misery
of hers, namely Oedipus (lines 11 12, ‘You and I since you are guilty of
wrong I shall endure sharing your guilt and help you to bear your troubles;
and nothing will be (too) harsh for me.’). That would be a typical
Euripidean innovation, with Jocasta not taking her life as in Sophocles,
and not only living on as in Phoenician Women but sharing Oedipus’ exile
an innovation like the punitive and forcible blinding. If there was then a
god, and it was Athena, the apostrophe of Athens in F 554b may be part
of the relieved reaction of Oedipus or of Jocasta at the promise of
FGrH Jacoby); the gift is of horses, perhaps a loose synonym for ‘chariot’, in
Antimachus of Colophon (fr. 70 Wyss) and in Hyginus. The reliability of ‘Peisander’
for reconstructors of the Oedipus is disproved by de Kock (1962), cf. Lloyd Jones
(2002); Kannicht in TrGF excludes the scholion from his testimonia.
23 Cropp in Cropp and Fick (1985: 70) however suggests that ‘Cecrops’ may be
Menander’s substitution (Samia 325), in his own play, set in Athens, for Euripides’
‘Cadmus’; the same suggestion seems to be made independently by van Looy (Jouan
and van Looy 2000: 444). If Oedipus indeed appeals to his native city of Cadmean
Thebes and its heaven, as so many tragic sufferers do to their homes (e.g. Orestes 1296,
with West’s note), it must be after his revelation as parricide, possibly at the news he
must leave Thebes to go into exile.
sanctuary, perhaps intimated by a god; but then one would have to

consider whether Euripides was quite deliberately playing for applause,
using the myth version which Sophocles was later to exploit so fully in
Oedipus at Colonus. At any rate, an intended joint exile as the play’s ending
would also help to explain Malalas’ implication that the play was hardly
less about Jocasta than about Oedipus.
These suggestions still do not provide any real importance in the action
for the Sphinx, unless perhaps we imagine an early emphasis upon
Oedipus’ intellectual brilliance in solving its riddle; such a theme might be
continued in F 548, where someone (Jocasta?) values intelligence above
handiwork or strength, and in F 552.1 2 and 553 where intelligence is
praised, stupidity criticized.24
As for Cretan Women, so for Oedipus: fresh evidence, certain or uncertain,

tempts or even compels reconstructors towards venturesome conjecture.
Some things become a little clearer, such as the factors which may
establish the scene of action in Cretan Women. Some light shed upon one
thing may not illuminate others: establishing a significant part for the
Sphinx at the start, or indeed at any point, of Oedipus makes it no easier to
reconstruct the proportions of the rest.
24 The word ‘intelligence’ occurs in the new F 540a.22, but as part of the Sphinx’s
hexameter riddle itself, not in respect of a solver’s necessary skill, or Oedipus’ skill in
particular (as evoked by himself at e.g. S. OT 398).
4
LYCIANS IN THE CARES OF AESCHYLUS†
ANTONY G. KEEN
On a rather corrupt second-century1 papyrus from the collection of

Ambroise Firmin-Didot are preserved, rather poorly, some sections of
Greek tragedy. They include the following large fragment2 which, from
first publication (Weil 1879: 22), was believed to belong to the Cares or
Europa of Aeschylus, a play whose existence is known from the catalogue
of the dramatist’s works (fr. 1),3 and from Stobaeus (fr. 3) and Stephanus
†
This paper has benefited from the discussion generated after its delivery and indeed
throughout the conference. I thank all those whose remarks have helped improve this
contribution, and the anonymous referees and David Harvey for their comments.
1 One column of the papyrus includes the accounts of deliveries for the Didymai (twins)
at the Serapeion in Memphis, and is dated from the eighteenth to the twenty first year
of a king, most likely to be Ptolemy VI Philometor (Blass and Buecheler 1880: 74 5),
so some time before 160 BC (Wilcken 1927: 115).
2 One of the themes that emerged in the Tragic Fragments conference was the deliberate
creation of fragments through the excerption of larger works. This text fits into such
a category, as the papyrus itself is a collection of excerpts from plays written in several
hands (Blass and Buecheler 1880: 74), according to Wilcken (1905: 593 4; 1927: 112,
115), the work of two Egyptian brothers, Ptolemaeus and Apollonius. (On the
anthologizing of excerpts from tragedy, see Gentili 1979: 17 22). All the other
fragments listed in the catalogue also are deliberately created. The Apulian vase
painting discussed below is also a moment of the play’s action deliberately chosen by
the artist, though of course chance has played its part in the survival of these
particular vignettes.
3 These references are to the fragments of the play catalogued at the end of this paper.
64 ANTONY KEEN
of Byzantium (fr. 4).4 The text is very uncertain at many points,5 having
been copied carelessly by what is apparently a thirteen- or fourteen-year-
old boy.6 The text printed here is largely that of Diggle.7
[<EURWPH:>] <. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .>

†taurw te limw xenia pamboto" paran†
toiovnde me;n Zeu;" klevmma presbuvtou patro;"
aujtou' mevnwn a[mocqo" h[nusen labei'n.
tiv ou\n… ta; polla; kei'na dia; pauvrwn levgw.
gunh; qew'/ meicqei'sa parqevnou sevba" 5
h[meiya, paivdwn dÅ ejzuvghn xunavoni.
kai; †triagonei"† tou;" gunaikeivou" povnou"
ejkartevrhsÅ a[roura, koujk ejmevmyato
tou' mh; jxenegkei'n spevrma gennai'on pathvr.
ejk tw'n megivstwn dÅ hjrxavmhn futeumavtwn 10
Mivnw tekou'sa <
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .<deuvteron dÅ ejgeinavmhn>8
JRadavmanqun, o{sper a[fqito" paivdwn ejmw'n. 12
†allakemagai" tai" emai" zoa" ecein†
to; mh; paro;n de; tevryin oujk e[cei fivloi":
trivton dev, tou' nu'n frontivsin ceimavzomai, 15
SarphdovnÅ, aijcmh'" eij jx “Arew" ajfivxetai.
klevo" ga;r h{kein ÔEllavdo" lwtivsmata
pavsh", uJperfevronta" ajlkivmw/ sqevnei,
aujcei'n de; Trwvwn a[stu porqhvsein biva/.
†prosou† devdoika mhv ti margaivnwn dovri 20
†astuberbarton† dravsh/ te kai; pavqh/ kakovn.
lepth; ga;r ejlpi;" hjdÅ ejpi; xurou' mevnei,
mh; pavnta paivsasÅ ejkcevw pro;" e{rmati.
EUROPA: . . .
. . . Such was the trick which Zeus devised to steal me from my aged
father, effortlessly, without leaving his place. What then? My whole
long story I tell you in a few words. A mortal woman united with a
god, I exchanged the honoured state of maidenhood, and was joined
4 Weil (1879) actually suspected that lines 16 23 perhaps came from the Myrmidons, but
Blass (Blass and Buecheler 1880: 86) argues that all lines come from the same play,
since the mention of Sarpedon comes after a passage known to have been spoken by
Sarpedon’s mother; this is generally accepted (though not by Kock in Bergk and Kock
1880: 272); see Radt (1985: 218).
5 Lloyd Jones (1957: 599): ‘The papyrus is full of mistakes.’
6 Wilcken (1927: 115).
7 Diggle (1998: 16 17).
8 This is taken from Radt. Kock suggests <prosferevstaton patri; | kai; fivltaton
xuvmboulon: ei\ta deuvteron> (Bergk and Kock 1880: 275).
LYCIANS IN THE CARES OF AESCHYLUS 65
with the begetter of my children. And [thrice in childbirth]9 the field
he sowed endured the pains of women, and it could not be re
proached that it did not bring forth the noble seed of the father. And
I began with the greatest of my offspring, giving birth to Minos . . .
[Second I brought forth] Rhadamanthys, the immortal one among my
children. . . . what is absent gives no delight to those that love them.
And third I bore Sarpedon, for whom I am now sore distressed in
heart, for fear the spear of Ares may have smitten him. For it is famed
abroad that the flower of all Hellas is come, supreme in warlike
strength, and that they are confident that they will destroy by violence
the city of the Trojans. . . . I fear that with rash valour . . . he may do
and suffer extreme ill. Slender is my hope, and I stand balanced on
the edge of doom, lest I strike against a reef and lose all I have.
(trans. Lloyd Jones 1957: 602 3, adapted)
This is one of the longest surviving passages from Aeschylus’ lost plays
and when taken with the other lines attributed with certainty to Cares
(passing over frs 5 6, whose assignment is dubious) it means that more
lines survive of Cares than most other lost Aeschylean tragedies; only
Myrmidons, Niobe, Edoni, Theori and Prometheus Unbound survive in greater
length.10 Yet after a flurry of work in the immediate aftermath of
publication,11 the play has been little studied.12 There are no doubt a
number of reasons for this. The first problem is that there is no date for
the play. Robertson has suggested that a classical statue known to us in
Roman copies, ‘Ameling’s goddess’, was a statue of Europa, perhaps set
up to commemorate Aeschylus’ winning with Cares.13 As the original
statue is thought to date c.460 BC, this would give a late date for the play,
but Robertson’s hypothesis, though attractive, is unprovable.
No hypothesis survives and all that can confidently be assigned to Cares
is the one long section from the papyrus, probably from the beginning of
the play, a couplet also likely to be from the early part, and a single word.
This unbalanced preservation of the play means that it is difficult to
reconstruct much of the plot beyond a few basics. Nor (unlike, say, the
9 The text is uncertain, but this is likely to be the meaning.

10 More actual lines survive of the Glaucus Pontius and Glaucus Potnieus, but they are
extremely fragmentary.
11 Blass and Buecheler (1880); Bergk and Kock (1880); Wecklein (1880); Weil (1880).
12 Taplin (1977), for instance, has only two references (63 n.2 and 446 n.2). What
discussions there have been Trendall and Webster (1971: 52 3), Bothmer (1981:
69 70), Robertson (1988a) have largely focused on it as inspiration for vase
illustration. I have found no article specifically dealing with Cares in APh between
1983 and 2003.
13 Robertson (1957); (1975: 193); (1988a: 114); (1988b: 91).
66 ANTONY KEEN
Prometheus Unbound) can the Cares be confidently assigned to a trilogy. On

narrative grounds one might expect it to belong with the Glaucus Potnieus;
according to one tradition (Asclepiades of Tragilus, FGrH 12 F1 Jacoby;
schol. Eur. Or. 318; Hyg. Fab. 250.3, 273.11), this Glaucus was identical to
the great-grandfather of the Homeric Glaucus (for the relationship see Il.
6.155, 196 7, 206), who is the right-hand man of Sarpedon, who, as we
shall see, features strongly in Cares. However, the Glaucus Potnieus is known
to have been produced with Persae and Phineus (T 55a Radt; Weir Smyth
1926: 392). The Glaucus who is the subject of another play, the Glaucus
Pontius, seems unrelated to the Lycian.14
Suggestions were made when the large fragment of Cares was first
published that the Euripidean Rhesus, another play with references to Lycia
and Sarpedon (29, 224 6, 543 5), imitates this play,15 and that a reference
in Aristophanes’ Clouds (622) to days when the gods mourn Memnon or
Sarpedon is meant to put the audience in mind of the Cares.16 However,
both suggestions are so tenuous as to be of little use in assessing the lost
play and have generally not been taken up by later scholars.17 Ritchie does
identify similarities between Rhesus and a number of plays, including
Cares.18 Those relevant to Cares are: (a) reluctance of the mother to let her
son go to war, perhaps implied in Cares fr. 2; (b) grief of the mother at the
loss of her son in Cares there is apprehension, presumably followed by
grief (see below); (c) divine intervention to rescue the body, which may
have been in Cares (see below). However, his conclusion is that the
similarities are just as likely to be due to common features of the legends
of Rhesus and Sarpedon (and a number of other heroes, e.g. Memnon) as
to any direct imitation.
Nevertheless, there are aspects of interest in what survives of the play,
in particular those relating to the depiction in Attic drama of the
14 Schmid and Stählin (1934: 188 n.8) conjecture that Cares was produced with Memnon
and Psychostasia, followed by Mette (1959: 259; 1963: 108 12); see Radt (1985: 114).
Gantz (1978 1979: 303 n.82) rejects the association, on the grounds that it is based
on thematic rather than narrative unity. Sommerstein (1996: 27) makes Phrygians the
third play with Memnon and Psychostasia. West (2000: 347 50) concludes that the Cares
is the work of Aeschylus’ son Euphorion, who ‘completed his father’s unfinished
Memnon trilogy by composing a Europa to go before the Memnon and a Psychostasia to
go after it’ (350).
15 Wecklein (1880: 418). As in Aeschylus, but unlike in Homer, Sarpedon in the Rhesus is
son of Europa.
16 Weil (1880: 148). If true it would reinforce the idea that Cares and Memnon were part
of the same tetralogy.
17 Neither Dover (1968) nor Sommerstein (1982) cites the suggestion about Clouds.
18 Ritchie (1964: 79 81).
inhabitants of south-western Asia Minor.19
The title Cares suggests a chorus of Carian men,20 as in the case of
Choephori, Eumenides, Persae or Supplices.21 The alternative title, Europa,
indicates the identity of the protagonist. It seems likely that Cares was the
original title it is generally presumed that titles denoting the chorus are
earlier than the (presumably) Alexandrian versions that name the principal
characters.22
The main fragment probably comes from the beginning of the play,
more likely than not belonging to the prologue or the first episode.23 What
we have is exposition by Europa, setting the scene for the play; she relates
how she has reached this point in her life, through her impregnation by
Zeus, and the bearing of her children. At the end of the surviving
fragment (lines 14 23), she turns to what is concerning her now. Her third
son, Sarpedon,24 is probably the last of her issue still residing in the world
of men. It would appear that Rhadamanthys is immortal but Europa
cannot see him (line 13);25 the implication of lines 12 13 is that her other
son, Minos, is dead, a death perhaps recorded in the lacuna.26 However,
Sarpedon is away fighting at Troy, and Europa is sorely afraid that he has
been killed there. The resemblance to the opening of the Persae has been
noted.27 Fr. 3, as Blass observes, probably belongs to this speech, or
perhaps to a passage of stichomythia shortly afterwards between Europa and
the chorus, where they would be trying to keep her hopes up and she
would be rejecting their optimism.28
19 Though Bacon (1961: 60) dismisses what remains of Cares: ‘none of the fragments
contains any actual information’.
20 Carian women might seem more suited to lamenting (though compare the Persian
men in Persae; Hall 1989: 83 4), but since no chorus lines survive, we cannot know
what attitude they took.
21 Haigh (1896: 396).
22 See Haigh (1896: 399 400); Weir Smyth (1926: 375 n.5); Arnott (1996: 51 with
bibliography).
23 Blass and Buecheler (1880: 86); Taplin (1977: 63 n.2).
24 For a brief account of Sarpedon, see Janko (1992: 370 3); March (1996).
25 The text is uncertain, but this seems likely to be the meaning. It is the interpretation
followed by Lloyd Jones (1957: 603); cf. Radt (1985: 200).
26 As Weir Smyth (1926: 417 n.4) notes, the tradition by which Minos also was made
immortal and judge of the dead (Diod. Sic. 5.79.2) is not followed by Aeschylus (it
only appears as an afterthought in Diodorus, and is probably late).
27 Blass and Buecheler (1880: 86); Radt (1985: 217); rejected by Bergk in Bergk and
Kock (1880: 248). I would be wary of using any similarity to suggest (as
Messerschmidt 1932: 141) a date for Cares of around 472.
28 Blass and Buecheler (1880: 86). In any case, if the play does deal with the death and
burial of Sarpedon (see below), then the couplet must come before his death has been
68 ANTONY KEEN
As we know from Homer (Il. 16.419 683), Europa’s fears were

realized; Sarpedon was indeed killed at Troy before his body was returned
to his homeland for burial. It seems, then, not an unreasonable
assumption that the action of the Cares dealt with the (off-stage) death and
burial of Sarpedon.29
Weir Smyth postulated that the arrival of Sarpedon’s body in Lycia,
carried by Hypnos (Sleep) and Thanatos (Death), as described by Homer
(Il. 16.682), formed part of the action.30 This may be reflected in images
on vases. There are a number of pre-Aeschylean representations of
Hypnos and Thanatos carrying Sarpedon.31 Most follow a standard
pattern, showing them either lifting or depositing the body. This is best
exemplified by a famous Athenian red-figure kalyx-krater by Euphronius
(New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art, Inv. 1972.11.10), dated to c.515
BC, and which almost certainly is the model for the majority of those that
follow.32 These vases form a group dating to the late sixth or early fifth
centuries.33 The literary inspiration here is clearly Homer,34 but (as
Bothmer 1994: 600 seems to imply) the shift in emphasis from Sarpedon
as just another hero from the Trojan side to his enjoying the unique
honour of having his body removed to Lycia by order of Zeus (Il. 16.454,
667 75) that Euphronius promoted in vase-painting35 may well be
reflected in Aeschylus’ decision to write on the subject.
Three extant vases may be influenced by the play. The first is a quite
poorly preserved example, c.430 420 BC,36 currently in the Lady Lever Art
Gallery, Port Sunlight.37 One side shows a naked corpse being lowered by
two winged figures on to a bier. On the left side is a bearded figure with a
stick, and on the right the fragmentary remains of another. It is very much
in the style of the group of archaic pots referred to above, but Robertson
confirmed.
29 Already guessed by Hartung (1855: 95 6) before the discovery of the fragment, and
suggested by Blass (Blass and Buecheler 1880: 86). Less plausibly, Bergk (Bergk and
Kock 1880: 248 9) argues that the background of the play is a war in Lycia, and
accordingly emends Trwvwn a[stu (fr. 99.19 Radt) to Tlwvwn a[stu, and replaces the
reference to Greece in the preceding line with one to Caria.
30 Weir Smyth (1926: 415).
31 See Bothmer (1994: 697 8) for a list.
32 Robertson (1988a: 110); Bothmer (1994: 699).
33 Bothmer (1994: Sarpedon 5 11).
34 Bothmer (1981: 65 9).
35 The New York vase is his second extant attempt at the subject; for the first,
significantly different in approach, see Bothmer (1994: 698).
36 Bothmer (1994: 697); cf. Robertson (1988a: 112).
37 Robertson (1987: 39 41).
suggests that this late revival of the image may have been inspired by a
revival of Aeschylus’ play, and that the bearded figures are influenced by
Aeschylus’ chorus.38 This hypothesis is very difficult to prove.39 Even
more tenuous, as Robertson himself admits,40 is the identification of the
other, more fragmentary side of the pot as a mourning scene from the end
of the play, perhaps reported rather than shown.41
The second is an Apulian vase of c.380 BC (New York, MMA Inv.
1916.140), the name-piece of the Sarpedon Painter, which has been linked
to Cares.42 Though there are no inscriptions on the vase, it is generally
accepted that one side of the vase depicts Europa in tragic oriental
costume before what looks like a stage background,43 whilst to the right fly
Hypnos and Thanatos, carrying the body of Sarpedon; Hypnos is the left-
hand figure of the pair (the upper part of his body is missing) and
Thanatos the right. Attendant figures, also in oriental dress, are perhaps
members of the chorus,44 though Messerschmidt suggests that they are the
brothers of Sarpedon.45 A female figure on the right may be Sarpedon’s
wife.46
This presumably represents the climax of the play and it would be
reasonable to assume that the body and its escorts were brought on stage
by means of the mhcanhv, at least in the staging with which the artist was
familiar.47 No doubt a kommos followed, where Europa and the chorus
sung a lament between them. The scene was perhaps chosen to be painted
38 Robertson (1988a: 113 14).

39 Cf. Bothmer (1994: 700), who finds it entirely convincing.
40 Robertson (1988a: 114).
41 The scene shows five figures including a woman wrapped in a mantle. One cannot
even accept unchallenged Bothmer’s assertion (1994: 697) that the figures are Lycians.
42 Messerschmidt (1932: 140 4); Picard (1953); Trendall and Webster (1971: 52 4);
Robertson (1988a: 112).
43 An alternative interpretation put forward is that the corpse is Memnon and the
eastern woman Eos (see Messerschmidt 1932: 142 3 and n.1), but Bothmer (1981:
72 8) has shown that those representations of a body being carried by winged figures
that have sometimes been identified with Memnon are instead representations of
Sarpedon. Picard (1953: 111 13) doubts the interpretation of the female figure as
Europa and believes it may possibly be a statue of Apollo Sarpedonius.
44 The difference in depiction of chorus members between this and the Port Sunlight
vase could easily be due to different staging conventions.
45 Messerschmidt (1932: 142).
46 Picard (1953: 115).
47 Bothmer (1981: 71). Taplin (1977: 446, n.2) argues that this is not evidence for
Aeschylus’ original staging; he is also somewhat doubtful as to whether the Cares is
represented. It is unclear whether the mhcanhv was ever available to Aeschylus,
though Sommerstein (1996: 27) thinks it probably was by 458 BC for the Oresteia.
70 ANTONY KEEN
for its association with death, as such Apulian vases often have a funerary
purpose.48
The other side of the vase, sometimes thought to represent Thetis
asking Hephaestus for the arms of Achilles (Messerschmidt 1932: 145 9),
has been interpreted by Picard (1953: 106 9), followed by Trendall and
Webster (1971: 53), as a scene from the Cares.49 He would have it that the
female figure on the left is Europa, who is asking Zeus and Hera (seated)
about her son; one might compare the debate over Sarpedon’s fate
between Zeus and Hera in the Iliad (16.431 58). In this interpretation, the
winged figure behind Hera is Hypnos again, and the female figure behind
him is perhaps his wife,50 Pasithea. This scene would then, in Picard’s
interpretation, be followed immediately by the arrival of Hypnos and
Thanatos with Sarpedon’s corpse. Given the similarity between the two
winged figures on either side of the vase (though the damage to the figure
of Hypnos on one side prevents a proper assessment of this), this
interpretation is quite attractive, both because the two main female figures
are dressed very similarly and because this scene has more funerary
significance than the request for the arms of Achilles.51
The problem is where such a scene would fit in the structure of the
play. Picard interprets it as taking place at Olympus, which would be in
contrast to the speech in fr. 2 and the scene depicted on the other side of
the vase, both of which seem to occur in Sarpedon’s home (wherever
Aeschylus intended that to be; see below). It is certainly not
unprecedented in Aeschylus for the scene of a play’s action to change; it
happens in Eumenides. However, Europa’s uncertainty in fr. 2 suggests that
this scene must precede any encounter with Zeus and Hera, whilst the
arrival of Sarpedon’s body must follow any such scene. This would mean a
change of location and then a change back, which is unprecedented.
Furthermore, it also raises the question of what the chorus did whilst this
scene took place. Perhaps this is also a scene that was reported rather than
actually being shown on stage; but Picard’s interpretation must remain
unproven.
The third interesting version of the theme is a damaged (but not badly)
Lucanian vase from the Policoro tomb, dated c.400 380 BC, which depicts
the removal of Sarpedon’s body above the killing of Penthesileia by
48 The vase was apparently found in a grave in Sicily (Messerschmidt 1932: 139).
49 But doubted by Robertson (1988a: 113).
50 Not ‘Sarpedon’s wife’, as stated by Trendall and Webster (1971: 52); see Robertson
(1988a: 113 n.35); Simon (1994: 201).
51 Picard’s interpretation, in which both Hera and Zeus are active in the debate, would
also point to a late date for the play, since it would require the third actor.
Achilles.52 Degrassi, who argues that despite the feminine characteristics
the artist has given them, the lower figures are Glaucus and Sarpedon,
thinks that their oriental dress points to a theatrical origin for the scene;53
but even if so, it is unlikely to be Aeschylus’ Cares, which probably
featured no scenes in Troy. Bothmer believes that the Policoro Painter
was familiar with the work of the Sarpedon Painter, and has adapted the
latter’s composition of Hypnos and Thanatos to a non-dramatic context.54
What these three vases may show, as well as giving hints of possible
reconstructions of the course of the play, is the degree of popularity that
the play had.
Sarpedon’s homeland, according to Homer (Il. 2.876, etc.), was Lycia,
an area on the south-western coast of Asia Minor. Sarpedon was probably
the most famous of the heroes of Lycia.55 Yet one of the titles of
Aeschylus’ play is Cares, ‘Carians’. So did he set the play in Lycia or Caria?
To Bergk, this is not a problem the chorus of Carians indicate that the
play was set in the Xanthos valley in Lycia;56 but the assumptions
underlying such a view need to be closely examined.
According to Homer, Sarpedon was buried in Lycia (Il. 16.681 3).
Aristotle in the Peplos, a work on religious ritual, narrows this down further
and says that he was buried in the city of Xanthos (Arist. fr. 641, 58
Rose).57 Appian (BC 4.10. 78 9) describes a building in this city that he
calls the ‘Sarpedoneion’. It seems very likely that this was a monument
venerated as the tomb of Sarpedon and it can probably be identified with
a building erected on the small acropolis at Xanthus c.470 BC.58
It seems probable that Aeschylus knew of this monument. He refers to
the cw'ma of Sarpedon in the Supplices (lines 869 70), and I have argued in
detail elsewhere that this reference is not, as the scholion to the passage
(schol. A. Supp. 869 70 Smith) would have us believe, a reference to a
promontory in Cilicia59 cw'ma only rarely refers to a natural feature like a
52 Bothmer (1994: Sarpedon 13).

53 Degrassi (1965: 5 7).
54 Bothmer (1981: 71). In 1994: 700 he makes the alternative suggestion that both drew
on a single source for the depiction.
55 For references see Bryce (1986: 250).
56 Bergk and Kock (1880: 248).
57 Rose (1886: 394).
58 On this identification, see Keen (1992: 54 6); (1996a).
59 Though the scholiast does not specify a location in Cilicia, there are a number of
other references to a Sarpedonian promontory in Cilicia ([Scyl.] 102; Polyb. 21.43.14
Büttner Wobst; Str. 13.4.6, 14.5.4; Liv. 38.38.9; Pomponius Mela 1.77; Plin. NH 5.92,
98; Ptol. Geog. 5.7.3; Hsch. s.v. Sarphdovnion; Stad. mar. magn. 177 9; schol. Ap.
Rhod. 1.216 17a Wendel), and it is probable that this was what the scholiast was
72 ANTONY KEEN
promontory, and never in tragedy but rather to the well-known tomb in

Lycia.60 This is, of course, impossible to prove; Aeschylus does not in the
Supplices give any geographical indication of the location of the cw'ma other
than that it is on the route from Egypt to Argos. Yet the Cilician location
implied by the scholiast, in addition to all the other problems I have
detailed elsewhere, sits even less comfortably with a chorus of Carians
than Lycia would; and Caria itself seems unlikely, since it is not really on
the route from Egypt to Argos (whereas Lycia certainly is, assuming the
angry sons of Aegyptus have come in warships rather than merchant-
men).61
It might therefore be presumed that the setting of the play was
Xanthus,62 though just because Aeschylus sets the burial of Sarpedon in
Lycia in one play, he is not bound to do so in another. If he did, there are
ways of justifying the presence of a chorus of Carians. They could be
prisoners-of-war, like the choruses of captive Greek women in the
Iphigenia in Tauris or the Helen; but the reason for representing these
choruses as prisoners is to allow them to interact with the similarly captive
central characters, and there are no tales in Greek mythology of Sarpedon
raiding Caria for prisoners. On the other hand, the chorus in Euripides’
Phoenissae is made up of captured women whose ethnic origin is of no real
relevance to the play, and the same may possibly be true of the same
poet’s Cretan Women (see Collard in this volume, esp. 54 5).
On the whole, however, I prefer to believe that, since the chorus in
Cares has to interact with Europa as principal character,63 and since, as
mother of Sarpedon, Europa is presumably to be taken as a figure of some
standing in local circles, the chorus are probably local dignitaries,64 similar
to the elders in Persae.65 This would agree with Robertson’s interpretation
of the Port Sunlight vase.
If this conjecture is correct, then it would seem to bring the argument
full circle. Regardless of whether Aeschylus meant his audience to think of
a location in Lycia when he referred to Sarpedon’s tomb in the Supplices,
thinking of.
60 Keen (1996b).
61 For the location of Lycia on the naval route from the Aegean to the eastern
Mediterranean, see Keen (1993).
62 So Bergk in Bergk and Kock (1880: 249).
63 The couplet quoted by Stobaeus [fr. 3] looks as if it comes from Europa’s side of a
dialogue between her and the chorus; conjectured by Blass in Blass and Buecheler
(1880: 86).
64 Bergk in Bergk and Kock (1880: 249).
65 Robertson (1988a: 114).
Cares was set in Caria. The reference to Mylasa (fr. 4), albeit in an
otherwise unattested form,66 has been taken as reinforcing this;67 perhaps
Mylasa was the scene of the play’s action. However, there are some pieces
of evidence that lead to a different, and in my view more interesting,
conclusion.
The first is a passage from Strabo’s description of Lycia, the relevance
of which was recognized as early as 1880:68
oiJ poihtai; de; mavlista oiJ tragikoi; sugcevonte" ta; e[qnh,

kaqavper tou;" Trw'a" kai; tou;" Musou;" kai; tou;" Ludou;"
‘Fruvga"’ prosagoreuvousin, ou{tw kai; tou;" Lukivou" ‘Ka'ra"’.
The poets, especially the tragedians, confuse the races, and just as
they call the Trojans, Mysians and Lydians ‘Phrygians’, so do they also
call the Lycians ‘Carians’.
(Strabo 14.3.3)
Mette’s elevation of this remark to the status of a fragment (fr. 144b

Mette) is a little disingenuous; it is at most a testimonium. If it is to be
taken as a reference to Cares, then this would suggest that the play was in
fact set in Lycia, but that Aeschylus chose to call the local inhabitants
‘Carians’. However, whilst Strabo does not specify here which tragedians
he means, at 14.5.16, he specifically names Sophocles as calling the
Lycians ‘Carians’, ‘in the manner of tragedians’ (tragikw'"). If he is
extrapolating a general trend from a single author, then that author is
Sophocles, not Aeschylus, but both passages suggest that Strabo had come
across several examples of this confusion, in a variety of authors. We do
not know if Aeschylus was one of them; there are no clear extant instances
of this confusion in his works (or any other tragedian’s),69 and at Choephori
346 there is a clear reference to ‘Lycians’.
It may be that Strabo has made an error. All three tragedians are known
to have used the name ‘Phrygian’ for Trojans (e.g. A. fr. 446 Radt; S. Aj.
66 The Thesaurus Linguae Graecae lists six occurrences, all of which derive ultimately from
this passage. Cf. Men. Sic. 6, which has mulass.[ in the papyrus, corrected to MuvlasÅ
by Webster and Lloyd Jones.
67 Radt (1985: 217).
68 Buechler in Blass and Buecheler (1880: 86).
69 There are two other references to Carians in tragedy: S. fr. 540 Radt, from the
Salmoneus, refers solely to Karikoi; travgoi; E. Cyc. 654 has the chorus say ejn tw'/
Kari; kinduneuvsomen, explained by a scholiast as meaning ‘we will run our risks
vicariously’, because Carians were often mercenaries. Neither of these is an example
of the confusion suggested by Strabo, nor is the reference to shrines in Lycia at E.
Alc. 114.
74 ANTONY KEEN
1054; E. Tr. passim and IA passim).70 The Mysians and Lydians, however,
are generally kept distinct (e.g. A. Suppl. 548 50; Pers. 770), and there are
no passages in extant tragedy where Strabo’s confusion occurs.
Nonetheless, we must give Strabo the benefit of his knowledge of plays
now lost to us and ask why the tragedians, certainly Sophocles and
possibly Aeschylus, might have confused the two peoples. Strabo seems to
be saying that it is a matter of sheer carelessness as much as anything else.
But, leaving aside the accuracy of Aeschylus’ geography,71 Strabo’s
implication lacks historical or literary perspective. A tragedian might vary
his use of names for the purpose of assonance. Hall has pointed out that
the common description of Trojans as ‘Phrygians’ in tragedy is part of a
process of their ‘barbarianization’.72 It also seems possible that there is a
historical reason why the Trojans, Mysians and Lydians should be
described as ‘Phrygians’; it may preserve a memory of a historical time
when the kingdom of Phrygia controlled all three areas.73 Can some
similar circumstance be postulated for a relationship between the Lycians
and the Carians? It is worth noting that a similar subsuming of the Lycians
within the Carians may possibly have been the view from the east as well
as the west; though the Carians appear on a number of occasions in the
Achaemenid royal inscriptions, the Lycians are completely absent.
One must turn to Greek historians. In describing the mythical origins
of the Lycians, Herodotus says:
oiJ de; Luvkioi ejk Krhvth" twjrcai'on gegovnasi (th;n ga;r

Krhvthn ei\con to; palaio;n pa'san bavrbaroi). dieneicqevntwn
de; ejn Krhvth/ peri; th'" basilhivh" tw'n Eujrwvph" paivdwn
Sarphdovno" te kai; Mivnw, wJ" ejpekravthse th/' stavsi Mivnw",
ejxhvlase aujtovn te Sarphdovna kai; tou;" stasiwvta" aujtou':
oiJ de; ajpwsqevnte" ajpivkonto th'" ÅAsivh" ej" gh'n th;n
Miluavda: th;n ga;r nu'n Luvkioi nevmontai, au{th to; palaio;n
h\n Miluav", oiJ de; Miluvai tovte Sovlumoi ejkalevonto.
The Lycians originated in ancient times from Crete (for barbaroi

formerly possessed all of Crete). The children of Europa, Sarpedon
and Minos, fought in Crete for the kingdom. When Minos was
victorious in the struggle, he drove out Sarpedon himself and his
partisans. Banished, they arrived at the land of Milyas in Asia; for the
70 It is particularly prevalent in Euripides, but may have been initiated by Aeschylus; see
Hall (1989: 38 9).
71 Bacon (1961: 49 59) makes a case for Aeschylus taking trouble to get his geographical
and topographical details right.
72 Hall (1989: 38 9).
73 See Hogarth (1925: 504 5); Barnett (1975: 417 19).
Lycians now inhabit the country, but formerly that land was Milyas,
and the Milyans at that time were called the Solymi.
(Hdt. 1.173.1 2)
‘Milyas’ in this context is clearly being used by Herodotus as an alternative

for Lycia.74 This tallies with Aeschylus’ text as far as the association of
Lycia with Europa and Minos is concerned (and necessarily, though it
does not appear in Aeschylus’ surviving text, Crete), but does not, of itself,
illuminate the Carian/Lycian problem. However, matters may become
clearer when this passage is considered in conjunction with a passage of
Strabo (12.8.5) that follows shortly after his raising the question whether
Lycia was colonized by Trojan Lycians or by Carians:
. . . proslabovntwn Krhtw'n, oi} kai; th;n Mivlhton e[ktisan ejk

th'" Krhtikh'" Milhvtou Sarphdovna labovnte" ktivsthn: kai;
tou;" Termivla" katwv/kisan ejn th'/ nu'n Lukiva/: touvtou" dÅ
ajgagei'n ejk Krhvth" ajpoivkou" Sarphdovna, Mivnw kai;
ÔRadamavnquo" ajdelfo;n o[nta, kai; ojnomavsai Termivla" tou;"
provteron Miluva", w{" fhsin ÔHrovdoto", e[ti de; provteron
Soluvmou" . . .
The Cretans, who also founded Miletus, taking Sarpedon from Cretan
Miletus as founder, assisted [the Carian settlement of the mainland];
and they settled the Termilae in the land which is now Lycia. The
story is that Sarpedon, who was a brother of Minos and
Rhadamanthys, led the colonists from Crete, and that he named
‘Termilae’ those who had previously been Milyans, as Herodotus says,
and still earlier Solymi . . .
(Strabo 12.8.5)
Here then is a version of the foundation myth of Lycia that involves

Sarpedon travelling from Crete to Lycia via Caria, establishing Miletus (a
city associated by Hom. Il. 2.867 with Carians) along the way. Could this
version of the legend have been known to Aeschylus? Nothing in
Herodotus’ account precludes this version being available in the fifth
century; he could easily have omitted the detail about the foundation of
Miletus (though it is the sort of detail one might have expected him to
include).
Strabo elsewhere quotes the fourth-century historian Ephorus on the
foundation of Miletus:
fhsi; dÅ [Eforo" to; prw'ton ktivsma ei\nai Krhtikovn [sc. tou'
74 See further Keen (1998: 19).

76 ANTONY KEEN
Milhvtou], uJpe;r th'" qalavtth" teteicismevnon, o{pou nu'n hJ

pavlai Mivlhto" e[sti, Sarphdovno" ejk Milhvtou th'" Krhtikh'"
ajgagovnto" oijkhvtora" kai; qemevnou tou[noma th'/ povlei th'"
ejkei' povlew" ejpwvnumon, katecovntwn provteron Lelevgwn to;n
tovpon:
Ephorus says that the first foundation [of Miletus] was Cretan,
fortified above the sea, where now ‘Old Miletus’ is; Sarpedon from
Cretan Miletus led the settlers, and gave the city the same name as the
city there [in Crete]; Lelegians were previously settled at the spot.75
(Strabo 14.1.6 = Ephor. FGrH 70 F 127)
This establishes that the tradition of a link between Sarpedon and Miletus
goes back at least to the fourth century and it seems not unlikely that all of
Strabo’s account of the origins of the Lycians, quoted above, derives from
Ephorus, until he begins using Herodotus.
Further evidence to support a traditional Lycian connection with the
Aegean coastal region comes from Herodotus, who says:
basileva" de; ejsthvsanto oiJ me;n aujtw'n Lukivou" ajpo; Glauvkou

tou' ÔIppolovcou gegonovta" ...
Some of them [the Ionian cities] took Lycian basileis descended from
Glaucus son of Hippolochus . . . 76
(Hdt. 1.147.1)
and:
novmoisi ta; me;n Krhtikoi'si, ta; de; Karikoi'si crevwntai.
They (the Lycians) have some Cretan customs, and some Carian.77
(Hdt. 1.173.4)
To this one can add the joint foundation of Erythrae by Cretans, Lycians,
Carians and Pamphylians, as reported by Pausanias (7.3.7), and the
account of Apollonius of Aphrodisias (RE II.i, 134 5 no. 73) preserved in
Stephanus of Byzantium (696.10 11 s.v. Crusaoriv"), that Idrias, later
Stratonicea, was the first city founded by the Lycians.
The link between Minos and Lycia is alluded to in the Hesiodic
75 Compare Pausanias (7.2.5), where Miletus is founded by Cretans fleeing Minos, but
led by an eponymous Miletus rather than Sarpedon.
76 On this passage see Asheri (1988: 351), who suggests the basileis are magistrates with
religious duties, or descendants of the ancient aristocracy. See also Carlier (1984: 432
50).
77 On Herodotus’ treatment of the origins of the Lycians, see Asheri (1988: 365 6) and
Keen (1998: 22) with Williamson (1999: 161).
Catalogue of Women, which perhaps dates to the mid-sixth century.78 A
scholiast on Homer cites Hesiod and Bacchylides as recounting that
Europa gave birth to Minos, Sarpedon and Rhadamanthys (schol. Hom. Il.
12.292 = Hes. fr. 140 Merkelbach and West). A larger papyrus fragment of
Hesiod seems to support this:
..... ..... ... e[m]elle tanisfuvrw/ Eujrwpeivh/,

..... ..... .....] path;r ajndrw'n te qew'n te
..... ..... ... nuv]mfh" pavra kallikovmoio.
h} dÅ a[ra pai'd]a" [e[tikt]en uJpermenevi> Kronivwni
..... ..... .... po]levwn hJghvtora" ajndrw'n,
Mivnw te kreivonta] divkaiovn te ÔRadavmanqun
kai; Sarphdovna di'on] ajmuvmonav te krater[ovn te.
]edavssato mhtiveta Z[euv":
Lukivh" eujr]eivh" i\fi a[nasse
pov]lei" eu\ naietawvsa["
pol]lh; dev oiJ e[speto timhv
megalhv]tori poimevni law'n.
. . . he was about to . . . with trim ankled Europa . . . the father of

men and gods . . . from the rich haired girl. So she bore sons to the
almighty son of Cronus . . . leaders of cities and men, [Minos the
ruler,] and just Rhadamanthys [and noble Sarpedon] the blameless
and strong. . . . wise Zeus gave(?); . . . he ruled mightily over wide
[Lycia] . . . cities filled with people . . . and great honour followed him
. . . the great hearted shepherd of his people.79
(fr. 141 Merkelbach and West, 8 19 = fr. 52 Kobel = 209 Gött)
The appearance of this passage, followed by what seems a clear reference

to Troy at line 23, and one to Hector at line 29, could be the earliest
known association of Sarpedon with both Minos and the Trojan War. The
significant amount of restoration is a problem; neither of the two names in
which we are most interested, Sarpedon and Lycia, actually appear in the
preserved text, though both are quite likely; nor does Minos.
How far this tradition corresponded with any form of historical ‘reality’
is another question altogether. Though taken seriously by some scholars,80
the Cretan origin of the Lycians seems rather implausible. It probably
78 West (1985: 130 7).

79 Translation adapted from Evelyn White (1914: 630 3). Evelyn White gives a much
fuller restoration of the whole fragment, which makes the link with Europa and with
Troy clear; but much of his restoration is no doubt based upon later authors.
80 Bean (1978: 21); Bryce (1986: 29 32) considers the matter in an attempt to draw some
historical conclusions.
78 ANTONY KEEN
derives from a meld in the Greek mind between contacts between Minoan
Crete and the Lycians,81 and the connections with Miletus of both the
Lycians and the Minoans.82 There was a historical tradition, represented in
Thucydides (1.4, 1.8.1 2), that Minos had driven out Carian pirates and
settled the Cyclades in their place.83
The link between the Lycians and Carians may preserve something
more significant, however: the Hittite records of the second millennium
BC attest to the existence of a people, or perhaps better a group of
peoples, called the Lukka, clearly ancestors of the Lycians in some form.
Where these lands lay is disputed, but it may well be that they covered
much of what later became Lycia and southern Caria.84
Whatever lay behind it, this tradition certainly existed. Aeschylus’ Cares
is probably not its earliest attestation, if one can accept the reconstruction
of the Catalogue of Women. One may therefore conclude that Aeschylus did
set the action of the Cares in Lycia, probably at Xanthus, and that the
chorus is composed of leading local citizens, whom Aeschylus calls
Carians rather than Lycians since, as far as he is concerned, the two are
much the same. Why Aeschylus should choose Cares (Ka're") rather than
Lycians (Luvkioi) is a question that is rather more difficult to answer.
Perhaps we should trust Strabo here and assume that Aeschylus was
simply following common poetic usage.85 It might be that calling Lycians
‘Carians’ is part of a similar process to Hall’s ‘barbarianizing’ of the
Trojans (see above), ‘barbarianizing’ the people into whose mouths
Homer felt able to place the clearest statement of the reciprocal
relationship of a basileus to his subjects (Il. 12.307 30).
On the other hand, Hall has also drawn attention to the probability of
Euripides’ Bellerophon featuring a chorus of Lycians, and has suggested that
Aeschylus chose Carians for this tragedy because of the role in the
Athenian world of Carian women as professional mourners (Pl. Laws
800e2 3).86 She adds: ‘Perhaps Europa sang laments similar to those
81 See now Georges (1994: 70) on the Greek imposition of their own traditions on the
Lycians.
82 Recent excavations at Miletus have provided good evidence for significant Minoan
presence at the site (Gates 1996: 302; 1997: 268).
83 On Thucydides 1.4, see Hornblower (1991: 21); on 1.8, see Gomme (1945: 106 8).
84 See Garstang and Gurney (1959: 75 82), Gurney (1954: 44), Keen (1998: 27, 214 20)
for a full discussion
85 It might be noted at this point that the comic poet Antiphanes also wrote a Carians
(Ka're": fr. 113 Kock); but the only surviving fragment of this play tells us nothing
about its plot.
86 Hall (1989: 131).
delivered by Astyoche for her Mysian son in Sophocles’ Eurypylus.’87
The reference to Mylasa is a red herring as far as determining the play’s
setting is concerned. We have absolutely no idea in what context or how
often Aeschylus mentioned Mylasa in the play, or even why he chose to
use the obscure form Mylasos indeed, we have no way of knowing
whether elsewhere in the play Aeschylus used this or the more common
form. However, a theory has been proposed that the name Mylasa
preserves the element -mil- that is also found in Termilae, the Lycians’
name for themselves (Hdt. 1.173.3; Trm~mili in Lycian).88 One should also
note Mylasa’s position directly between the supposedly Lycian foundations
of Miletus and Idrias/Stratonicea. The appearance of Glaucus son of
Sisyphus (who may be the subject of Aeschylus’ Glaucus Potnieus) in the
genealogy of the eponymous hero Mylasus might also point in the
direction of a Lycian connection. Glaucus was the father of Bellerophon
(Hom. Il. 6.155), who of course has a strong Lycian connection;89
alternatively, there may be a confusion between this Glaucus and his great-
grandson (Hom. Il. 6.155, 196 7, 206) the Lycian Glaucus who served in
Troy, a suggestion that might be supported by the passage of Herodotus
quoted earlier, stating that some Ionian cities had kings descended from
the Lycian Glaucus. There is a possible problem with a confusion of
various mythological generations, but as will be seen, this is hardly
uncommon in connection with the Lycian heroes, or indeed in other
mythological genealogies or foundation stories.
This citation of Mylasa, then, might be part of a list of the foundations
made by Sarpedon and his Lycians, perhaps from a chorus dealing with
Sarpedon’s glorious achievements (compare the account of Io in Suppl.
524 99), or from a speech by Europa to the same effect. Again, this most
likely come from early on in the play which gives the impression that
nobody read more than about the first few hundred lines (though I know
of no exact parallel for this). Perhaps most of the play was lost at an early
stage.
There is some interest to be found in what Aeschylus tells us of
Sarpedon’s life. Homer’s Sarpedon is the son of Zeus and Laodameia (see
Il. 6.199 for Laodameia as his mother), the king of Lycia who falls to
Patroclus at Troy; Herodotus’ Sarpedon is the brother of Minos who
founds Lycia (as, perhaps, he is in the Catalogue of Women). Aeschylus’
87 Cf. McHardy in this volume (pp. 149 50).

88 Cited in Bean (1978: 21 2; 1980: 3, 13).
89 See Bryce (1986: 244 5) for a full list of references, and see further Graves (1960: vol.
I, 254); Harvey (1981: 19 n.1).
80 ANTONY KEEN
Sarpedon is both.90 This tradition may be perceptible already in

Bacchylides, who has two references to Sarpedon, one (fr. 10 Campbell) to
his role as son of Minos, and one seemingly (fr. 20E Campbell) a retelling
of the removal of Sarpedon’s body after his death. However, since both
references are fragments, one cannot be sure that Bacchylides thought of
them as referring to the same individual.
Later mythographers noted what they saw as the chronological
difficulty of one man being both founder of the Lycians and their ruler at
the time of the Trojan War, and explained it either through clearly
distinguishing the two91 (Diod. Sic. 5.79.3 makes one the grandson of the
other), or amalgamating them into one man who lived over a number of
generations.92 What has probably happened is that Sarpedon, originally a
single Lycian hero,93 had become the generic Lycian leader, who was
linked with the Greek tales wherever they interacted with the Lycians and
had to be associated with all things Lycian in much the same way that
many ancient British sites are given some association with King Arthur. In
the time of Homer perhaps Sarpedon was associated only with the Trojan
War;94 by the time of Aeschylus, he had become associated with Lycia’s
foundation as well, an association unlikely to have been an Aeschylean
innovation.95
One last point perhaps remains: can we play the age-old game of trying
to give a topical context to the Cares? I myself firmly believe that much,
though certainly not all, of the drama of Aeschylus had some form of
political intent behind it. Whether there was such an intent behind the
Cares or not is, however, all but impossible to say. If we were to look for a
contemporary context, then perhaps it might be sought in Cimon’s taking
of Caria and Lycia for the Delian League some time c.470 BC (Diod. Sic.
90 Blass in Blass and Buechler (1880: 86).

91 Compare Herodotus (2.43.1), who distinguishes a Greek and an Egyptian Heracles.
Varro apparently distinguished between forty three different individuals; see How and
Wells (1912: vol. I, 187).
92 As early as Pindar (Pyth. 3.112) Sarpedon was being grouped with Nestor.
Apollodorus (3.1.2) gives three as the number of generations; schol. Hom. Il. 6.198
9a1 Erbse gives six.
93 See Bryce (1986: 21). Less plausible suggestions are found in Radice (1973: 213 s.v.
‘Sarpedon’), that there were originally two Lycian heroes, conflated in some accounts
into one, and in Asheri (1988: 365), that a Lycian Sarpedon has become confused
with a Cretan Sarpedon.
94 Frei (1978) argues that the involvement of Sarpedon in the Trojan War is entirely an
invention of Homer; see now Hiller (1993: 110).
95 Bergk, on the other hand (Bergk and Kock 1880: 248), argues that Homer invented
Laodameia as a means of squaring the chronology.
11.60.4). But once again, not enough information survives and, as already
noted, we have no date for the play; so speculation cannot be any more
than that. To get any further with the Cares will need the discovery of a
new fragment.
Appendix: KARES H EURWPH96
1. Katavlog. 33; fr.144a Mette:
Ka're" h] Eujrwvph.
Carians or Europa.
2. Pap. Didot., Louvre inv. 7172; fr. 99 Radt; fr. 145? Mette; fr. 50 Weir
Smyth (see Lloyd-Jones 1957: 599 603 for older literature); Diggle
1998: 16 17:97 text and translation at p. 64 above.
3. (Stob. jEkl. 4.10.24 Hense; fr. 100 Radt; fr. 146 Mette; fr. 51 Weir
Smyth):
Aijscuvlou Karw'n:
‘<EUR.?> < > ajllÅ “Arh" filei'
ajei; ta; lw'/sta pavntÅ ajpanqivzein stratou'’.
Aeschylus in the Carians:

EUROPA (?): . . . But Ares loves
to pluck all the fairest flowers of an armed host.
(trans. Weir Smyth 1926: 418)
96 The texts of the fragments have been compiled from Weir Smyth (1926), Lloyd Jones
(1957), Mette (1959), Radt (1985) and Diggle (1998); except in the case of fr. 2, Radt’s
text has generally been preferred. The list aims to be comprehensive rather than
critical. Hence frs 5 6 are included although they are of uncertain origin; they are
ascribed to the Cares by Meineke and Hartung respectively.
97 Radt’s numeration preserves that of Nauck (1889), also used by the old OCT of
Sidgwick (1899).
82 ANTONY KEEN
4. (St. Byz. 461.16 s.v. Muvlasa; fr. 101 Radt; fr. 147 Mette):
povli" Kariva", ajpo; Mulavs{t}ou tou' Crusavoro" tou' Glauvkou

tou' Sisuvfou tou' Aijovlou. levgetai kai; ‘Muvlaso"’, wJ"
Aijscuvlo" ejn Karsi;n h] Eujrwvph/.
Mylasa: A Carian city, named after Mylas[t]us son of Chysaor son of

Glaucus son of Sisyphus son of Aeolus. It is also called ‘Mylasus’, as
[by] Aeschylus in the Carians or Europa.
5. (Str. 8.7.5, with St. Byz. 707.13 s.v. “Wleno";98 fr. 284 Radt; fr. 403,
403A, 284 Nauck; fr. 231 Weir Smyth;):
Bou'ravn qÅ iJera;n kai; Keruvneian,

JRu'pa", Duvmhn, JElivkhn, Ai[gion
hjdÅ Ai[geiran thvn tÅ aijpeinh;n
zaqevan [Wlenon
Hallowed Bura and Ceryneia,

Rhypae, Dyme, Helice, Aegion,
Aegeira and precipitous,
sacred Olenus
(trans. Weir Smyth 1926: 503, adapted)
6. (Clem. Alex., Strom. IV 7, 48, 4; fr. 315 Radt; fr. 175 Weir Smyth;):
tw'/ ponou'nti dÅ ejk qew'n
ojfeivletai tevknwma tou' povnou klevo"
To him that toileth,

God oweth glory, child of his toil.99
(trans. Weir Smyth 1926: 486)
98 Aijscuvlo" Karsivn th;n aijpeinh;n zaqevan [Wlenon.

99 Since it is uncertain whether this passage belongs to Cares at all, it is pointless to
speculate on the context and meaning.
5
SPECTRAL TRACES
Ghosts in Tragic Fragments†
RUTH BARDEL
Before giving a brief outline of this chapter, I would like to draw an

analogy between ghosts, the subject matter of this study, and fragments,
the source in which they are found. As vestiges of lost (and arguably,
dead) dramas, fragments provide tantalizing, and sometimes frustratingly
cryptic, glimpses of what was once an entire (living, that is, performed)
play, reminders of a vast, but now lost, corpus of literature. Ghosts are
also vestiges of a past, ‘spectral traces’, reappearing in the present, often
intriguing and sometimes inscrutable. Both fragments and ghosts are ‘out
of context’: generally speaking, a ghost suffers from temporal and spatial
dislocation from its ‘true’ time and place, just as a tragic fragment is
temporally dislocated and separated from its immediate context by being
cited, for example, as a linguistic oddity or a literary tour de force by other
authors, or even used as a school exercise.1 As misplaced vestiges of the
past emerging in the present, both ghosts and fragments need to be, if
possible, contextualized. Homeric epic provides a frame of reference for
†
I am grateful to David Harvey for his comments on an earlier draft of this chapter.
All of the material discussed in this paper is examined in greater detail in my doctoral
thesis which focuses on the stage ghost (Bardel 1999). This chapter was completed
before the publication of Daniel Ogden's Greek and Roman Necromancy (2001).
1 Fr. 273 (Radt) of Aeschylus’ Psychagogoi, for example, is cited in Aristophanes’ Frogs
(1266). Aristophanes puts the line into the mouth of Euripides who uses it in his
attempt to prove that Aeschylus is a bad lyric writer. Fr. 273a (Radt) of the same play
comes from a school exercise of the first or second century BC by a pupil called
Maron: see Kramer (1980: 14 23).
84 RUTH BARDEL
the three ghosts in extant tragedy Darius, Clytemnestra and Polydorus

which have thus far been the focus of my research.2 I shall use Homeric
epic and these three dramatic ghosts as reference points for the
contextualization of ghosts in certain fragments, namely Aeschylus’
Psychagogoi and Sophocles’ Polyxena. Although this chapter deals specifically
with tragic ghosts, some references to fragmentary comedies which deploy
ghosts are introduced, as testimony to the genre-transcendent nature of
the ghost. A number of relevant vase-paintings, one of which is very
fragmentary indeed, will also be discussed.
Since Ruby Hickman’s 1938 monograph, Ghostly Etiquette on the Classical
Stage, there has been no comprehensive study of ghosts in ancient drama.
Ghosts are an integral part of theatrical performances from Aeschylus
onwards but, despite the recent work on drama which has been stressing
the importance of the visual and performative dimensions, ghosts remain
a neglected group of dramatic characters. Samuel Johnson once wrote,
‘There is no great merit in telling how many plays have Ghosts in them,
and how this Ghost is better than that. You must show how terror is
impressed on the human heart.’3 Admittedly, Johnson was not referring
specifically to ghosts in ancient Greek tragic fragments, and Greek literary
and dramatic spectres did not seem to prompt terror, yet I believe that it is
important to be aware, as far as possible, of how many plays and
fragments feature the appearance of a ghost, since, on the misleading basis
of extant tragedy, it could be argued that ghosts are a minor group of
dramatic characters confined to Aeschylus’ Darius in the Persae,
Clytemnestra in the Eumenides and Euripides’ Polydorus in the Hecuba: the
fragmentary evidence, both textual and visual (and archaeological),
suggests however that the ghost theme was a popular one.
In the late and unreliable Vita, Aeschylus is celebrated for a number of
remarkable theatrical innovations including ghosts (ei[dwla) and Erinyes:
unlike the Erinyes, stage ghosts do not seem to have caused miscarriages.4
Far from frightening the audience out of their wits, the appearance of a
ghost on stage seems to have been a popular type of episode: it is the
2 See Bardel (1999).

3 Cited in Stanford (1940: 84).
4 Vita Aeschyli 9 ( T A1.30 2 Radt OCT ed. Page 1972: 332.10 13) ‘Some say that
in the performance of the Eumenides, by bringing on the chorus one by one, as he did,
he terrified the audience so that children swooned and foetuses were aborted.’ For the
suggestion that this anecdote is not mere ‘foolish invention’ see Calder (1988: 554 5).
This ties in with the question of whether or not women attended the theatre: the
evidence is set out in Podlecki (1990: 27 43). See also Goldhill (1994: 347 69), with
references to earlier literature (n.1).
SPECTRAL TRACES: GHOSTS IN TRAGIC FRAGMENTS 85
necromantic ritual in Aeschylus’ Persae that captures the attention of
Dionysus in Aristophanes’ Frogs (1028 9) especially when he heard the
chorus lament (qrh'non) for Darius as they clapped their hands and cried
ijauoi'.5 Furthermore, contrary to Johnson’s assertion, some ghosts are
indeed ‘better’ than others as a discussion of Sophocles’ Polyxena will
reveal. Finally, is it possible to show from the fragmentary evidence how,
in Johnson’s words, ‘terror is impressed on the human heart’? Do
dramatic ghostly appearances, whether spontaneous or the result of a
deliberate evocation, ‘terrorize’ either the other dramatic characters or the
audience (whose various responses may be mediated through, or
articulated by, the dramatos prosôpa)?
I. Aeschylus’ Psychagogoi (frs 273 8 Radt)

The date of this play is unknown but, because of its subject matter, the
Psychagogoi is often speculatively thought to be part of a tetralogy including
the Ostologi, Penelope and the satyric Circe.6 In the Psychagogoi, the chorus help
Odysseus raise the souls of the dead a dramatization of the Odyssean
nekyia an assumption reinforced by the suggested tetralogy concluding
with the satyric Circe.7 The title is significant, both in dramatic terms and in
a wider, literary (and perhaps social) context. Phrynichus, the rhetorician
and lexicographer of the second century AD, said that the ancients used
the word yucagwgov" in referring to those who brought up the souls of
the dead through certain wailings, and added that the name of Aeschylus’
play had this significance.8 Like the chorus of the Choephori, the chorus of
5 On the necromancy scene in the Persae see Hall (1996: 151 3 and 23 with n.139) who
discusses the ‘huge variety of “meaningless” cries expressing despair or agitation’.
6 Cf. e.g. Gantz (1980: 151 3).
7 Jouan (1981: 417). A red figure pelike in Boston (34.79 (ARV2 1045.2 (by the Lykaon
Painter) Boardman 1989: fig. 150) dated to around 440 BC shows Odysseus,
Hermes and the ghost of Elpenor rising from a pit. The Lucanian ‘Teiresias Vase’ of
the early fourth century BC (Trendall 1967: 102 no. 502 (Dolon Painter) Trendall
1989: fig. 79) also illustrates this scene: Odysseus is seated sword in hand, between his
feet lies the head of the ram killed as a sacrifice. In the bottom left hand corner, at the
feet of Odysseus and the figure on the left (Perimedes: Eurylochus may be the figure
on the left), is the head of Teiresias’ ghost, looking up at them, rising from the depths
of Hades. This vase painting, in particular the ghost of Teiresias, is often linked to a
fragment from Crates’ Heroes (fr. 12 Kassel Austin): to;n aujcevn j ejk gh'" ajnekav",
eij" aujtou;" blevpwn (‘turning his head towards them from the ground’). See further
Riess (1897: 193). Did Crates’ play also feature a necromancy or the spontaneous
appearance of a ghost or ghosts? h{rw" can be translated as ‘revenant’, ‘one returned
from the dead’: cf. Plato (Rep. 558a4 8).
8 oiJ dÅ ajrcai'oi tou;" ta;" yuca;" tw'n teqnhkovtwn gohteivai" tisi;n a[gonta".
86 RUTH BARDEL
Aeschylus’ Psychagogoi are defined by what they do. The word yucagwgoiv
is also explained by Pausanias (3.17.7) and the scholion on Euripides’
Alcestis 1128 where Heracles, as a guest of Admetus, denies being a
necromancer (ouj yucagwgo;n tovndÅ ejpoihvsw xevnon). The scholia also
cite the Spartan Pausanias as enlisting the aid of psychagogoi to exorcise the
ghost of a young girl haunting the temple of Athena Chalcioecus. A
(possible) Euripidean fragment (fr. 379a Kannicht: bavskanon mevgiston
yucagwgovn, ‘greatest sorcerer and necromancer’) links psychagogos to
baskanos, a derogatory term, meaning sorcerer or wizard.9 Elsewhere in
Euripides (Bacc. 234 and Hipp. 1038), ejpw/dov" (enchanter) is associated
with govh" (charlatan) and later sources present the necromancer as
foreign, reflecting perhaps a general lowering in the status of both the
inquirers and the ghosts they consult.10
In Aristophanes’ Birds (1553 64)11 Peisander consults a necromantic
(yucagwgei', 1555) establishment presided over by Socrates, bringing a
strange victim, a camel-sheep: Peisander’s object is to have communion
with his soul, which deserted him some time ago. The necromancy is
unsuccessful in that the ghost who comes to drink the blood is
Chaerephon (nicknamed the ‘Bat’) who is enough like a Homeric ghost, as
Rose puts it, to ‘pass muster’.12 The operation is here seen as
simultaneously suspect and ridiculous, but in Plato’s Laws (909b1 5)
necromancy (yucagwgei'n) is a serious crime in a passage which, like the
Euripidean passages, also connects ejpw/dai'" and gohteuvonte". This is
certainly the case in Python’s fragmentary satyric Agen (fr. 1 Snell),
conjecturally dated to 326 BC, in which barbarian magi (barbavrwn mavgoi)
persuade Harpalus that they could conjure up the soul of the dead hetaira
Pythionike (th;n yuch;n a[nw th;n Puqionivkh").13 In Lucian’s satirical
Menippus, the necromancer Mithrobarzanes utters ‘foreign-sounding
meaningless polysyllabic words’ (barbarikav tina kai; a[shma ojnovmata
kai; polusuvllaba, 9). Such characterizations seem to have influenced
critics, for example Headlam, who sought to interject the necromancy in
th'" aujth'" ejnnoiva" kai; tou' Aijscuvlou to; dra'ma Yucagwgov" (de Borries,
Praep. Soph. 127, 12). See also Max.Tyr. (8.26) on the livmnhn “Aornon where there is
a mantei'on a[ntron kai; qerapeuth're" tou' a[ntrou a[ndre" yucagwgoiv,
ou{tw" ojnomazovmenoi ejk tou' e[rgou: here the psychagogoi are also defined by their
activity.
9 Jouan (1981: 420). Kannicht attributes this fragment to E. Eurystheus Satyricus.
10 Rose (1950: 268 70, 280).
11 Cf. Dunbar (1995: ad loc., 710 5).
12 Rose (1950: 262).
13 See Snell (1964a: 99 138).
Aeschylus’ Persae with improvised ‘long-drawn, magical, outlandish
incantations’ not evidenced by the manuscripts.14
Fr. 273 (Radt) of the Psychagogoi most probably comes from near the
beginning of the parodos, where the chorus explains itself: ÔErma'n me;n
provgonon tivomen gevno" oiJ peri; livmnan (‘We, who dwell by the lake,
honour Hermes as our ancestor’).15 It has been suggested that this chorus’
activities are comparable to the psychagogoi gooi of the chorus in the Persae.16
However, it would seem that Aeschylus is at great pains to make it clear
that the chorus of the Persae are primarily Elders asked to perform a task
with which they are unfamiliar perhaps this explains why it is such a
‘struggle’ (Pers. 688, 690, 633 8) to raise the ghost of Darius. In Headlam’s
view, however, this would be an inadequate explanation: the chorus of
elders had to be magi for, as he states ‘no one ever raised a ghost by
dancing; you might dance for a day without bringing a corpse up: and
imagine these aged venerable men skipping and scoring the ground with
their old hoofs!’17 Ritual incantation can be very effective, for song and
dance can raise the dead as it does in the Persae: Aeschylus places his
necromancy in a very barbarian context in the Persae but the fragmentary
Psychagogoi suggests that necromancy was not perceived as being an
exclusively barbarian practice. Verdicts such as Headlam’s clearly delight
in the exotic, foreign and, above all the outlandish and ‘supernatural’
explanations of the ghost-raising motif, associations which are ultimately
restrictive.18 The consultation of the dead, from the witch of Endor (1
Sam. 28.6 25) to a modern individual’s consultation of a medium, is a
prominent motif that transcends time and space.19
14 Headlam (1902: 57).
15 Taplin (1977: 447).
16 Jouan (1981: 417 19).
17 Headlam (1902: 58). Headlam seems to have demonized the chorus of elders in his
imagination!
18 Jouan thinks Broadhead (1960) and Rose (1950) go too far in denying all magic in the
Persae since, in its Homeric precedent, the necromantic ritual is dictated by Circe and
was executed in conditions which placed Odysseus outside the community of mortal
men. Headlam’s argument for a magical interpretation (1902: esp. 55 and n.11, which
mentions E. fr. 912 Kannicht) was suspected by Eitrem (1928) and refuted by
Lawson (1934), who showed that the chorus are not magi, that their utterances are
genuine prayers and that there is no reason to assume that appeals to the dead of this
nature were in any respect ‘not Greek’. The idea of raising a ghost would not,
according to Dakaris (1963), have been alien to the ancient Greeks. These arguments
have been more fully discussed in Bardel (1999: ch. 3).
19 On the biblical necromancy see West (1997: 550 3) and for near Eastern parallels see
West (1997: 50 1). Both these instances share the notion of mediumship: Saul
consults the witch of Endor at the height of his political/power struggle with David,
88 RUTH BARDEL
The precise location of the evocation in the Psychagogoi has been much
disputed there are three possibilities: lake Avernus, lake Stymphalus or
Thesprotia. That the chorus come from the area where the play is set is
suggested by fr. 273 (above, and Taplin 1977: 447) and made more explicit
by fr. 273a20 (see below) in which they address Odysseus as a stranger and
therefore as unfamiliar with the locale. Hermes was closely associated with
lake Stymphalus, even though it was not the known site of a
nekyomanteion,21 unlike Thesprotia which did house one and which, from
an early date in antiquity (Pausanias 1.17.5, 9.30.6), was associated with
Odysseus. This location has scarcely more justification than has, for
example, the localization of the Homeric entrance to Hades at Cumae, or
other places of ancient worship of the dead at, for example, Pylos,22 and it
is clear that cultic ‘reality’ impinged in some way upon the literary and
dramatic material.
Excavations of the nekyomanteion at Thesprotia were once thought to
have revealed evidence of offerings to the dead (such as those made by
the Queen in the Persae) and cogged winches found there were believed to
have been used for raising ‘ghosts’ aloft from a cave below the room in
which the ‘evocation’ took place,23 but this interpretation has now been
disputed.24 The tyrant Periander was said to have conjured up the ghost
(ei[dwlon) of his wife Melissa, whom he had killed, at Thesprotia (Hdt.
5.92.2 4). Could the Thesprotis (part of the epic cycle) and Alexis’ comedy
Thesprotians help reinforce the connection between this oracle of the dead
and Odysseus? One fragment of Alexis’ Thesprotians (fr. 93 Kassel Austin)
and West argues that the dead prophet Samuel is not visible to Saul even though he
can hear the prophet’s words. Modern mediums and their consultants find themselves
in a similar position: for an interesting appraisal of how modern technology
influenced the language of mediums see Connor (1999: 203 25).
20 Attributed to Aeschylus by its first editor, Kramer (1980) and accepted by Rusten
(1982).
21 Farnell (1909: 3 5).
22 Rohde (1925: 73 with n.53).
23 Burkert (1985: 114 15).
24 See Dakaris (1963: 35; 1971: 81) for the archaeological evidence for this oracle of the
dead. Burkert (1985: 115) discusses the cogged winches and iron rollers which, it is
suggested, were used to produce ghostly appearances in the form, perhaps, of
puppets. This interpretation has now been challenged by Wiseman (1998: 12 18 with
further bibliography on 77), who argues that the machinery found on the site belongs
to third century BC catapults housed in the complex which he takes to be a fortified
farmstead. In conclusion, Wiseman does admit the possibility of ‘multiple
interpretations’ (18) and it would seem that the site (and, perhaps the machinery?) was
used at different times, for different purposes: future exploration may reveal some
conclusive evidence confirming Dakaris’ identification of the nekyomanteion.
consists of two lines which may have formed part of the evocation in a
ghost-raising scene. Arnott discusses the play’s date (mid-fourth century)
and subject matter and suggests that this fragment may ‘open a speech or
even a scene in which one or more prophetic ghosts were conjured up.
Such a scene, with its opportunities for theatrical display and tragic parody
. . . would have been most effective at a climactic point in the plot.’25 The
oracle of Trophonius at Lebadeia may also have played a part in another
of Alexis’ comedies of a slightly earlier date, Trophonius, in which one of
the actors calls on the chorus to dance.26 Although it has been suggested
that the motif of raising a ghost was an inspired and ‘staggeringly effective’
use of limited resources in a period when one actor worked with a
chorus,27 it is clear that the persistence of the motif in both tragedy and
comedy transcends issues of limited theatrical resources.
Fr. 273a (Radt) of the Psychagogoi contains anapaestic instructions for a
sacrifice to the dead, spoken by the chorus (or chorus leader) to Odysseus,
addressed as ‘stranger’ (w\ xei'nÅ):
a[ge nu'n, w\ xei'nÅ, ejpi; poiofuvtwn

i{stw shkw'n fobera'" livmna"
uJpov tÅ aujcevnion laimo;n ajmhvsa"
tou'de sfagivou poto;n ajyuvcoi"
ai|ma meqivei
donavkwn eij" bevnqo" ajmaurovn.
Cqovna dÅ wjgugivan ejpikeklovmeno"
cqovniovn qÅ ÔErmh'n pompo;n fqimevnwn
[aij]tou' cqovnion Diva nuktipovlwn
eJsmo;n ajnei'nai potamou' stomavtwn,
ou| tovdÅ ajporrw;x ajmevgarton u{dwr
kajcevrnipton
Stugivoi" na[s]moi'sin ajnei'tai.
Come, stranger, stand on the grassy precincts

of the fearful lake and, when
you have cut the throat of this victim,
let the blood fall into the dim depths
of the reeds for the lifeless ones to drink.
Invoking ancient Earth and
25 Arnott (1996: 243 6).

26 Webster (1952: 25) and Arnott (1996: 669 76). See Pausanias (9.39.2) on the Oracle
of Trophonius and the curious manner of entry and exit feet first in both
instances practised there. This peculiar mode of entry and exit would have offered
plenty of scope for comic (mis)representation.
27 Green (1994: 18 9).
90 RUTH BARDEL
chthonian Hermes, conveyor of the dead,

beg Zeus of the underworld to send up
the swarm of the night wanderers from the mouths of the river,
this miserable water which washes no hand,
of which a branch has been sent forth by the
streams of the Styx.
Odysseus is to stand at the edge of the ‘fearful lake’, sacrifice an animal

(probably a sheep as in Od. 11.35 6) and ‘let the blood fall into the dim
depths of the reeds, for the lifeless ones to drink’. Ancient Earth,
chthonian Hermes and Zeus of the Underworld are the gods to be
invoked ‘to send up the swarm of the night-wanderers’ from the
‘miserable water’ of the Stygian tributary. Although anapaests are used in a
variety of contexts, it is interesting to note that anapaestic metre occurs
frequently in connection with necromantic ritual: the anapaestic
instructions for a sacrifice to the dead in fr. 273a can be compared to the
anapaestic introduction of the chorus’ lyric necromantic hymn in the Persae
(623 32). Recitative anapaests are also found in a Euripidean fragment (fr.
912 Kannicht) which connects evocation, apparition and prediction and
includes libations and various offerings: the libations are accompanied by
an invocation to Zeus or Hades ‘whichever name you prefer’ (Zeu;" ei[tÅ
ÅAivdh" ojnomazovmeno" stevrgei", lines 2 3). The fragment continues,
‘Send to the light of day the souls of the dead (pevmyon dÅ ej" fw'"
yuca;" ejnevrwn) to those who want to know in advance the trials awaiting
them (toi'" boulomevnoi" a[qlou" promaqei'n povqen e[blaston), where
they come from and what is their source’ (lines 8 12). Unfortunately, it is
not possible to allocate this fragment to any particular play, nor is it
possible to say whether or not this evocation actually took place on stage
and whether a ghost appeared: it is tempting to think of Odysseus here
too, ‘if only a suitable play were known’.28 An unknown fragment with
musical notation in an Oslo papyrus (1413, ‘A’), copied at the end of the
first, or the beginning of the second century AD, contains an
eyewitness account of an appearance of Achilles’ ghost in anapaestic
metre.29
Fr. 275 (Radt) is part of the raised Teiresias’ speech prophesying
Odysseus’ death:30
28 Rusten (1982: 33).

29 The account is narrated by a ‘person of lower social standing’ who addresses
Deidameia as despovti (line 11). For a full account see Eitrem, Amundsen and
Winnington Ingram (1955). See now also West (1992: 281, 311 13 no. 30).
30 David Harvey pointed out to me that this prophecy sounds more like an Aristophanic
ejrw/dio;" ga;r uJyovqen potwvmeno"
o[nqw/ se plhvxei nhduvo" kenwvmasin:
ejk tou'dÅ a[kanqa pontivou boskhvmato"
shvyei palaio;n brevgma kai; tricorruev".
For a heron, in its flight on high, shall smite thee

with its dung, its belly’s emptyings; a spine from
out this beast of the sea shall rot thy head, aged and
scant of hair.
(trans. Weir Smyth 1926: 474).
It can be safely assumed that Teiresias’ prophecy was addressed to

Odysseus himself (as it was in the Odyssey, 11.134 7, although the
fragment’s version is different from that of the Odyssey). Was the ghost of
Teiresias the only ghost conjured up in this dramatic nekyia? Or can we
assume that, as in Homer, the ghosts (ei[dwla) of Elpenor, Anticleia and
Heracles were also summoned up? Fr. 274 (Radt) (kai; skeuoqhkw'n
nautikw'n tÅ ejreipivwn, ‘arsenals and wreckage of ships’) may refer to the
hardships Odysseus and his crew are being warned they may encounter on
their way home should they slaughter the cattle of the Sun (Od. 11.108 13;
12.327 402). Fragments 276 (staqerou' ceuvmato", ‘standing water’), 277
(Dai'ra, ‘Persephone’) and 278 (drwvptein, ‘to tear cheeks in mourning’)
are, perhaps, too scanty to be particularly helpful.
Both the ‘Teiresias Vase’ and the title of Aeschylus’ fragmentary play
the ghost-raisers reinforce the notion that Odysseus does not have a
literal katabasis. The adverb e[mpedon, ‘steadfast’, is used of Odysseus’
position in the Odyssey (11.628, 152) and implies immobility. In the Odyssey,
it is Persephone who sends up the souls of the dead.31 Through certain
rituals, Odysseus raises the dead, the ghosts come up, just as Darius in the
Persae does. Staging a katabasis would not have been impossible: spatial
locations can be fluid in tragedy (and especially in comedy, for example,
Aristophanes’ Frogs) and the audience can be imaginatively transported to
Persia, Thebes or Hades. Aristotle (Poetics 1456a1 2) mentions tragedies of
parody of a tragic passage: if this is so, then it is a prime example of ‘theatrical display
and tragic parody’ (see Arnott cited above) and may not belong to this play.
31 Odyssey (11.37, 213 24, 226, 634 5) where the word w[truna (‘rouse’, ‘spur on’, ‘urge
forward’) is used. At Od. 11.476 however, Achilles asks Odysseus why he dared to
come down (katelqevmen, 475) to Hades. Clark (1979: 201) suggests that Odysseus
does not have a katabasis, which is why he is not mentioned in a series of visitors
(Heracles, Pollux, Theseus, Orpheus and Dionysus) to the underworld who preceded
Aeneas (Aeneid 6.119ff). Gardiner (1978: 79) proposes that in the context of the fifth
century theatre ajnabaivnein and katabaivnein were considered technical terms
corresponding to our terms ‘upstage’ and ‘downstage’.
92 RUTH BARDEL
a particular type which are set in Hades as a sub-species of spectacular

tragedy but, unfortunately, he cites no examples. Fr. 277 (Radt) of
Aeschylus’ Psychagogoi which mentions Dai'ra (Persephone), may suggest
that she performs a similar function in both the Odyssey and the
Psychagogoi that of a stage manager(ess): Vermeule notes that ‘Homer is
as much the choreographer of a beloved, familiar drama as his Persephone
is an operatic director, arranging the entrances and exits of the souls with
great skill.’32
It is in connection with the imaginative transportation of the audience
to various locations that the title of Aeschylus’ fragmentary play is
significant. Yucagwgevw can also denote persuasion, the act of winning
over the souls of the living: if the emotional aim of poetry is to entrance
(yucagwgei'n; cf. Aristotle Poetics 1450b16), is not the poet-dramatist a
necromancer (yucagwgov"), raising dead (mythical) figures of the past,
presenting them on stage and beguiling the souls (yucapavth") of his
audience? In the Phaedrus (261a6 7), Plato asks, ‘is not rhetoric in its entire
nature an art which leads the soul by means of words?’ (tevcnh yucagwgiva ti"
dia; lovgwn my italics).33 Can we read the fragmentary Psychagogoi as
another Aeschylean example, alongside the Persae, of the performative
potential of language which has the demonstrative power literally to
conjure up ghosts of the past?
One aspect of the late and unreliable Vita has hitherto been
overlooked: among the theatrical innovations, which include Erinyes, said
to have been introduced by Aeschylus, ghosts (eijdwvloi") also feature. Was
Aeschylus the first dramatist to produce such a dramatic character?
Aeschylus’ penchant for ghosts and necromancy parts of his infamous
and alarming stage effects may have been turned on him in Pherecrates’
fragmentary Crapatali (fr. 100 Kassel Austin) in which he appeared as a
ghost himself, announcing that he built a great craft (that of tragedy) and
handed it over for the next generation to exploit (or, we might suggest,
revive?).34
II. Sophocles’ Polyxena (frs 522 28 Radt)

Only sixteen lines of Sophocles’ Polyxena survive. The precise setting of
32 Vermeule (1979: 29).

33 More generally Plato states ‘it is the function of speech to lead souls by persuasion’
(lovgou duvnami" tugcavnei yucagwgiva, 271c10). See further Rosenmeyer (1955:
233 8).
34 It is not clear whether at least part of the play took place in Hades, or whether
Aeschylus was summoned to this world.
the play is unknown and the dramatis personae can ‘only be guessed at,
though we know that they included Polyxena, Agamemnon, Menelaus (frs
522 and 524 Radt), the ghost of Achilles (523 Radt), a messenger to report
the sacrifice: the identity of the chorus is obscure (presumably they were
either Greek sailors or Trojan captives)’.35 Fr. 522 mentions preparations
for a sacrifice: su; dÅ au\qi mivmnwn pou katÅ jIdaivan cqovna / poivma"
jOluvmpou sunagagw;n quhpovlei (‘Stay here then, in the land of Ida, /
And gather the flocks of Olympus together and sacrifice . . . ’).36 This may
be, as its context in Strabo (10.3.14) suggests, part of the argument
between Agamemnon and Menelaus: according to Homer (Od. 3.141 5)
Agamemnon wished to stay in Troy until he had offered sacrifices to
Athena.37 Mossman, however, suggests that the argument centred on
whether or not Polyxena should be sacrificed; ‘presumably . . .
Agamemnon’s reluctance to leave was prompted by his unwillingness to
sacrifice her’.38 Fr. 524 is assigned to Agamemnon, identified by the
reference to his military office (prw/ravth" stratou'), who defends himself
against some criticism on the basis that not even Zeus could please
everyone.
That the ghost appeared in the play is made clear by fr. 523:
ajkta;" ajpaivwnav" te kai; melambaqei'"

lipou'sa livmnh" h\lqon, a[rsena" coa;"
ÅAcevronto" ojxuplh'ga" hjcouvsa" govou"
I have come, leaving the cheerless and darkly deep

Shores of the lake, the mighty stream
Of Acheron echoing with weeping from fierce blows . . .
Mossman suggests that ‘presumably the ghost went on to demand the

sacrifice of Polyxena’ prompting the argument between Agamemnon and
Menelaus: ‘Agamemnon’s reluctance to leave was prompted by his
unwillingness to kill her.’39 The similarities between the opening of this
ghost’s speech to that of Euripides’ Polydorus are striking: indeed, as has
been suggested, the ‘idea of the stage-ghost for Polydorus derives perhaps
from that of Achilles in Sophocles’ Polyxena.’40 The words, ajkta;" . . .
lipou'sa livmnh" h\lqon (‘I have come, leaving the cheerless and darkly
35 Mossman (1994: 42).

36 All translations of Sophocles’ fragments are from Mossman (1994).
37 Cf. Hickman (1938: 48).
38 Mossman (1994: 45).
39 Mossman (1994: 43).
40 Collard (1991: 130) on E. Hec. 1 58.
94 RUTH BARDEL
deep’, fr. 523) are similar to those of Polydorus’ ghost, (1 2): h{kw nekrw'n
keuqmw'na kai; skovtou puvla" lipwvn, (‘I have come from the hiding
place of the dead and the gates of darkness’). But the suggestion that this
fragmentary spectral speech is made by the ghost of Achilles is rendered
less likely by the feminine ending of the participle lipou'sa: the feminine
participle is unusual as compared with the masculine subject of Hec. 1,
Pers. 686, Od. 11.90 and Bacchylides 5.78. Pearson therefore states that
there is no apparent reason for the abnormal gender but suggests that
lipou'sa may agree with (the implied) yuchv.41 This seems to be a feasible
hypothesis: in the Iliad (16.855 7) we find that yuchv determines the
feminine lipou'sÅ (yuch; dÅ ejk rJeqevwn ptamevnh “Ai>dovsde bebhvkei, /
o{n povtmon goovsa, lipou'sÅ ajndroth'ta kai; h{bhn; ‘His soul left his
limbs and flew down to the house of Hades, mourning its fate and leaving
behind its manly youthfulness’). Is the issue of the feminine ending of the
participle an ‘English problem’? If this is not the ghost of Achilles
speaking, whose ghost is it Polyxena’s?
A well-established literary tradition concerning the appearance of
Achilles’ ghost suggests that fr. 523 must, however, be spoken by the
ghost of Achilles. Proclus’ summary of the lost epic Nostoi states that
Achilles’ eidolon appeared as Agamemnon was setting sail and tried to
prevent his departure by foretelling the future (tw'n de; peri; to;n
ÅAgamevmnona ajpopleovntwn ÅAchillevw" ei[dwlon ejpifane;n peira'tai
diakwluvein prolevgon ta; sumbhsovmena, Nostoi 108.24 6 Allen).
Polyxena’s sacrifice was known as early as the Iliupersis (108.6 8 Allen) and
both epics separated the appearance of Achilles’ ghost from the sacrifice.
The ghost of Achilles demanding Polyxena’s death occurs, as far as we can
tell, in Simonides.42 Pseudo-Longinus states (De Subl. 15.7) that the
appearance of Achilles above his tomb (profainomevnou toi'"
ajnagomevnoi" uJpe;r tou' tavfou) was a scene which he doubts anyone had
depicted more vividly (h}n oujk oi\dÅ ei[ ti" o[yin ejnargevsteron
eijdwlopoivhse) than Simonides. Some ghostly appearances are evidently
aesthetically better than others, contra Dr Johnson whom I cited earlier.
The ghost who speaks fr. 523 of Sophocles’ Polyxena is most likely to be
that of Achilles.
Can we assume, from the pseudo-Longinus passage, that Achilles’
ghost actually appeared above his tomb on stage in Sophocles’ Polyxena?
First, it is clear that the ghost spoke: fr. 523 ‘shows clearly that, whether
41 Pearson (1917: ad loc.); cf. Mossman (1994: 46, n.64).

42 Mossman (1994: 31).
visible or not, the ghost was heard to speak’.43 Although fr. 523 is in the
first person, this does not rule out the possibility that the appearance of
Achilles’ ghost was reported. This prompted Hickman to conclude that
Achilles in the Polyxena was an off-stage ghost whose speech was reported
by another character.44 In two plays dealing with the same subject matter,
Euripides’ Hecuba and later Seneca’s Troades, Achilles’ ghost speaks in the
first person although quoted by another character. However, the fragment
in question is embedded in Apollodorus Atheniensis’ Peri; tw'n qew'n,
and he states that Sophocles brought on (eijsavgei) the ghost of Achilles
speaking (levgousan). This is revealing; a speaking ghost must, it seems, be
a visible ghost. It is also, I believe, sufficient evidence to support the
proposal that Achilles’ ghost was, like the eidola of Darius, Clytemnestra
and Polydorus, a visible stage ghost. The way in which Euripides
underplays Achilles’ ghost in the Hecuba not only suggests that his is the
later play, but also that the appearance of Achilles’ ghost in Sophocles was
the ‘highlight of the play’.45 When and where did Achilles’ ghost actually
appear?
Schlesinger proposed that it would have been more ‘appropriate’ if
Achilles’ ghost appeared early in the play (not as a prologue) before the
sacrifice of Polyxena.46 Others, for example Weil, have proposed that
Achilles’ ghost appeared in a grande finale at the end of the Polyxena, after
Polyxena’s sacrifice.47 Nothing in the fragments provides any evidence to
support an appearance either at the end or at the beginning of the play.
Calder, in his extensive and highly speculative reconstruction of the
fragmentary play dismissed the idea that Achilles’ ghost delivered the
prologue, a suggestion, however, which Taplin thinks is ‘highly
probable’.48 In defence of his view, Calder argues that there is no extant
example of an introductory monologue in Sophocles and that we need not
assume one here a dialogue would be ‘more typically Sophoclean’.49 Can
we discard the possibility of a Sophoclean introductory monologue as
untypical on the basis of the small number of extant Sophoclean dramas?
Achilles’ ghost as a prologue is an attractive proposal. If only the date of
the Polyxena were known, Achilles’ ghost, as presented by Sophocles,
would contrast effectively with the pathetic prologue appearance of
43 Campbell (1881: 526).

44 Hickman (1938: 45 7).
45 Mossman (1994: 45 6).
46 Schlesinger (1927: 15).
47 Weil (1868: 204).
48 Calder (1966: 44); Taplin (1977: 447).
49 Calder (1966: 44).
96 RUTH BARDEL
Polydorus’ ghost in Euripides. But I think Euripides’ representation of

Achilles’ ghost is more subtle than this.
Calder suggests that Achilles’ ghost may have featured twice in the
play once as a stage ghost reciting a speech which included fr. 523, and
later in another character’s report of a second appearance.50 But there is
nothing in the fragments that suggest this alleged second appearance.51
Besides, if the highlight of the play was the appearance of Achilles’ ghost
on stage rather than the (reported) sacrifice of Polyxena, then a second
reported appearance would, ultimately, be redundant.
There is one other proposition that must be considered, one which
unites the notions of Achilles appearing above his tomb, the fragmentary
evidence and the centrality of this figure to the play’s action. Blumenthal
states, on the basis of fr. 523, that in Sophocles the ghost ‘auf der Szene
aus dem Grabe steigt’ (‘rises from the grave on the stage’).52 This implies a
tomb on stage above which Achilles’ ghost would appear: might it also
imply a necromancy as in the Persae? What of the flocks collected in fr.
522 what was the nature of the sacrifice? Does fr. 523, in particular the
last line ‘the sound of wailing that accompanies fierce blows’ that is,
the cries of mourners as they beat their breasts and heads, suggest that
Achilles’ appearance was the result of an anacletic hymn? If this is the
case, Achilles’ ghost can neither deliver the prologue nor appear at the end
of the play in a grande finale. Darius’ ghost appears in response to shrill
cries that summon the dead (yucagwgoi'" ojrqiavzonte" govoi", 687) as
the earth groans under beating and scratching (stevnei, kevkoptai, kai;
caravssetai pevdon, 683), which are two ritual actions:53 Achilles’ ghost
appears as the nether regions still echo to the sound of ‘wailing that
accompanies fierce blows’ (ojxuplh'ga" hjcouvsa" govou"). Pearson
compares this line with Cho. 23 (ojxuvceiri su;n ktuvpw/) and Ajax 630 3
(ojxutovnou" me;n wj/da;" qrhnhvsei), both highly suggestive contexts. Was
Achilles’ ghost raised as Darius was in the Persae and consulted as to
what should be done about the Greeks’ delayed departure due to
unfavourable winds? Was the ghost’s demand that Polyxena be sacrificed
indeed the cause of the argument between Menelaus and Agamemnon?
Perhaps it is significant that there is no mention of shrill cries or
groaning earth in either the speech of Clytemnestra’s ghost or Polydorus’
50 Calder (1966: 42).
51 Cf. Mossman (1994: 44).
52 Blumenthal (1927: 1073.22ff); cf. Taplin (1977: 447).
53 See further Hall (1996: 157) and the note on Persae 683 with further references. Also
Pers. 697: ‘Since I came here from below in obedience to your laments’ (ajllÅ ejpei;
kavtwqen h\lqon soi'" govoi" pepeismevno").
prologue both are unsolicited ghosts, appearing spontaneously and
silently, prompted solely by the dramatist.54 The reported accounts of
Achilles’ ghost in the Hecuba also depict its appearance as silent: however,
in the Oslo papyrus 1413 (lines 1 5), a crash and din (ktuvpo") precede the
appearance of his ghost.55 Frs 526, citwvn sÅ a[peiro", ejnduthvrion
kakw'n (‘an inextricable tunic, a garment of evil’) and 527, paravrruma
podov" (‘a covering for the foot’) are often assigned to Achilles’ ghost on
the basis that they probably refer to the manner of Agamemnon’s death
which he predicted.56 Fr. 528, hjkrwthriasmevnoi (‘mutilations’), which
Harpocration (s.v. hjkrwthriasmevnoi) explains as oiJ lumainovmenoiv tisin
perikovptousi ta; a[kra (‘those who inflict outrages on others, lop off
their extremities’) may, Pearson suggested, be a reference to the mutilation
of Deiphobus:57 however, the earliest authority for the mutilation of
Deiphobus is Virgil’s Aeneid (6.494ff). It is far more likely that this
fragment refers to the mutilation (maschalismos) of Agamemnon’s dead
body by Clytemnestra, referred to in the Choephori (439) and Sophocles’
Electra (445) and, we may plausibly add, by Sophocles in his Polyxena.58
Given that Achilles’ ghost foretells the storm that breaks up the fleet
(ajpÅ aijqevro" de; kajpo; lugaivou nevfou", fr. 525), and that he predicts
the manner of Agamemnon’s murder down to the detail of his
mutilation59 might it not be more instructive to draw an analogy between
Sophocles’ ghost and that of Aeschylus’ Darius whose interpretation of
events leads him to foretell the misfortunes of the Persians at Plataea? Is it
possible that Sophocles was drawing not only on (now lost) epic accounts
of Achilles’ ghost but also upon the memorable raising of Darius’ ghost in
54 Perhaps the groans of the earth suggest that some noise accompanied the appearance
of Achilles perhaps thunder or a slight earthquake, a supposition which contravenes
the code of ghostly etiquette (Hickman 1938: 47). In the eighteenth century world of
the London theatre, the noise of the trap rising and the trap doors opening was
covered by the noises of thunder and lightning. In Fielding’s satire on the theatre,
Pasquin (Little Haymarket, 1736) three ghosts are sent up in succession. ‘Pray Mr.
Fustian’, Sneerwell, one of the characters, cuttingly enquires, ‘why must a Ghost
always rise in a storm of thunder and lightning?’ (Hume 1980: 95).
55 There is a seismov" (earthquake) at Achilles’ ascent and ajstraphv (lightning) at his
descent in Philostratus (Apoll. Tyan. 4.16).
56 Pearson (1917: 163); Braginton (1933: 52); cf. Mossman (1994: 44).
57 Pearson (1917: ad loc.).
58 The vexed problem of the practice of maschalismos within the context of the lex talionis
and the non appreance of Agamemnon’s ghost is fully discussed in Bardel (1999: ch.
4).
59 Devereux deems Sophocles to be ‘manifestly interested’ in the practice of maschalismos
(1976, 223).
98 RUTH BARDEL
the Persae and therefore also upon the audience’s relatively recent theatrical
experience literary and dramatic sources/conventions which Euripides
ultimately explodes?60 And, for this proposal to function properly, it is
essential that Achilles’ tomb was the focus of the dramatic action so that
he could, in pseudo-Longinus’ words, ‘appear above his tomb’. A single
appearance of Achilles’ impressive ghost as the highlight of the play prior
to Polyxena’s sacrifice seems to be far more likely. This would also
support the brevity with which Euripides dismisses his ghost of Achilles,
relegating it to, in Hickman’s terms, ‘the realm of the offstage ghost’;61 it
would also explain Euripides’ focus on the sacrifice of Polyxena and, most
of all, it explains the prominence given to the pathetic figure of Polydorus’
eidolon.
Aeschylus’, Sophocles’ and Simonides’ ghosts were magnificently
represented (or, in Simonides’ case, described) and would, no doubt, have
pleased Johnson (whom I cited earlier). The Hecuba’s three descriptions of
Achilles’ ghostly apparition are not mentioned by pseudo-Longinus ‘no
wonder, for they include little that could be called sublime . . . Terror and
awe are conspicuously absent even from the longest and most explicit of
the three descriptions.’62 If the reported sightings of Achilles’ ghost are
less impressive (appearances mediated through the character’s responses),
embedded, as they are in the Hecuba, in the demands of the present
dramatic situation, does this mean that for a ghost to have its full impact,
it must be present on stage? The answer must be an emphatic ‘yes’.
Sophocles seems to accept Homer’s evaluation of Achilles’ temper as
presented in his ‘great rampage’ in Iliad books 20 22 and, on the basis of
the Sophoclean ‘heroic temper’ (to invoke Knox’s 1964 appraisal) we may,
I think, safely conclude along with other critics63 that Achilles did indeed
appear as an implacable ghost in the Polyxena.64
Critical interest in the pseudo-Longinus passage has focused on its
60 We do not know the date of the Polyxena, but the Persae was a famous play in the later
fifth century. See further Hall (1996: 2).
61 Hickman (1938: 47).
62 King (1985: 51).
63 Those who think Achilles’ ghost appeared on stage include Pearson (1917: vol. II,
163); Willem (1932: 204); Braginton (1933: 52).
64 On the frequently vengeful nature of Greek hero ghosts such as Polites mentioned by
Pausanias (6.6.4 11) and Strabo (6.1.5), it could be argued that Sophocles depicted a
causal link between the appearance of Achilles’ ghost and the sacrifice of Polyxena.
See King (1985: esp. 49 and 52). King takes into account Tosi’s 1914 article which
posits a causal link between ghost and sacrifice. For summaries of several other hero
ghosts, both beneficent and vengeful, see Rohde (1925: 132 8). On the late tradition
of Achilles’ ghost, see Arrian (Periplus 23) and Philostratus (Heroicus 748 9).
apparent confirmation that Achilles did indeed appear above his tomb in
Sophocles’ Polyxena. Hickman resists the interpretation that Achilles was a
stage ghost, ranging her arguments against what she calls the ‘literal
interpretation’ of the pseudo-Longinus passage supported by ‘Longinus’
unquestioning believers’.65 I hope to have shown that there is evidence,
derived from the fragments themselves, that this resistance is misplaced. I
would also like to draw attention to the very language that pseudo-
Longinus deploys in his description of Simonides’ inimitable
representation of Achilles’ ghost. Pseudo-Longinus combines the terms
o[yi", ejnargevsteron and eijdwlopoiiva (15.7). Elsewhere in his treatise,
pseudo-Longinus uses similar terminology to designate the way in which
the poet of the Aspis has made (ejpoivhse) the image (ei[dwlon) of Achlus
repulsive (9.5). In both instances, the author is describing the success or
failure of a poetic image, a vivid presentation by which the poet seems to
see what he is describing and brings it vividly before the eyes (o[yi") of his
audience, processes which he calls fantasivai but others call eijdwlopoiivai
(15.1: cf. 14.1 2). Simonides’ vivid image (ei[dwlon) of Achilles’ ghost
(ei[dwlon) is a sublime example of image/ghost-making (eijdwlopoiiva) and
is the most vivid (ejnargevsteron) of all the other images of Achilles’ ghost
(eijdwlopoiiva in both senses of the term). As in the Homeric material, it
is the spectacle (o[yi") and the conspicuity (ejnargev") of the image
(ei[dwlon) created by the poet which are striking. Furthermore, this is a
prime example of the inter-, or intra-textuality that is a defining feature of
the ei[dwlon in both senses of the word, image and ghost. It also draws
attention to the palimpsestic nature of the poetical space in which these
images of dead figures are inscribed. A striking image of Achilles’ ghost
created by Simonides haunts subsequent depictions (and critical appraisals
of that and subsequent images). Like the ei[dwlon of Homeric and
dramatic texts, the ghost of Achilles in Sophocles’ Polyxena and the little
that we can deduce from the fragmentary evidence, always refers (back) to
something else which helps to place this ghost in context.
Eijdwlopoiiva has very specific connotations in forensic oratory:
eijdwlopoiiva is a figure of speech which represents a famous person who
is really dead and no longer able to speak (hJ provswpon me;n e[cousa
gnwvrimon. teqneo;" de; kai; tou' levgein pausavmenon), created in order
to reanimate the past (Aphthonius Progymnasmata 11.10 13).66 Aphthonius
65 Hickman (1938: 42 7).

66 In the Sophist (236c6 39d4), Plato distinguishes between two types of ‘copy making’
(eijdwlopoiikh'") ‘likeness making’ and ‘appearance making’ (eijkastikh;n kai;
fantastikhvn): an ei[dwlon is a copy, a reproduction. Homer is a ‘creator of
100 RUTH BARDEL
cites Eupolis’ Demes and Aristides’ In Defence of the Four (uJpe;r tw'n
tessavrwn) as prime examples of eijdwlopoiiva.67 This is essentially an
imaginative reconstruction of a (fictional or real) character: whether or not
Pericles and other Athenian statesmen were stage ghosts (ei[dwla) in
Eupolis’ fragmentary Demes (Ael. Arist. Or. 3.365, Eupolis frs 99 146
Kassel Austin) is debatable. What is important is that the dramatist
engages in a process of artistic and quasi-rhetorical representation in order
to reanimate the past and that (in a brilliant twist) Eupolis focuses on the
raised statesmen’s oratorical/rhetorical skills (for example in fr. 102 and
103 Kassel Austin). A full discussion of the Demes is beyond the scope of
this chapter: suffice it to note that Eupolis was known for his ‘remarkable
powers of creating illusion (eujfavntasto") in his plots . . . showing himself
able to restore dead law-givers to life’ (ajnagagei'n iJkano;" w[n ejx ”Aidou
nomoqetw'n provswpa, Platonius, p. diaf. car. Kassel Austin V.299
[Eupolis T 34]) a marvellous comment on the dramatist’s creative and
necromantic powers.68
III. Fringe Figures: Ghosts and Vase-paintings

Let us begin, somewhat anachronistically, but nevertheless in deference to
one of the eidolon’s defining features, by discussing the well-known ‘Medea
vase’, which will demonstrate the marginality of the stage ghost. The only
figure in Greek vase-painting which can with absolute certainty be
identified as a tragic ghost is the figure labelled ‘EIDOLON AHTOU’ in a
fourth-century vase by the Underworld Painter, inspired by an unknown
Medea tragedy.69 According to Siebert, Aeetes’ clothes mark him as
barbarian and the column of smoke beneath his feet marks him as a tragic
ghost:70 apart from these two signifiers there is little to denote ‘spectre’.
Trendall and Webster thought the ‘column of smoke’ beneath the eidolon’s
phantoms’ (eijdwvlou dhmiourgov", Rep. 599d3) at the head of the poetic tribe who are
‘imitators of images of excellence’ (mimhta;" eijdwvlwn ajreth'", Rep. 600e5),
‘fashioning phantoms far removed from reality’ (ei[dwla eijdwlopoiou'nta, Rep.
605c3).
67 The scholiast on Aphthonius (Walz 1968: 646) states that Aristides ‘holds forth on
democracy by staging these long dead men’ (kai; uJpokrinovmeno" ejkeivnwn ta;
provswpa pavlai teqnewvtwn, polla; peri; dhmokrativa" dhmhgorei') and states
that Eupolis did the same in writing the Demes.
68 Scholars are divided between a necromancy and a katabasis in the Demes: Storey (2000)
argues convincingly for a necromancy.
69 Trendall and Webster (1971: 110, no.III.5.4).
70 Siebert (1981: 67).
feet was a rock,71 but whatever the case, it does seem significant that the
eidolon of Aeetes is the only figure in this representation who stands, for
want of a technical expression, on a wobbly, smoke-like rock. All the other
figures are, as it were, ‘firmly grounded’. Aeetes’ ghost looks as substantial
as the other figures in the vase-painting, played as he must be by a very
live actor. The eidolon may have, as Taplin suggests, delivered the prologue
or he may have returned, as Shapiro states, ‘in spirit to remind his
daughter of the betrayal of her hearth and home that has brought her
ultimately to this sorry state’.72 Whether at the beginning or at the end of
the narrative, the eidolon often stands outside the temporal sequence of the
(literary, dramatic or pictorial) narrative proper.
The title of this section was inspired by Bieber’s comment on this
particular figure above whose head the inscription EIDWLON AHTOU is
clearly visible: the ‘Charonian staircase . . . certainly goes back to a classical
tradition. The earlier ghosts may have appeared not in the centre but at
the edge of the classical orchestra as seems to be indicated by the Medea
vase . . . sometimes only the heads or the upper part of persons emerged
from the ground.’73 And hence the title and subject of this section fringe
figures ghosts or eidola ontologically unstable beings relegated to at
least the fringes of the representational, if not the theatrical space.
Whatever the role of Aeetes’ eidolon, it is clear that the artist has
compressed time and space: the painter has, as Shapiro notes, ‘combined
at least three distinct scenes into one multi-level composition, with
subsidiary figures who may allude to several more’.74 The eidolon itself, in
many significant ways, acts within the representational or even
theatrical space as a marker of this compression of time and space, a
figure from the past whose gaze seems to be directed downwards (as in
this representation), towards the final sequence in the narrative present.
Aeetes’ eidolon stands at the fringes of the pictorial space, spanning two of
the three distinct scenes. Unlike the other figures on the vase, who all
seem to be interacting with, or in response to, at least one other character,
the eidolon’s isolated, marginal position is, therefore, all the more marked
and one suspects that he has little or no relation to the dramatic action
unfolding around him, and is thus very much the ideal candidate for a
prologue speaker. This eidolon of an elderly barbarian king stands on the
fringes of the dramatic action, helpless to intervene. ‘Pictures and
71 Trendall and Webster (1971: 110).

72 Taplin (1997: 80); Shapiro (1994: 181).
73 Bieber (1961: 78).
74 Shapiro (1994: 181).
102 RUTH BARDEL
descriptions of ghosts are not easy to come by’75 and the ghost is rarely so
easily identified as is Aeetes’ eidolon.
In a recent article, Taplin suggests that only two fifth-century vase-
paintings can be plausibly claimed to show a play in performance and both
are early, from the era of Aeschylus.76 One of these is the Basle crater (BS
415, Boardman 1975: fig. 333), the other is the hydria fragments from
Corinth (discussed below). The Basle crater, an Attic vase dated to around
490 BC, depicts six youths dancing in unison before a bearded and
shrouded figure who rises behind, or from, a structure which has been
variously interpreted as a tomb, an altar or a monument. Apparently
‘indecipherable lettering’, interpreted as the chorus’ song, issues from the
open mouths of these ‘Basle Dancers’: Schmidt says that the legible
lettering consists of IE which, he suggests has parallels with the
exclamatory ijhv and that under the arms of the first pair AOOIO and FE. . .
SEO can be seen.77 This ‘indecipherable’ lettering is perhaps essential to
the interpretation of the vase (see below). It seems clear that these six
youths are a masked chorus:78 as Taplin notes, ‘their identical hair, head-
dresses and features are suggestive of masks, though there is no decisive
indicator. And their military costumes, with some indications of ornate
decoration, appear to be a signal of their mimetic role as soldiers (bare feet
seem to be standard for choruses)’.79 Taplin suggests that the structure
they are dancing in front of (or around) seems to be a tomb rather than an
altar and that the facing figure may be rising from the tomb rather than
standing behind it. If this is so, then ‘we would have a ghost-raising scene,
as, for example, in Aeschylus’ (lost) Psychopompi where Odysseus’ men
summoned the dead prophet Teiresias’.80
The chief interest in the Basle crater has focused on choral formation,
costume and choreography but it is also an important piece of fifth-
century Athenian evidence for the ghost-raising motif in tragedy:81 the two
facets of the vase can be harmoniously combined if one bears in mind the
75 Winkler (1980: 160).

76 Taplin (1997: 69 70).
77 Schmidt (1967: 71 with n.4).
78 Robertson (1977: 81 with n.5); Green (1991: 34 5); (1994: 17 18 with n.5).
79 Taplin (1997, 70). Green (1991: 35) interprets the line on the left ankles of the nearer
figures as indicating footwear: this would have been a strange item of footwear
indeed, as all the chorus members’ toes are very clearly delineated.
80 Taplin (1997: 70, n.2).
81 As Schmidt (1967: 74) notes, ‘Solche Beschwörung der Toten war in der Tat in
äschyleischer Zeit ein beliebtes Tragödienmotiv.’ See also Green (1991: 37); (1994:
17 8).
active role of the chorus in the necromancy scene of Aeschylus’ Persae.
This chorus is ‘surely raising the ghost of a dead hero’ as the
‘indecipherable’ letters of their song suggests.82 Who does this ghost
represent? Is it, as Taplin suggests (above), the dead prophet Teiresias
summoned by Odysseus’ men? The figure rising from the structure
appears to be veiled perhaps one of Aeschylus’ infamous veiled and
muffled figures derided in Aristophanes’ Frogs (911 13). The analogy
between veiling and death is strong in literature and seems to serve as
iconographic short hand for a dead figure. Whatever the specific
performance this vase-painting refers to, it probably does demonstrate the
existence of the motif in ancient Greek drama before Aeschylus’ Persae of
472 BC.
Green uses this vase and three others to demonstrate that there were ‘at
least four other plays which contained the raising of a dead hero earlier
than the Persae, beginning from very early in the [fifth] century’.83 This
proposition seems highly likely in the case of the Basle crater, but can the
same claim be made for the three other vases a Boston askos, a Munich
lekythos and six hydria fragments from Corinth that Green adduces?
The ghost-raising motif in ‘abbreviated form’84 is depicted on an Attic
red-figure askos (Boston 13.169 = Vermeule 1979: 33 fig. 25) dated to
between 480 and 470 BC. Vermeule describes the image as follows: a
‘dead soldier-hero rises in armour above his grave mound, perhaps
attracted to the surface by the fresh fillets and gifts of those who still
remember him; he has an alert expression and makes an active gesture.’85
Clearly, as both Vermeule and later Peifer suggest,86 there is a correlation
between the appearance of the dead hero warrior and the belief that such
figures were active in the vicinity of their tombs a belief which perhaps
lies behind the little eidola flitting around Patroclus’ tomb in vase-paintings.
Peifer has also drawn attention to the half-in, half-out position of the
emerging figure which is, it seems, characteristic of many
‘Geistererscheinungen’ depicted in vase-paintings the ghost of Elpenor
emerges at knee-level from the reedy marshes, the only part of the dead
Teiresias that can be seen is his head87 and the emerging figure from the
82 Green (1991: 35).

83 Green (1994: 18).
84 Green (1991: 35).
85 Vermeule (1979: 31 with fig. 25).
86 Peifer (1989: 113 with fig. K 51).
87 In this depiction of Odysseus’ consultation with Teiresias (cf. n.7 above), Teiresias is
reduced to a head, very much a fringe figure emerging from the decorative border of
the vase and reminiscent of the oracular head of Orpheus. To the two examples cited
104 RUTH BARDEL
tomb on the Basle crater can only be seen from the waist up. This is, I
believe, an important point which may shed light on the very different
interpretations of the six hydria fragments from Corinth discussed below.
In the introduction to his essay, ‘Anodoi’, Bérard states that there is a
comparison between scenes depicting anodoi and necromancy, like that on
the Elpenor vase: this correspondence is graphically expressed by the
emerging figure, more often than not half-in and half-out of the earth,
marsh, structure or whatever.88 The concealment of part of the dead
person’s body image suggests, as Bérard notes, vertical movement and
these two aspects are wonderfully brought together on a late Roman
Imperial engraved gem, said to depict the ghost of Protesilaus (in the form
of a bust) embraced by his still living and devoted wife Laodameia.89
What is striking about the image on the Boston askos is that it is a rare
example of an askos decorated with one integral scene extending under
the handle over the entire circular breast of the vase. In Beazley’s words,
‘the regular decoration of the Attic askoi is a single figure placed on either
side of the vase, so that the two figures are separated by the overarching
handle and the blank area below it. The most natural decoration of the
segment was a figure broader than high; a human figure flying, creeping,
seated, reclining, or the figure of an animal.’90 The handle of this particular
askos seems to mark off the realm of the dead the tomb from that of
the living, the space into which this warrior hero emerges.91 Davies
thought that this might represent the dead hero Sthenelus appearing to the
Argonauts at his tomb (Ap. Rhod. 2.911 29 with schol. ad loc.) or Polites,
the son of Priam, as a living lookout for the Trojans at the tomb of
Aesyetes (Il. 2.791 4).92 Whatever the interpretation, the vase-painter has
made superb use of the normally clearly divided spaces on this particular
askos.93 There can be no doubt that this askos lid depicts the ghost-raising
above may be added the various depictions of necromantic scenes on Etruscan gems,
such as those in Richter (1968: figs 781, 782), portrayals which obscure much of the
summoned dead person’s body.
88 Bérard (1974: 28, cf. 44).
89 So Richter (1971).
90 Beazley (1921: 329).
91 Bérard suggests that in anodoi scenes, ‘le protagoniste ne sort pas du milieu du champ
mais bien directement de la frise decorative qui limite le bas de la scène’ (1974: 27).
92 Davies (1985: 94).
93 First appearing around 480 BC and continuing into the fourth century BC, the
function of askoi is intriguing: they may have been used to pour oil and perhaps even
vinegar and used together with lekythoi as oil/vinegar containers on the table. If this
is so, then the subject matter of our Boston askos seems to be rather odd for daily
table use: other illustrations such as Theseus and the Boar, reclining Maenads, a goat
motif, but is Green right to use this particular vase-painting as evidence of
‘at least four other plays which contained the raising of a dead hero’? It
seems to me unlikely.
The image of the dead warrior hero rising from his tomb on the askos
lid is too detached: there is no contextual evidence the presence of a
chorus or aulos player as in the Basle crater or the hydria fragments from
Corinth, for example to suggest a play in performance. What this vase-
painting suggests, then, is that the motif of raising a ghost or the
appearance of a dead hero at his tomb, in response to offerings made by
the living, was not confined to dramatic contexts: this image clearly draws
on commonly held beliefs and narratives regarding the dead warrior hero
and forms part of the cultural repertoire in the discourse between the
living and the dead.
The Basle and Boston vases seem to provide ‘good parallels for an
interpretation along the lines of a hero being summoned from his tomb’,94
but not necessarily in a dramatic context. Green adduces these
representations to support a similar interpretation of the painting on a
black-figure lekythos (Munich 1871 inv. 6025 = ABV 470, 103; Green
1991: pl. 7b), dated to the early fifth-century BC. Ivy tendrils decorate the
upper part of the scene in which three men kneel, each of their right
hands touch their foreheads, their left hands outstretched towards the
earth; the central bearded figure kneels before what looks like a herm with
a criss-cross, net-like pattern over which are scattered red dots. The head
on the top of this ‘herm’ sports a ‘fine red beard’.95
Hackl thought that the scene showed three men doing obeisance
before an Egyptian mummy on the basis of the similarity of the criss-cross
markings to bandaging:96 this is, however, doubtful as there is no
indication of bandaged feet. Hourmouziades reads the same vase-painting
as a tragic chorus around a herm with a Dionysus head:97 the absence of a
phallus and arm-stumps somewhat rule out this notion. Green adduces the
‘curious curved line at the neck’ of the kneeling figure on the viewer’s
right that ‘may just hint at a mask’ and the lines running across the legs a
little above the ankles suggesting footwear as evidence for a theatrical
context.98 If Taplin’s statement (cited earlier) that choruses are usually
barefoot is correct, Hourmouziades’ and indeed Green’s interpretation
and a satyr or a youth with a lyre appear to be far more appropriate subject matter.
94 Green (1991: 37).
95 Green (1991: 36).
96 Hackl (1909: 195 203).
97 Hourmouziades (1972: 355 with n.64).
98 Green (1991: 37).
106 RUTH BARDEL
of the three men as a tragic chorus is misleading.

The block-like form of the body seems to rule out both a mummy and
a herm: it also, I propose, rules out the ‘hero being summoned from his
tomb’ interpretation given by Green, especially when comparison is made
with the form of the dead figures rising from the tomb/tumulus on the
Basle and Boston vases. The block-like body before which the central
figure kneels on the Munich lekythos seems far too slender a construction
to be a tomb: its shape is closer to that of grave stelae or herms. The criss-
cross markings are also problematic: a similar pattern may, as Hackl
pointed out, be found decorating altars on Tyrrhenian amphorae,99 but is
this sufficient evidence to call this structure a tomb?
There can be no doubt that kneeling is associated particularly with the
earth and the dead, and that the three figures on this vase gesture towards
the earth, but this is not sufficient to warrant Green’s interpretation of the
vase. The context of the image on the Munich lekythos appears to be a
Dionysiac one the ivy, the bearded head on top of the column. The
connection between Dionysus and the dead is one which is endemic to
tragedy, but this does not necessarily imply a dramatic context for the
image on the Munich lekythos, neither does it appear to merit the
interpretation, ‘hero being summoned from his tomb’. It might be more
constructive to invoke the crude shapes of archaic cult statues and
interpret the block-like form of this body as a quasi-aniconic
representation of Dionysus:100 the kneeling figures on this vase may simply
be performing a lament (given their gestures) at, or around, a
representation of Dionysus.
Six fragments by the Leningrad painter in Corinth (Corinth T 1144,
ARV2 238, 1),101 dated to between 480 and 450102 are, according to
Taplin, the second of only two fifth-century vase-paintings which can be
plausibly claimed to show a play in performance: the other is the Basle
99 Hackl (1909).
100 As Spivey (1995: 451) points out, the ‘ambivalence of representation’ is neatly
captured in the thirteenth fable of Babrius: a sculptor makes an image of Hermes and
offers it for sale either as grave marker or an image of the god. Disturbed by this,
Hermes says to the sculptor, ‘Well, did you intend me to be a corpse (nekrov") or a
god (qeov")?’.
101 The clearest photo of these fragments is in Hammond (1988: plate I Hammond
and Moon 1978: 374). Hammond and Moon have allocated letters a e to the five
fragments and I have used these same letters to identify them. Since they were
published by Beazley in 1955, another fragment has been found: see Roller (1984:
262 3 with fig. 3) who interprets these fragments as depicting Croesus on his pyre.
This sixth fragment is designated as f.
102 Beazley (1955: 309 19).
crater.103 The hydria fragments have attracted two main interpretations:
when Beazley first published these fragments, he suggested that they
might be evidence for a ‘Croesus’ tragedy during the first quarter of the
fifth century.104 Considerably later, Hammond and Moon proposed that
the fragments showed Darius rising from his tomb, as in Aeschylus’
Persae.105
On one hydria fragment (a) an aulos player, in the costume of an aulêtês,
indicates that a tragedy or a dithyramb (also accompanied by the aulos)
is being represented. The three other figures, as far as they are visible, are
in Persian or oriental, though not necessarily theatrical, costume.106 This
much is clear. Dispute over the interpretation focuses on two fragments,
one which shows the base of a structure from which small flames seem to
rise (d) and another (b) on which a figure in oriental dress is poised half-
in, half-out of the top of the same structure which, like the base, appears
to be on fire. Beazley read these fragments as depicting a burning pyre and
subsequent scholarship has invoked the Croesus vase by Myson (Paris,
Louvre G 197, ARV2 238 = Boardman 1975: fig. 171) to support the
‘Croesus on his pyre’ interpretation; the ‘delineation of logs’ on the hydria
fragment ‘reproduces that in Myson’s version of the Croesus story.’107
Similar comparisons can be made between the hydria fragment in
question and two depictions of Alcmene on her pyre108 as well as the
funeral pyre of Patroclus on an Apulian red-figure volute crater.109 In the
latter three vase-paintings, the pyres are a tightly and neatly packed pile of
logs more so than in Myson’s rendering of Croesus’ pyre and all of
these contrast starkly with depictions of Heracles’ funeral pyre which
consists of roughly hewn logs stacked in a fairly random fashion.
However, both the top and the foundation layer of the ‘pyre’ on the hydria
fragments (b and d) are rather more monumental110 than that of the other
103 Taplin (1997: 69 70).

104 Beazley (1955).
105 Hammond and Moon (1978).
106 So Hammond and Moon (1978: 373), but Green (1991: 35) expresses doubts about
the theatricality of the costumes depicted.
107 For example, Hall (1989: 65 with n.36).
108 A red figure calyx crater by the Painter of the Birth of Dionysus (Taranto 46000),
RVAp I 36, no. 2/11 Trendall (1989: fig. 55) and a Paestean bell crater signed by
Python from S. Agata (London BM F 149), RVP 2/239, pl. 88 Trendall (1989: fig.
367).
109 A red figure volute crater by the Darius Painter (Naples 3254), RVAp II 495, no.
18/39 Trendall (1989: fig. 204).
110 Hammond (1988: 17). The conflation of altar and tomb in tragedy also
problematizes or perhaps elucidates? the interpretation of the hydria fragments:
108 RUTH BARDEL
pyres cited, suggesting that the ‘logs’ of the ‘pyre’ on the hydria fragments
may be decorative rather than functional. Also significant is the fact that in
the representations of Croesus, Alcmene and Patroclus, the pyres are
either unlit or in the process of being ignited. Heracles, typically, is an
exception: on the Munich vase,111 he rides off in a chariot beside Athena,
leaving behind the flaming funeral pyre in the centre of which lies his
breast armour. Furthermore, none of these figures is half-in and half-out
of their pyres: Croesus sits squarely on his throne on top of his pyre;
Alcmene sits elegantly atop hers; Patroclus is represented by his helmet
and breast armour on top of his pyre; and, if Heracles is not being driven
off to Olympus, he too sits on top of his newly and roughly made pyre
which is covered by his lionskin.112
If the hydria fragments from Corinth do depict Croesus on his pyre,
why has the Leningrad painter chosen to portray him half-in, half-out of a
burning pyre? Is this figure rising or falling? Are we to imagine the half-in
half-out Croesus figure to be rising, Phoenix-like, from the burning pyre,
rescued at the last minute by divine intervention?113 Why, when other
vase-paintings depict figures on their unlit or newly ignited funeral pyres,
does the Leningrad painter of these Corinth fragments choose to place
‘Croesus’ in a very vulnerable and dangerous position? Taplin remarks, ‘It
is hard to see what this [the Corinth fragments] can be other than a picture
based on a particular scene in a tragedy even though it is hard to see
how the pyre would have been staged.’114 Quite. Are we to attribute the
odd position, half-in and half-out of a burning pyre, of ‘Croesus’ on the
Corinth fragments to an innovative vase-painter or to an innovative
dramatist? Might the vase-painter be illustrating a scene from a messenger
speech from a play about Croesus? If the vase-painter’s illustration of a
‘particular scene in tragedy’ was a faithful one, just how was this staged?
Theatrical pyrotechnics and contrivances can be fatal, whether for
historical, mythical or spectral figures: ‘any actor’s clothing would have
caught fire and he would have been severely burnt’.115 Are the so-called
see further Rehm (1987: 264 74, esp. 264 with n.6, 273 with n.48).
111 An Attic red figure pelike by the Kadmos Painter (Munich 2360) ARV 1186, 30
Boardman (1989: fig. 311).
112 As on an Attic red figure psykter (New York, Private Collection) Carpenter (1991:
fig. 229).
113 In Bacchylides’ ode Croesus, his wife and his daughters all mount the pyre and, just
as the fire begins to shoot through the wood (3.53 4), a Zeus sent rain cloud
quenches the flames (3.55 6).
114 Taplin (1997: 71).
115 Hammond and Moon (1978: 373). In 1736 after a particularly serious accident during
flames on the hydria fragment incorporated under the rubric of artistic
licence?
Hammond and Moon proposed that ‘the small flames are those of
incense; they issue also from the foundation layer’ in the fragment
depicting the base of the structure.116 This is, they claim, a phenomenon
occurring in other vase-paintings, for example, in one of a scene from
Aeschylus’ Sphinx where there are round holes at the base of the tumulus
with small flames emerging from them. It has been argued that the smoke
issuing from the holes in the tumulus at ground level was ‘the place where
most of the smoke of incense issued during the ritual enactment of the
raising of the dead’; the ‘ritual was no doubt real and contemporary,
including the incantations, dances, tearing of the ground and incense’.117
In support of this, the sickle- or scythe-shaped item in front of the base of
the structure (fragment d: a similar item also features on fragment f) is
interpreted as being used to scratch and tear the ground during the
evocation ceremony. As supporting evidence for this aspect of
necromantic ritual, Hammond and Moon (as above) state that ‘so was the
Ghost of Melissa raised from the dead by Periander at the Nekyomanteion
of the river Acheron in Epirus (Hdt. 5.92)’. If only Herodotus had been so
explicit about the manner in which the dead Melissa was resuscitated!
We do know that incense was burnt by those about to seek oracular
advice from Hermes Agoraeus (Paus. 7.22.2 3), by those sick people
consulting an oracle of Demeter (Paus. 7.21.12 13) and by those
propitiating Eileithyia (Paus. 2.35.11: cf. 6.20.3).118 In all of these instances,
a performance of the Fall of Phaeton an ill omened title, perhaps the Daily
Advertiser for 2 November noted that ‘The Director [of Drury Lane] has resolv’d, for
the future, to suffer no living Persons to be concern’d in any Flights, or hazardous
Machinery, but to have Figures made for that purpose’. In the world of the
eighteenth century theatre, the trapdoor was the standard entry point for ghosts and
spirits but innovative dramatists had clearly contravened this convention: one figure
in an illustration holds a scroll which reads, ‘Pray sir, don’t boil spirits in this manner
. . . the cauldron is . . . for the purpose on Incantation not as a stewpot for Ghosts.
Pray open your trap doors and let them rise in a more natural way.’
116 Hammond and Moon (1978: 373).
117 Hammond and Moon (1978: 373 4 with n.16).
118 The use of incense as part of sacrificial ritual seems to have been an archaic one for,
as Pausanias (5.15.10) states, the Eleans ‘sacrifice in the ancient manner’ (quvousi de;
ajrcai'ovn tina trovpon); ‘they burn on the altars incense with wheat which has been
kneaded with honey’. In Plato’s Laws (847b c), the legislator states that:
‘Frankincense and all such foreign spices for use in religious rites, and purple and all
dyes not produced in the country, and all pertaining to any other craft requiring
foreign imported materials for a use that is not necessary, no one shall import.’ The
use of incense in sacrifice is also attested by various passages in Aristophanes (e.g.
110 RUTH BARDEL
cognates of the verb qumiavw (to burn so as to produce smoke) are used:
different substances may have produced different effects but it is quite
possible that some would initially flare up and then smoulder and
smoke.119 In Seneca’s Oedipus (admittedly a late source) we are given some
idea as to how the burning of incense worked: Teiresias makes a prophetic
sacrifice (302) and asks Manto to pour oriental incense on the altars (305).
Manto reports that the flame ‘flashed up with sudden light, and suddenly
died down’ (subito refulsit lumine et subito occidit, 308). Hammond and Moon’s
proposal that the flames on the hydria fragments are those of incense
cannot be dismissed, especially given not only the ritual use, but also the
oriental connotations, of both incense and necromancy (most evident in
the latter instance in later literature, for example Pliny NH 30.14 and
Strabo 16.2.39). In theatrical terms, the flashing, smouldering, or smoking
of incense external to the structure in question would be a much safer, and
equally effective, mode of staging and there would be no need to pipe the
smoke from the skene as Hammond and Moon suggest.120 Euripides’
Trojan Women is often thought to have had smoke rising from the skene in a
play which ‘brings flames into the theatre’ at significant points:121 the
production of smoke within the theatre of Dionysus for dramatic effect
cannot be ruled out. If we accept that the flames and smoke issuing from
the monumental structure on the hydria fragments are those produced by
incense, and link this with the chthonic associations of the half-in, half-out
posture (discussed earlier), apparently characteristic of ‘Geisterer-
scheinungen’, might not the fragments from Corinth make more sense?
The six hydria fragments from Corinth are perplexing evidence for a
dramatic performance from the early fifth century. Nothing seems to
cohere. The iconographic markers for ‘figure on a pyre’ seem to preclude
the Croesus interpretation and the very details that prompt this reading
problematize the ‘ghost rising from a tomb’ interpretation. Whether or not
these fragments portray either the necromancy in the Persae or a
Clouds 426, Frogs 871, 888, Wealth 1114, Wasps 96 and 861). Adonis and Aphrodite
were major recipients of aromatic offerings.
119 In the late eighteenth century, the inventor, physicist, student of optics and
consummate showman Étienne Gaspard Robertson dazzled Parisian audiences with
his ‘Fantasmagorie’: his necromantic displays depended upon the use of various
chemicals which, when thrown onto burning coals in a brazier, produced a heavy
smoke. The coal burning brazier stood on a sort of altar in front of the audience and
Robertson would summon figures from the dead, spirits whose faces would appear
in the smoke. See further Castle (1995: 144 50). See Enright (1994: 43, 454) for
ghosts placated by incense and sweet smells as spectral phenomena.
120 Hammond and Moon (1978: 374).
121 Wiles (1997: 119 20).
comparable scene in another play such as Phrynichus’ Phoenissae cannot be
asserted with absolute certainty. Beazley resisted the temptation to equate
these fragments with Aeschylus’ Persae, but Hammond argues strongly
(fragmenting, or dissecting, the evocation scene in the Persae to correspond
exactly to the hydria fragments), if somewhat tendentiously, for an
equation between these fragments and Aeschylus’ Persae, concluding that
‘the fragments . . . are overwhelming evidence that a brilliant painter . . .
painted the epiphany of the Ghost of Darius as he had seen it in the
Dionysiac theatre either in 472 or at a subsequent revival of the play
before 450.’122
Green’s confident assertion that the ‘Basle, Boston and Corinth vases,
and perhaps the Munich vase give us clear evidence’ that the necromantic
theme was not new to Aeschylus’ Persae and that by 472 BC ghost-raising
was a traditional dramatic motif is misleading.123 It would seem that only
the Basle crater and the Corinth fragments ‘can plausibly’, to use Taplin’s
phrase, lay claim to the representation of a play in performance: in order
to adduce the Corinth fragments as evidence of a dramatic necromancy
prior to Aeschylus’ Persae, they must not only be shown plausibly to
represent a ghost-raising scene from a play other than that of Aeschylus,
but they must also positively represent just such a scene. The uncertainty
surrounding the interpretation of these fragments is too great, I think, to
deploy them in the manner that Green does. Similarly, for reasons
discussed earlier, neither the Boston askos nor the Munich lekythos can be
used as conclusive evidence for the ghost-raising motif in dramatic
performances. The significance of lamentation, a ritual identification with
the dead, is perhaps all that can be claimed for the Munich lekythos. What
the Boston askos suggests is the general notion of the dead acting in
response to the ritual activity of the living, a communication between the
living and the dead so vividly portrayed in Aeschylus’ Persae.
Was the stage-ghost merely a stunning theatrical device, designed to
seduce and enchant, or even terrorize, the spectators? The audience’s
collusion in such a theatrical event suggests that behind the actual staging
of raising a hero from the dead there lies ‘quite a primitive element in
which the heroes or successful leaders of the past are summoned by those
in need of leadership and direction in the present’; in its fifth-century
context, ‘in some broad and not necessarily very clearly expressed sense it
122 So Hammond (1988: 5 22, esp. 21). See Gow (1928: 150) on the putative revival. If
the hydria fragments are a depiction of a revival of Aeschylus’ play, might this help to
explain the iconographic confusion of this allegedly ‘brilliant’ painter?
123 Green (1991: 37); (1994: 17 18).
112 RUTH BARDEL
reflects a yearning for days gone by and a yearning for direct leadership
when a democratic government has taken control and Athenians were
faced with arguments rather than command decisions’124 just as in the
Demes. The dramatists themselves were not immune to such summonses,
as Aristophanes’ Frogs comically demonstrates:125 the ghost, or eidolon, of
the raised hero is thus simultaneously a marvellous piece of theatre and a
powerful and concrete metaphor for (and of) the past with the ability to
influence the present and, perhaps, even the future.
The fragmentary evidence, both textual and visual, discussed in this
chapter implies two things: first, that the motif of ghostly appearances was
more common than the extant corpus of Greek tragedy (and comedy)
suggests, and secondly that this motif was fairly widely used prior to
Aeschylus’ Persae produced in 472 BC. In short, there is great merit ‘in
telling how many plays have ghosts in them’.
124 Green (1994: 18).

125 It may well be that by the time Aristophanes produced the Frogs (405 BC), the motif
of consulting the ghosts had become a hackneyed device and that Aristophanes was,
as it were, flogging a dead horse with its own whip (to use a mixed metaphor).
6
DEATH AND WEDDING IN AESCHYLUS’ NIOBE
RICHARD SEAFORD
Niobe, the daughter of Tantalus king of Sipylus in Asia Minor, married

Amphion of Thebes and had numerous children. Because she boasted of
her superiority to Leto (mother of only two children), her children were
killed by the children of Leto (Artemis and Apollo) and she herself was
transformed into an ever-weeping rock on Mount Sipylus. Aeschylus’ lost
drama Niobe was long known only from a few brief fragments and some
information preserved by other authors. This knowledge included the
important fact that the scene of the drama was the tomb of Niobe’s
children, almost certainly at Thebes. Then, in 1933, a papyrus fragment
was published. It consisted of twenty-one incomplete lines, some of which
were already known to be from Aeschylus’ Niobe. It has also been
recognized that several southern Italian vase-paintings depict a scene or
scenes from the drama. My concern here is not with the numerous
problems of reconstructing the drama,1 but rather to pursue, in the
papyrus and the vase-paintings, a single (albeit complex) strand that
embodies an interesting general feature of Greek tragedy.
The first eleven verses of the papyrus fragment are as follows.2
hJ dÅ ouj]de;n eij mh; patevrÅ ajnastevn[ein e[cei

to;n d]ovnta kai; fuvsanta Tantavlou b[ivan,
1 A recent attempt to reconstruct it, and bibliography, is Moreau (1995).

2 I reproduce the text and translation by Lloyd Jones (1957). The most recent text is by
Diggle (1998).
114 RICHARD SEAFORD
eij" oi|]on ejxwvkeilen ajlivmenon gavmon.

pant]o;" kakou' ga;r pneu'ma prosb[avlle]i dovmoi":
aujtai; ] dÅ oJra'te toujpitevrmion gavmou.
tritai']on h\mar tovndÅ ejfhmevnh tavfon
tevkn]oi" ejpwvzei zw'sa toi'" teqnhkovsin,
qrhno]u'sa th;n tavlainan eu[morfon fuhvn.
broto;]" kakwqei;" dÅ oujde;n a[llÅ eij mh; skiav.
au\qi"] me;n h{xei deu'ro Tantavlou biva,
ejpÅ ajg]kovmistra th'sde kai; pefa[smevno".
But she can only lament over the luckless marriage,

one that proved no haven, into which mighty Tantalus,
the father that begot her and gave her away, forced her fortune’s ship.
For the blast of all manner of evil is striking against her house,
and you yourselves can see the conclusion of the marriage.
This is the third day she has sat by this tomb,
wailing over her children, the living over the dead,
and mourning the misfortune of their beauty.
Man brought to misery is but a shadow.
Mighty Tantalus will in due course come here;
to bring her home will be the purpose of his coming.
(PSI 1208 = fr. 154a Radt)
In an earlier paper I described the interpenetration, in several tragedies, of

wedding ritual with death ritual.3 In Greek life the two rituals are similar in
certain respects. Both bride and dead girl are washed, anointed, dressed in
a special robe and crown, and transported from home on a cart in a
procession, with torches and song, in order to be irreversibly abandoned
by their kin to an unknown, alien bed. Further, the wedding may actually
express funereal emotions, in the lamentation of the bride reluctant to
make the marital transition. In the end this funereal tendency is
transcended by the successful incorporation of the bride into her new
home. Characteristic of tragedy, on the other hand, is that the deaths of
maidens, and male-female unions that result in death, are frequently
described in terms of wedding ritual in which the funereal elements of the
wedding are not transcended but rather prevail: the negative tendency of
the ritual prevails over the positive, the wedding turns into its opposite.
This phenomenon can be further illuminated by its occurrence in Niobe.
The first eight verses of the papyrus fragment describe the lamentation
of Niobe sitting on ‘this tomb’. Various unresolved problems, such as the
basic question of who speaks the lines, need not concern us here. In the
first three verses Niobe laments over the ‘harbourless marriage’ into which
3 Seaford (1987).
DEATH AND WEDDING IN AESCHYLUS’ NIOBE 115
she was ‘run aground’ by her father Tantalus.4 There are good reasons for
believing that the wedding journey of the bride in a cart to her new home
might be envisaged in nautical terms.5 The gavmo" (wedding or marriage) is
frequently called an ‘end’ or ‘completion’ (teleuthv, tevlo").6 It is as if
Niobe’s bridal journey, far from arriving at a (metaphorical) harbour as it
should have done, has ended with lamentation at a tomb: ‘you can see’, we
read in verse 5, ‘the ending (toujpitevrmion) of the gavmo"’.7
In this way the catastrophic ending of the marriage evokes its beginning
(the wedding). Hence the prominence in Niobe’s lamentation of her father
Tantalus, ‘he who gave her (in marriage)’ (2).8 It is moreover said in verse
10 that Tantalus ‘will come here’. That his purpose in coming is to take
her back to Sipylus, to which she is said to return in other extant versions
of the myth from the fifth century onwards,9 is confirmed by ejpÅ
ajg]kovmistra th'sde (‘to bring her back’) in the next verse. In the
wedding the bride is escorted by the groom and by her own kin to her
new home.10 The arrival of Niobe’s father to take her back to his home
puts this central element of the wedding into reverse.
Also negatively evocative of the wedding may be verse 8: . . . usa th;n
tavlainan eu[morfon fuhvn (‘wretched physical beauty’). This may with,
say, qrhno]u'sa (Lloyd-Jones) refer to the beauty of the dead children.
But the previous lines have described the lamenting Niobe, and the
unspecified ‘beauty’ is more likely to be hers, whether we read something
like thvko]usa, ‘wasting’, skoto]u'sa, ‘darkening’, or skevpo]usa,
4 gavmon is a correction in the papyrus for bivon.

5 This is a frequent association in tragedy: A. Ag. 690 2, 1178 81, S. OT 420 3, E. IT
370 1, Tro. 569 71. Cf. also A. Ag. 227, E. IA 667 70, Hipp. 752 63, Tro. 455 6;
Dionysus apparently travelled to his wedding at the Anthesteria in a cart shaped like a
ship: Seaford (1987: 124).
6 e.g. Od. 1.249, 20.74; Pi. Pyth. 9.66; A. Eum. 835; S. Ant. 1241; E. fr. 773.58 Kannicht;
Pollux 3.38.
7 The same irony occurs at e.g. A. Ag. 745; S. OT 420 3; E. Med. 1388. For the root
term , see E. Phoen. 1352 3; Pi. Pyth. 9.113 14. With the implication of the lamenting
Niobe run aground at the tomb cf. the suppliants lamenting at the ‘shore’ of the altar
at S. OT 184 5; and the idea of the ‘shore’ of the tomb over the body of the ‘sea
captain’ Agamemnon at A. Cho. 722 4.
8 See the Greek quoted above (n.2), which seems to say that she laments for Tantalus.
But, in the words of Lloyd Jones (1957: 560), ‘the speaker means to say “She can only
weep for the disastrous marriage which Tantalus made for her”; but this is expressed
by means of the common construction exemplified, e.g. by Eur. Med. 37, devdoika dÅ
aujth;n mhv ti bouleuvh/ neovn.’
9 Sophocles (Schol. T on Il. 24.602); Pherecydes 3 FGrH F38 Jacoby; Apollod. 3.5.6.
10 Oakley and Sinos (1993: 22 37).
116 RICHARD SEAFORD
‘covering’.11 The latter two would refer to something reported by all the
witnesses to the drama, from Aristophanes onwards, namely the fact that
Niobe was, in her mourning, veiled.
We know that the Greek bride was unveiled in a ceremony called
anakalypteria. It is uncertain at what point in the wedding ritual this
occurred (and anyway practice may well have varied). A likely moment is
at the feast, shortly before the procession escorting the bride to her new
home.12 The anakalypteria is ironically evoked in various tragic contexts of
death or lamentation. I will confine myself to two examples.13 First, in
Euripides’ Phoenician Women Antigone emerges from the maiden quarters
to appear with the corpses of her mother and brothers, and sings as
follows (1485 92):
Not covering [ouj prokaluptomevna]

the delicacy of my grape like cheek,
nor feeling maiden shame at the crimson under my eyes,
the redness of my face,
I am carried on, a maenad of the dead,
throwing the covering [kravdemna] from my hair,
relinquishing the saffron luxury of the garment,
led, sighing much, by the dead.
This lament evokes the admiration of the beauty of the bride that would
have accompanied the anakalypteria,14 together with the processional escort
of the bride (here ‘by the dead’) that followed it.15 One should bear in
mind that in an actual wedding the bride might lament, before being
successfully incorporated into her new home. In the case of the bridal
Antigone it is the lamentation that has prevailed. Another tragic passage
that in my view evokes the erotic admiration of the bride at the
anakalypteria is the account of the sacrifice of Iphigenia by her father in
11 The first of these supplements was suggested by Camerer, the latter two by Pfeiffer
(1934: 10), who prefers skevpo]usa to skoto]u'sa (cf. S. Aj. 85). However, with
skoto]u'sa cf. Eustathius cited by Radt (1985: 266) Aijscuvlo" . . . thvn te Niovbhn
kai; a[lla provswpa oJmoivw" ejschmavtise . . . ouj ga;r movnon blevpesqai
ajpaxioi' oJ ejn a[kra/ qlivyei, ajllÅ oujde; blevpei<n>, wJ" oi|a nuvkteron bivon
aiJrouvmeno" h] kai; uJpovgaion (‘Aeschylus . . . constructed Niobe and other
characters similarly . . . For the person in extreme grief refuses not only to be seen,
but even to see, as choosing a life as if of night or even underground’).
12 So Sinos and Oakley (1993: 25 6); Seaford (1987: 124 and n.180).
13 See also A. Ag. 690 2, 1178 9; S. Trach. 1078; Seaford (1987: 124).
14 General erotic admiration for the bride at the wedding: Ar. Pax 1337 40, 1352; Men.
Rhet. Epid. 404.11 12; 405.31 2; 406.32; 407.6.
15 For detailed argumentation see Seaford (1993: 119 21).
Aeschylus’ Agamemnon (227 47).16
It is clear from Aristophanes’ Frogs (911 26), and from later reports,
that in the first part of the drama Niobe sat veiled and silent on the tomb
of her children.17 Now of course veiling and silence are an appropriate
expression of mourning. And yet the number of respects in which the
wedding is evoked, even within the few lines preserved by chance on the
papyrus, suggests that the veiling and silence of Niobe may not only
express mourning but also evoke the wedding.18 The interpenetration of
these two rituals (based on their similarity) is, we have observed, a
constant feature of tragedy. Whether or not Niobe unveiled herself (as is
likely) in the course of the drama, we have, even in the little that we know
of the drama, a combination of elements that is to be found also in the
wedding: the female veiled, silent, beautiful, lamenting, eventually escorted
by her kin to a new home. But it is, in tragedy, the lament that prevails:
Niobe’s veiling, silence and (then) lamentation express irreversible
mourning, as opposed to the bridal lamentation that comes to an end; her
beauty has in the end done her no good;19 the journey on which her father
intends to take her is (back) to her natal home. Similarly, the Euripidean
Antigone unveils her beauty and imagines herself led off, lamenting, by
her dead kin. The purpose of Athenian marriage was stated, in the
betrothal ceremony, to be ‘for the ploughing of legitimate children’.20 With
the death of her children, Niobe’s wedding ceremony is seen to have been
in vain, and so is now put into reverse. Characteristically of tragedy, the
catastrophe of a marriage is seen in terms of the reversal of the ritual by
which it was constituted.
Of this phenomenon it is worth mentioning (before moving on to the
vase-paintings) one last example, from Euripides’ Medea. The catastrophe
of Medea’s marriage is her abandonment by her husband Jason, whom she
16 Seaford (1987: 124 5).

17 The material is collected by Radt (1985: 265 6). For the tomb of Niobe’s children at
Thebes see E. Phoen. 159 60.
18 That the veiled bride was silent is likely enough. There are also indications that she
remained silent after the unveiling as well: Seaford (1994: 35 6). This would add a
further frisson to the silence of Iphigenia at A. Ag. 235 43 (see above).
19 Her beauty is tavlaina, a word that may refer not only to ‘suffering’ but also to the
disastrous excess in action and speech that brings suffering (especially in Aeschylus:
Pers. 719, Sept. 262, Ag. 223, 385, 1107, 1247, Cho. 604, PV 469). And so used of
Niobe here it evokes not only the poignant bridal combination of beauty and misery
but also the sense that even her beauty (praised in a bride, good for a marriage) was in
fact disastrous.
20 Men. Perikeir. 1013 14, Dysk. 842, and Gomme and Sandbach (1973: ad loc.) for
further refs.
118 RICHARD SEAFORD
punishes by killing their children. In my earlier paper I identified two

passages as evoking the negative tendency within the wedding (specifically,
the death wish of the bride), one from the nurse’s speech that opens the
play (39 41), the other from the parodos (148 53).21 I now add a third
passage from the same speech by the nurse: she says that Medea, since
hearing of the wrong done her by her husband, has been without food, in
pain, in constant tears, looking constantly downwards, ‘for all the attention
she gives to being advised by her friends, she is like a rock or a sea-wave,
except when turning (away) her all-white (pavlleuko") neck she laments to
herself her dear father, and her land, and the home that she betrayed and
left with the man who now holds her in dishonour’ (28 33). There is a
multiple similarity here with the grief of Niobe:22 like Niobe (see below)
Medea is like a rock, deaf to advice, turned in on herself. Both Medea and
Niobe lament their departure from their natal home, with in both cases
the Greek implying lamentation for the father (Medea patevrÅ ajpoimwvxh/,
Niobe patevrÅ ajnasten[). Why is Medea described by the rare word
pavlleuko"? It occurs later in the play of the adorned bride Glauce (1164).
The poignant combination of beauty with lamentation at the loss of natal
home is a characteristic of the bride, as well as of Medea and Niobe.23
A dozen or so vase-paintings, all of them from southern Italy of the
fourth century BC, have been identified as representing Niobe on a tomb.
Certain correspondences with what remains of Aeschylus’ Niobe, together
with the frequency of Aeschylean drama in vase-painting of this kind,
make it likely that the paintings are influenced by Aeschylus’ play.24 This
likelihood is treated in effect as a certainty in two separate discussions that
appeared in 1978, by Eva Keuls and Anneliese Kossatz-Deissmann, of the
seven paintings at that time identified (two of them tentatively) of Niobe
at a tomb.25 Since 1978 there have come to light five further such vase-
21 Seaford (1987: 122 3).

22 The similarity is noted by Schadewaldt (1960: 149), but he does not make any
connection with the bride.
23 Medea casting her eyes to the ground (27 8) is yet another point in which she
resembles the bride: cf. Seaford (1994: 35 6, esp. n.23 and n.24).
24 Trendall (1972). Aeschylean influence is denied by Fracchia (1987) on the odd
grounds that ‘there is no indication that Aeschylus dealt with Niobe’s petrification . . .
Niobe’s hybris and subsequent punishment were the focus of the Aeschylean tragedy’
(but only a tiny proportion of the play survives!), and that ‘in any event Aeschylus did
not consider Niobe a great tragic heroine’ (for this remarkable claim she cites Cho.
594 623).
25 Keuls (1978: 41 68), reprinted in Keuls (1997: 169 99); Kossatz Deissman (1978: 75
88). The vases they discuss are LIMC 10 (Apulian amphora, Taranto 8935); LIMC 11
(Campanian hydria, Sydney, Nicholson Mus. 71.01); LIMC 12 (Apulian loutrophoros,
paintings, again all of them from southern Italy of the fourth century BC.26
My concern is not to describe the vase-paintings in detail27 or to discuss
the various problems of their interpretation, but rather to pursue the
strand that we have already identified in the fragments of the drama.
In almost all the paintings Niobe is veiled. In one she is sitting on a
tomb, in most of the others she is standing in a naiskos, a small shrine
with four columns, which in Italiot vase-painting regularly represents a
tomb. In seven paintings an old man, undoubtedly her father Tantalus,28
directs towards her a gesture of pleading, which in some of the paintings29
she seems to be rejecting by raising her hand. Remarkably, in all those
paintings in which she stands in a naiskos the use of white paint makes it
clear that part of her has turned into stone.30
What are we to make of all this? First, we should note that vase-
painting may show different moments from a drama in a single scene.
Secondly, the arrival of Niobe’s father to take her home (in the papyrus),
together with her apparent rejection of her father’s plea and her
metamorphosis into a statue (in the vase-painting), suggest that in the
event she refused to return to Sipylus and became a statue in Thebes.
How, in the other versions of the myth, did Niobe end up?31 In the Iliad
(24.614 17), and in numerous subsequent texts, she is petrified on Mount
Sipylus. But from the fifth century onwards, again in many texts, she lives
at Thebes and her children are killed and buried there. In Sophocles’ play
(as well as in the mythographers Pherecydes and Apollodorus) the con-
Naples H 3246); LIMC 14 (Apulian dish, Taranto 8928); LIMC 16 (Apulian amphora,
Bonn 99). Kossatz Deissmann tentatively added LIMC 17 (Campanian lekythos,
Berlin Staatl. Mus. F 4282) and LIMC 21 (Apulian hydria, British Mus. F 93).
26 LIMC 13 (Apulian hydria, Geneva private collection); LIMC 15 (a fragment from
tomb 24 at Roccagloriosa showing the mourning Niobe on a plinth: Trendall 1985:
138); LIMC 18 (Apulian loutrophoros, Malibu 82.AE.16); LIMC 19 (Apulian hydria,
‘Zurich market’: Trendall 1985: 136, fig. 10); LIMC 20 (Apulian loutrophoros,
Princeton Art Mus. y 1989 29).
27 In particular I omit description and discussion of the figures (other than Tantalus)
surrounding the tomb.
28 He is in some cases clearly marked as an oriental king by costume, sceptre and
attendant.
29 The Sydney hydria; the Naples loutrophoros: Kossatz Deissmann (1978: 80 1).
30 This was shown by Trendall (1972). It is conceivable that she is being transformed
from a statue, as is maintained by Schmidt, Trendall and Cambitoglou (1976: 43), who
believes that there was a version in which Niobe was petrified twice. But even if there
was, it would be inept for tragic drama and is inconsistent with Niobe’s rejection of her
father’s plea. See Kossatz Deissmann (1978: 77, 79 80).
31 A good discussion and collection of the material is by Barrett in Carden (1974: 225
7).
120 RICHARD SEAFORD
tradiction is resolved by having her return eventually to Sipylus.32 In our

vase-paintings she rejects the pleas of her father and is petrified not into a
mountain but into a statue on a tomb, apparently at Thebes. The only
extant text in which she is said to be petrified at Thebes is Ovid’s
Metamorphoses: she sits down among the corpses of her children, turns into
stone and is taken off by a wind to her native land, where she is set on a
mountain peak and continues to weep (6.301 12). We do not know how
Aeschylus ended his drama. Since it is likely that our vase-paintings reflect
it, we must consider the possibility that he had her transformed into a
statue at Thebes, perhaps with a subsequent prediction or command that
she be transferred to Sipylus.
The possibility is strengthened slightly by a short, mutilated and corrupt
papyrus fragment that may well be from a tragedy about Niobe (probably
Aeschylus’ or Sophocles’).33 It contains, within the space of eight lines,
the phrases li]qourge;" eijkovnisma (‘an image of worked stone’), kwfai'sin
ei[kelon pevtrai" (‘like the mute rocks’), ]ugrw/ kavlubi koimhqhvsetai (‘she
will be laid to rest in a wet (if uJgrw'/ not l]ugrw'/) covering’), qavmbo"
(‘amazement’), and oijktra; sumfora; davptei frevna" (‘pitiable disaster
consumes the mind’).
It might seem that our paintings, taken together with this papyrus
fragment, are good evidence for the transformation of Niobe into a statue
in Aeschylus’ drama. However, the papyrus fragment is not certainly about
Niobe. And even if it is, the speaker may be merely comparing her to a
statue or merely mistaking her for one. Certainly all three possibilities
metaphor, mistake and actual transformation would, with the grieving
Niobe the constant focus, be dramatically effective.
Moreover, there are two factors which complicate any inference from
the vase-paintings back to the drama. One is that a metaphor in the drama
may be transformed by the painter into a reality. Of this there is a fine
example in another late fourth-century Apulian vase-painting of
Clytemnestra, dressed as a maenad, attacking Orestes, who is attacking
Aegisthus.34 Clytemnestra’s maenadic costume is almost certainly inspired
32 See n.9 above.

33 P.Oxy. 213 fr. 1. For the case for Aeschylus see Reinhardt (1960). An edition and
further bibliography are given by Barrett in Carden (1974: 236). Barrett offers the
alternative theory that the reference is to Medusa and the effects of her severed head.
But he seems to have written without knowledge of Trendall’s (1972) demonstration
of the petrification of Niobe into a statue in the Italian paintings, which (it has been
noted by others) increases the likelihood that the papyrus fragment is from Aeschylus’
Niobe.
34 Oinochoe, Bari 1014; Kossatz Deissman (1978: 99 and plate 18).
by passages of Aeschylus’ Oresteia in which she is associated with
maenadism.35 Aeschylean metaphor often seems more than just metaphor.
And indeed, Clytemnestra is not compared to a maenad, but called a maenad
(Ag. 1235); her activity is not compared to maenadism but called maenadism
(Cho. 698). We may well imagine that a powerful Aeschlyean description of
the stoniness of Niobe’s grief (prefiguring and perhaps alluding to her
subsequent petrification) was transformed by the imagination of the vase-
painter into the actual petrification of her body.
The second complicating factor is that representation of the drama is
unlikely to be the only purpose of the vase-painting. In particular, it has
been argued that the purpose of many depictions of tragedy on Apulian
vases of this period was consolatory to imply a message of hope for
those in whose tombs the vases were placed.36
Eva Keuls argued that the five depictions (known to her when she
wrote) of Aeschylus’ Niobe do in fact represent different phases in the
transformation of stage scene into consolatory funerary image.37 In one
painting Niobe sits on her children’s tomb (as in Aeschylus), but in the
other four she stands inside a naiskos, which must (given the conventions
of Apulian vase-painting) be her own tomb. It is only in these latter four
that she is represented as petrified. In one of these four (representing a
further phase of transformation) the persons around the naiskos are not
Niobe’s mourning kin, and do not wear theatrical costume as they do in all
the other paintings, but are stereotypical female bearers of offerings.
Moreover, the white colour with which part of Niobe is painted must
be related to the convention by which, in numerous southern Italian
(especially Apulian) vase-paintings, the naiskoi and the figure or figures
within them are distinguished from all that is outside the naiskos by being
painted white, presumably, it is maintained, to indicate stuccoed limestone
or marble,38 but also to express the self-contained world of the dead.39
35 Argued by Seaford in (1989).

36 See esp. Smith (1976); Keuls (1997: 154 67).
37 Keuls (1997: 158 61, 176, 188 9). I summarize a complex account.
38 Trendall in Mayo and Hamma (1982: 19); Schmidt in Mayo and Hamma (1982: 24);
Schmidt, Trendall, and Cambitoglou (1976: 26). Fragments of life size marble statues
have been found in Tarentine graves.
39 Schmidt, Trendall and Cambitoglou (1976: 27): ‘das Fürsichsein, die Eigenwelt der
Toten’. In the various depictions of this world are to be found elements of the heroic,
the idyllic, the mystic (ibid. 27 35). Schmidt writes (in Mayo and Hamma 1982: 24)
that ‘ . . . the groups in the buildings are regarded as representations of grave reliefs or
statues like those erected on real tombs. It may well be, however, that this rational
explanation covers only one side of the meaning, since the men and women in the
painted naiskos seem to express greater vitality than lifeless marble statues, and their
122 RICHARD SEAFORD
Our paintings of Niobe being transformed into a statue may therefore

represent a remarkable and felicitous combination of influences on the
one hand of Aeschylus’ drama (whether she was compared to, mistaken
for, or transformed into stone), and on the other hand of the conventions
of southern Italian vase-painting (the dead painted as white statues over
their tombs). We may accordingly be confident in seeing the influence of
the drama only where we also have literary evidence, as with the arrival of
Tantalus at the tomb to take Niobe away. Other details of the paintings
can be evidence only for the imaginative reception of Aeschylus’ drama, not
for the drama itself.
To escape from this impasse we must note that Aeschylus’ drama
almost certainly contained some connection between the grief of Niobe
and her eventual petrifaction, and ask: what exactly is the sense of such a
connection?40
Most obviously, the isolated stillness and silence of grief may seem like
stone: we have seen, for example, that Medea is explicitly compared to a
stone; and the first stages of Niobe’s transformation into stone can seem,
in Ovid’s description, to be nothing more than symptoms of grief
(deriguitque malis, etc.). But Niobe also, from at least as early as the fifth
century, prays to be turned into a stone.41 What is desirable about being
made of stone? For a mourner it might be the relief brought by in-
sensibility.42 And yet Niobe will, in a sense, even when incorporated into
Mount Sipylus, continue to mourn: the water, her tears, will continue to
flow for ever. These two powerful desires, the desire for insensibility and
the desire to mourn for ever, are in a sense contradictory. But this
contradiction does not mean that they cannot both be felt by a mourner.
And indeed part of the power of the image of the eternally weeping
mountain may derive precisely from its mediation of this basic
contradiction.
Female long-term persistence in mourning, which is to be found in
some parts of rural Greece today,43 was in the ancient city-state restrained
by legislation.44 In extant tragedy it is expressed most notably by the
Sophoclean Electra, whose relentlessness the chorus try in vain to soften.
Similarly in Aeschylus, to judge from our vase-paintings, Tantalus tries in
world appears to be wider and more complex than the narrow space of a tomb would
permit.’
40 For interesting remarks on mythical petrification in general see Steiner (1995).
41 Pherecydes FGrH 3 F38 Jacoby; Apollod. 3.5.6.
42 Cf. E. HF 1397, Med. 1297.
43 Danforth (1982: ch. 5). Cf e.g. Plut. Mor. 609f.
44 Seaford (1994: ch. 3).
vain to soften the relentlessness of the mourning Niobe; and the chorus
(reflected perhaps in the females depicted around the naiskos) may have
done so too. In rejecting the chorus’ advice Electra sings ‘Oh, all-
suffering45 Niobe, you I consider a deity, inasmuch as you in a rocky
tomb, alas, weep.’46 For Electra to call Niobe a deity expresses her
admiring emulation of Niobe’s unending lamentation.
But there is, I think, more to Electra’s words than that. There is one
other Sophoclean passage in which someone compares herself to Niobe
Antigone on her way to her rocky tomb. The chorus then seem to
contradict Antigone (S. Ant. 834 7): ‘But she is a deity and born from
deities, whereas we are mortals and born from mortals. And yet it is a
great thing for a dead woman to have even the renown of sharing the fate
of those equal to deities, in life and then after death (zw'san kai; e[peita
qanou'san).’47 That Niobe is a goddess is, Andrew Brown remarks in his
Commentary (1987), ‘an extraordinary assertion, blandly presented as if it
were a truism. No doubt Niobe was “of the race of the gods”, being a
granddaughter of Zeus . . . but her myth is one of the classic tales of the
punishment of human presumption.’
Can we explain this ‘extraordinary assertion’? The chorus had remarked
that Antigone is unique among mortals in going down to Hades
aujtonovmo" zw'sa (‘of her own free will, living’, 821). What this refers to is
the fact that Antigone is unique in taking part in her own funeral
procession, not carried (as a corpse) but by her own motion, still alive.48 In
response, Antigone immediately (h[kousa dh; . . . , 823ff) thinks of Niobe.
The point of comparison is not just that Niobe is enclosed by rock
(petraiva blavsta davmasen) but that Niobe, like Antigone, suffered a
living death. However, for Niobe, though not for Antigone, this state of
life-in-death (or death-in-life) was also immortality. This (and not just, as
Brown maintains, ‘exaggeration’) is why the chorus contrasts Niobe as a
‘deity’ with the mortal Antigone, whose best hope is to obtain fame by
association, ‘in life and then after death’. For the Greeks to mourn is to
share, temporarily, in the state of the dead.49 With Niobe this death-in-life
is perpetuated by her transformation into the permanence of rock. But
this permanent death-in-life, so apt for one whose isolated grief is so
45 pantlavmwn. The word tlavmwn, like tavlaina (n.19 above), can refer to excess in
doing as well as in suffering, and this may colour Electra’s use of it here.
46 S. El. 150 2, reading aijai' (aijai' fere codd.: aije;n V, ajei; Zc), though in fact aijei; is not
impossible (despite the corresponding aijai' in 136).
47 Some editors print a lacuna before ‘in life and then in death’.
48 Seaford (1984b: 253 4).
49 e.g. Aristotle fr. 101 Rose; Seaford (1994: 86).
124 RICHARD SEAFORD
intense that she cannot re-emerge from it, is also life-in-death, a kind of
immortality. This is the paradox expressed by Electra calling Niobe a ‘deity
. . . in a rocky tomb’ (my emphasis). I suspect that Aeschylus’ drama ended
with Niobe’s immortalization. And so the paradigm of Niobe may
represent not just mediation between the desire for insensibility and the
desire to lament unendingly, but also the consolation of the immortality
that is tenuously (and paradoxically) implicit in the death-in-life of
unending grief.50 The chorus sternly deny that consolation to Antigone,
while allowing her the consolation of renown in sharing a similar fate to
the famous stone deity on Sipylus.
Stillness, isolation, insensibility, immortality: these are the qualities that
we have discovered as connecting stoniness to grief. But there is a further
point of connection, which is the practice of placing stone images of the
dead over graves. We have noted that in Aeschylus the stoniness of Niobe
may have taken the form of a metaphor (perhaps with allusion to her
eventual stoniness on Sipylus), of mistaking her for a statue, or perhaps
even of her transformation into a statue, and that our painters seem to
have combined the influence of such passages or scenes of Aeschylus with
the conventions of their own artistic tradition. Given the unusually
funerary focus of Aeschylus’ Niobe, our paintings are able to combine
theatrical influence with funerary convention.
In the drama the tomb at which Niobe sits and mourns is the tomb of
her children. But in the vase-paintings, in which she is being turned into a
standing statue, the tomb over which the statue stands seems to be
(according to the conventions) her own. We have seen how the
petrification of Niobe’s death-in-life into life-in-death implies an unusual
kind of immortality (and renown). With the barely noticeable petrification
of the still, silent mourner Niobe into a statue over her own tomb, this
immortality (and renown) becomes of a more conventional kind the
immortality, such as it is,51 of the dead person that is embodied in her
image publicly displayed over her tomb. The beautiful funerary statue of
Phrasicleia is inscribed with the words ‘ . . . I will be called a maiden for
ever . . . ’.52
Most surviving southern Italian vases seem to have been made for
funerary use. Not only the paintings of naiskoi or of underworld scenes,
even the mythological scenes seem often to have a consolatory message.
50 Even as early as the Iliad (24.602 17) the mythical paradigm to console apparently
unending grief is Niobe, though in a quite different way.
51 Vernant (1991: 161 3).
52 On this famous statue see e.g. Svenbro (1993).
In interpreting from this perspective various paintings influenced by
tragedy,53 Eva Keuls maintains that our Niobe paintings too offer a
message of consolation. The white paint, she believes, symbolizes
immortality. Moreover, she suspects that the closing lines of the drama
announced Niobe’s happy reunion with her children in the afterlife, and
that the paintings of Niobe allude to such consolation, rather as on two
Apulian vases Megara is united with her murdered children in the
underworld.54
The problem of finding a consolatory note in the gloomy myth of
Niobe is especially interesting in the case of the Apulian dish (Taranto
8928), which shows not only Niobe being petrified in her naiskos but also,
immediately above, Andromeda tied up (for the sea-monster) in a tableau
inspired by tragedy (Sophocles’ or Euripides’ Andromeda). Keuls asks
‘What inspired the artist to combine these two disparate tragedies and
what was the sepulchral factor shared by the two motifs?’ In answer she
notes various similarities between the two dramas (the opening tableau;
each heroine delivers a long lament and is likened to a statue; her father is
involved; Niobe is petrified and Perseus petrifies the monster). As for the
sepulchral factor, ‘Andromeda is miraculously saved and returned to life,
Niobe dies and is granted eternal peace, probably by means of some favor
or grace from the gods. One is a happy ending with symbolic implications,
the other is a consolatory one.’ And yet the nature of this supposed
‘consolation’ remains obscure, so obscure that Kossatz-Deissmann is even
able to propose the opposite view that the Niobe scene symbolizes
death, release from which is symbolized by the Andromeda scene.55 Light
on the problem may be shed by the theme of the interpenetration of
wedding and death ritual that we discovered in the fragments of
Aeschylus’ drama.
First, let us return for a moment to the Antigone, in which we saw that
Antigone compared herself to Niobe as alive (and lamenting) in a rocky
tomb. There is in fact another point of comparison, implied by Antigone
calling Niobe not by her name but simply ‘the Phrygian stranger,
53 We cannot answer the fascinating question whether the dramatic performances

themselves were sometimes envisaged by the audience as conveying consolation for
death. One thinks of Sophocles’ Ajax, in which the focus is on a despair no less total
than Niobe’s, followed by a consoling recognition of the interpenetration of
opposites as a cosmic law (646 92).
54 Keuls (1997: 162 3, 188). For the connection of the white paint with immortality she
provides no real evidence.
55 For Schmidt the Niobe scene, being a transformation from stone, is easily parallel to
the deliverance of Andromeda. But cf. n.30 above.
126 RICHARD SEAFORD
(daughter) of Tantalus’ (824 5), as if Niobe had never married Amphion.56

For Antigone is characterized by putting loyalty to natal kin above
marriage.57 This scene, in which the maiden Antigone moves alive to her
tomb and says that she would not have performed for her husband or
children the death ritual that she did for her brother, is pervaded by the
same interpenetration of wedding and death ritual that we found in
Aeschylus’ Niobe along with the arrival of Tantalus to take his daughter
back to Phrygia.
Normally the death-in-life of mourning is temporary. Temporary too is
the death-in-life of the normal bridal lament, for it is the transition to the
marital home that prevails. But the laments of Niobe and Antigone are
assimilated to bridal laments in weddings in which it is the element of
death that prevails. And so their laments do not end (except in so far as
Antigone, as the chorus point out, will die). The interpenetration of
opposites normally ends with the prevalence of the positive (in the
wedding marriage over death, in mourning life over death). In the case of
Niobe and Antigone this prevalence is reversed, except in so far as Niobe
achieves, in her rocky death-in-life, a paradoxical form of immortality.
It seems that dramatization of the rescue from death of Andromeda by
her future husband Perseus lent itself to the interpenetration of death
ritual and wedding ritual. In a fragment of Euripides (122 Kannicht) she
complains that she has a binding song rather than a marriage hymn. In
many representations of the bound Andromeda (some of them clearly
influenced directly or indirectly by tragedy, and some of them Italiot) she
is made to seem like a bride.58 Further, the vase-paintings indicate that in
at least one tragic version the bound Andromeda appeared along with a
number of objects that could be either offerings for the dead or
accoutrements of the wedding: vases, caskets, loutrophoroi, mirrors, etc.59
In our painting Andromeda and Niobe, each wearing a crown
(Andromeda also a bridal tiara), are each centrally placed, with figures on
either side. Between the figures in the two scenes there are
correspondences. In both scenes the heroine’s father, a king in oriental
dress and attended by a youth, expresses a plea (to Perseus, to Niobe).
56 See further Seaford (1990: 87). An unmarried woman is normally named with her
father in the genitive, a married one with her husband in the genitive.
57 For this theme see Seaford (1990) and McHardy in this volume.
58 The evidence for bridal Andromeda is collected (with bibliography) by Barringer
(1995: 104 5 n.37, 117 19). Keuls (1997: 192 3) notes this, and refers to ‘the
symbolic equation of death and marriage which pervades Apulian funerary vases’, but
fails to connect this with Niobe.
59 Barringer (1995: 118); Seaford (1994: 388).
And in both scenes she is brought offerings, Andromeda an open casket, a
mirror and a ball, Niobe an open casket, a rosette-chain and a ball. These
are offerings for the dead, but in the case of Andromeda at least, with her
bridegroom Perseus depicted at her side, they also seem to be
accoutrements of the wedding or gifts for the bride. Some of our other
paintings of Niobe at the tomb too show as offerings objects, such as
loutrophoroi, that would also have been appropriate at the wedding.60
Whence we may infer that in Aeschylus’ drama offerings were placed at
the tomb, offerings which, in the context of the theme of the wedding-in-
reverse that we detected from the papyrus fragment, might have acquired
for the audience the same ambiguity (between funeral and wedding) as the
offerings brought to the apparently doomed Andromeda.61 And so each of
the two scenes in our painting, Andromeda and Niobe, embodies the
same interpenetration of opposites.
But the scenes are also in a sense opposite to each other. With
Andromeda the negative tendency of the wedding (bridal lamentation) is
exotically justified, but in the end it is the positive tendency (union with
the bridegroom) that prevails. With Niobe, on the other hand, the
wedding that seemed long ago to be positively concluded has in fact ended
in shipwreck and eternal lamentation. And yet, beyond even this
opposition, the scenes are perhaps connected by indications of
immortality and renown. Behind the head of Andromeda there is a
nimbus, which may be a sign of her eventual transformation into a
constellation.62 The petrification of Niobe may also, in the complex way
we have described, imply immortality and renown.63
60 Cf. e.g. Taranto 8935 with Oakley and Sinos (1993: fig. 119, Attic red figure pyxis,
Berlin Staatl. Mus. 3373).
61 For the ambiguity of objects (props) generally in tragedy see Seaford (1994: 388 95).
62 Schauenburg (1960: 64 7).
63 A further possible factor, beyond the scope of this paper, is the tendency for female
funerary statues to be (like the kovrai in sanctuaries) of girls of bridal age, like
Phrasicleia. Such a context, in which it is bridal liminality that is made permanent, may
have given special point to the fragment of Euripides (125 Kannicht) in which the
bound Andromeda is imagined to be a statue.
7
FROM TREACHEROUS WIVES TO MURDEROUS

MOTHERS
Filicide in Tragic Fragments†
FIONA McHARDY
In this chapter I discuss the depiction in tragedy of women who murder

their own children and analyse the representation of their actions in
fragmentary plays. Similarities between several of the story patterns
concerning mothers who kill their children have been noted by scholars in
the past. In particular, Fontenrose (1948) has shown that the problems
caused by the introduction of a second wife into the family underlie the
various versions of the myths of Ino and Procne. In these story patterns
the jealousy of a first wife or the scheming of a second wife presents a
threat to the safety of a man’s children. Mills (1980) argues that the myth
of Medea may also be usefully viewed in this way. A second motive
linking the stories of child-murdering Procne and Althaea has been
emphasized by Visser (1986), who shows that the women’s decision to kill
their sons is based on their preference for their natal kin (father and
siblings) over their husband and sons.1 To these two can be added Iliona
and Astyoche (discussed in the final section of this chapter) who send
their sons to their death in order to help their natal families.
These kinds of explanation highlight the rationality of the behaviour of
the women in electing to attack their children in order to get revenge on
their husbands or to provide help for their own kin. However, a close
examination of the fragments reveals that the actions of mothers who kill
their offspring are frequently associated with irrationality in some way:
† I would like to thank Barbara Goff, Jenny March, Richard Seaford and my fellow
editors for their helpful comments on earlier drafts of this chapter.
1 I have discussed the problems of wifely allegiances in detail in my PhD thesis
(McHardy 1999: ch. 2).
130 FIONA McHARDY
either divinely inspired madness in particular Bacchic frenzy or emo-

tional madness brought about by excessive rage, grief or jealousy. Even
where the women are not raving, the vocabulary of madness creeps into
the plays. These descriptions in the fragments suggest a way to understand
how the Athenian audience would have perceived tragic filicide.
It is a common pattern of thought in many cultures that a woman must
be mad to kill her own children. In modern terms, we tend to talk of
depression or other mental illnesses when discussing infanticide, and we
cannot conceive of a rational woman desiring to kill her own offspring.2
Harming kin was also seen as a form of madness in antiquity (maniva, Is.
1.20). Stephanie West explains the logic of this kind of deduction with
reference to Herodotus’ representation of Cambyses, who is called mad
(ejxemavnh, Hdt. 3.33) for killing his brother and sister/wife, among other
atrocities. She states:
[Herodotus] reminds us repeatedly that Cambyses was mad. The

diagnosis has no exculpatory force, but conveys the difficulty of
coming to terms with a disregard of normally accepted standards
apparently beyond understanding
West (1999: 121)
A similar explanation can be applied to Clytemnestra’s accusation that

Agamemnon must be mad for wanting to kill his own daughter
(memhnwv", E. IA 876). In this scenario, a speaker seeks to explain what
appears to be an irrational action by using a metaphor of madness. In
tragedy, madness is frequently manifested literally in stories where a
mother kills her offspring after being driven raving mad by a god. This is
a mythic expression of the popular notion that someone must be mad to
kill their own children. In these stories, there is an attempt to explain away
the seemingly irrational murder by placing the blame on an external agent.
Child-killing of this nature is frequently inspired by Dionysus,3 most
famously in Euripides’ Bacchae, where the divinely maddened Agave (e.g.
manivai" 33, ejmmanei'" 1094), who has rushed to the mountains as a
maenad, kills her son Pentheus believing him to be a wild beast. Here, as
in other myths on a similar theme there is a correlation between the
divinely maddened state of maenadism and filicide.4 The portrayal of
mothers slaying their sons in tragedy can therefore be understood as a
2 Cf. Deliyanni (1985: Discussion and Comparison 4 5), McHardy (1999: ch. 1.1a) for
recent expressions of the notion that someone must be mad to kill kin.
3 See Burnett (1998: 177 8 and n.3) on Tereus and Dionysiac rituals.
4 See Seaford (1993: 121 2), (1996: 27, n.16) and in this volume (pp. 120 1).
FILICIDE IN TRAGIC FRAGMENTS 131
Dionysiac theme and one which is especially suited to tragedy. Further
support for this notion can be found in a vase-painting where Tragedy,
part of the retinue of Dionysus, is represented as a maenad (RML III
2115).5 This could explain the prominence of filicide in the plots of
tragedy, where it is absent or muted in earlier versions of the same myths.6
I will start my investigation of murderous mothers with fragmentary
plays concerning stepmothers, who are frequently deemed a threat to the
children of a predecessor. There is no connection here between murder
and madness, since the efforts of a stepmother to promote her own
offspring at the expense of her rival’s children is seen as perfectly rational.
From there, the discussion moves to the problems associated with the
jealousy of a first wife when a second wife is introduced into the
household. Here the passionate response of the first wife which leads to
disaster is frequently associated with ideas of madness and frenzy,
although the woman may not be portrayed as divinely maddened. The
greater loyalty of women for their natal kin over their husbands and sons
forms the final part of the discussion. Here again it appears that tragic
mothers were depicted as filled with angry passion and associated with
madness when they attempted revenge for misdemeanours against their
own family perpetrated by their husbands or sons.7
I. Ino
As pointed out by Fontenrose, the problems caused by the introduction
of a second wife into the family are a favourite theme in Greek myth.8 In
the popular imagination evil stepmothers seem to have been thought to
constitute a likely threat to their husband’s children. This idea is expressed
clearly in a fragment of Euripides’ Aegeus:
pevfuke gavr pw" paisi; polevmion gunh;

toi'" provsqen hJ zugei'sa deutevra patriv.
For it is only natural that a woman will be hostile to the children

of the first marriage bed, when she is the second wife of their father.
(E. Aegeus fr. 16 Jouan and van Looy = fr. 4 Kannicht, my trans.)
The fragmentary remains of this play do not allow anything more than a
5 Burkert (1985: 185); cf. Padel (1995: 190).

6 Seaford (1993); cf. Belfiore (1998: 140). Aristotle states that kin killing is the best plot
for tragedy, but does not cite this reason (Poet. 1453b19 22).
7 Cf. Harris (2001: 64, 344) on the connection of anger to madness.
8 Fontenrose (1948: 125).
132 FIONA McHARDY
speculative reconstruction of the plot, but Webster (1967: 77 80) suggests

that the story could have been similar to that found in Apollodorus (Epit.
1.4 6).9 This would make Medea the hostile stepmother attempting to
persuade her husband Aegeus to murder his unrecognized son, Theseus.
Euripides’ Melanippe Desmotis also featured the theme of a jealous
stepmother. In this play, Siris asks her brothers to kill her stepsons in
order to promote the interests of her own children, but the plot fails.10
The anxiety concerning stepmothers arises from the idea that they will be
attempting to promote their own children in preference to those that their
husband has had with another woman, and therefore is not an unnatural
or illogical fear.
The correlation between the introduction of a second wife (or mistress)
and the (attempted) slaughter of children is at the heart of Fontenrose’s
analysis of Ino and Procne. Several versions of the myth of Ino include
the schemes of a stepmother who wishes to rid herself of the children of
her rival. In one variant Ino herself appears as the second wife of
Athamas who plots the death of Phrixus and Helle, the children of
Athamas by his first wife Nephele. However, their mother sends them a
golden ram on which they make their escape. Scholars speculate that this
version was used by Sophocles in one of his two Athamas plays.11 The
very fragmentary hypotheses for Euripides’ Phrixus A (P.Oxy. 3652) and
Phrixus B (P.Oxy. 2455) show that Ino was a hostile stepmother to
Phrixus and Helle in these plays too.12 There is, however, no mention of
her killing her own child(ren).13 In his Ino, on the other hand (if the
summary written by Hyginus truly reflects Euripides’ play),14 Ino is the
first wife and it is Themisto who is the stepmother plotting the death of
9 Burnett (1968: 312 13) criticizes Webster’s reconstruction of this play. Cf. Jouan and
van Looy (1998: 4 9) for several attempted reconstructions, all based on Apollodorus.
10 Cf. Euripides’ Ion, in which Creusa worries that she will automatically be implicated in
the murder of Ion since she will be seen as a jealous stepmother (1024 5). Cf. also
Euripides’ Andromache in which Hermione threatens her rival’s son with death. The
failure of all these schemes involving hostile stepmothers is noteworthy.
11 Pearson (1917: vol. 1, 1); Fontenrose (1948: 127, n.4); cf. Lloyd Jones (1996: 10 11).
12 See, most recently, Diggle (1998: 161 and 164) for texts of these hypotheses. Cf.
Turner (1962: 32 69); Cockle (1984: 22 6); van Rossum Steenbeck (1998: 19, 20) for
discussion of the papyri.
13 See Webster (1967: 131 6); Jouan and van Looy (2002: 347 56) for attempted
reconstructions of these plays.
14 Some scholars deny that Hyginus is recounting the plot of Euripides’ play (cf. Page
1938, on line 1284). However, Webster (1967: 98 101) bases his attempted
reconstruction on Hyginus. Cf. Jouan and van Looy (2000: 189 95) for other
reconstructions of this play.
her rival’s children (Fab. 4). Hyginus tells us that Athamas remarries after
his wife Ino disappears. His new wife Themisto bears him two further
sons, but wishes (as a typical evil stepmother) to rid herself of Ino’s two
sons, Learchus and Melicertes. However, her plans do not come to
fruition. For Athamas discovers that Ino is still alive and brings her home
in disguise. Themisto mistakes her for a slave and enlists her in her plan to
kill Learchus and Melicertes. She asks Ino to dress her own sons in white
and Ino’s sons in black.15 Ino reverses the clothing and thus Themisto
unknowingly kills her own sons.
Interestingly, the plot shifts from the threat a stepmother brings to her
stepchildren to the threat that a mother’s irrational emotions may bring to
her own children. This element is even clearer in a version of the Ino
story found in Plutarch (Mor. 267D). He maintains that Ino became
maddened by jealousy after learning of her husband’s affair with a slave
and this led her to kill her own son (hJ ga;r ÅInw; zhlotuphvsasa
douvlhn ejpi; tw'/ ajndri; levgetai peri; to;n uiJo;n ejkmanh'nai, ‘For
Ino, struck by jealousy of a slave-girl on account of her husband, is said to
have vented her madness on her son’).16 This version is closely
comparable to the situation we find in Euripides’ Medea, which shares a
similar combination of the problems of a second wife and the slaughter of
children, as noted by Mills (1980). Indeed, the chorus of the Medea
compares Medea to Ino (1282 9). Ino is said to have killed her two
children (in an unspecified way) and to have committed suicide by
throwing herself into the sea after being driven mad by Hera. Here,
however, an important distinction is apparent. Whereas Ino is described
as driven mad by the gods (ÅInw; manei'san ejk qew'n, 1284), Euripides’
Medea is sane and knows what she is doing.17 The distinction here is
between divinely inspired madness (which appears to offer an explanation
for the otherwise inexplicable actions of Ino) and the terrible choice of
Medea, who acts out of passion rather than divinely inspired madness. I
return to the Medea story in greater detail below.
The version of Ino’s filicide as it appears in Euripides’ Medea where she
is said to have killed both children appears to differ from the well-known
accounts of Ovid (Met. 4.464 542) and of Apollodorus (3.4.3).18 In
15 Webster (1967: 100) speculates that Hyginus is inventing the colours of the clothing.
16 Cf. E. Ino fr. 403 (Kannicht), for the dangers of jealousy.
17 Cf. Foley (2001: 258); Mastronarde (2002, on line 1282). This point is apparently
missed or ignored by March (2000) in her analysis of the Euripidean choral passage.
Newton (1985) also ignores the significance of the madness.
18 Euripides may refer to the killing of two children by Ino so as to draw a more exact
parallel with the killing of the two children by Medea (cf. Newton 1985: 500 1; Jouan
134 FIONA McHARDY
Apollodorus’ version, Athamas hunts Learchus taking him for a deer,

while Melicertes dies when Ino throws him into a boiling cauldron after
both Athamas and Ino are driven mad by Hera for rearing the infant
Dionysus. It is possible (although this is highly speculative) that this
version formed the plot of Aeschylus’ Athamas since one fragment refers
to someone being cast into a cauldron:19
to;n me;n trivpou" ejdevxatÅ oijkei'o" levbh"

aijei; fulavsswn th;n uJpe;r puro;" stavsin:
The one was cast into the three legged cauldron of the house,
that ever kept its place above the fire.
(fr. 1 Radt; trans. Weir Smyth 1926)
In Ovid (as in Hyginus’ account of Eurpides’ Ino) Athamas kills Learchus,

while Ino jumps into the sea with Melicertes. At the end of his account
Hyginus states that Ino was deified after leaping into the sea.20 While
Ovid makes both parents act through divinely inspired madness, Hyginus’
account is less explicit. Although he specifies that Athamas was driven
mad, it is unclear whether we are to understand that Ino was maddened
when she jumped into the sea or whether she was attempting to flee from
Athamas in order to save her son.21 However, evidence from elsewhere
may confirm that Ino was maddened in Euripides’ Ino. Wilamowitz has
plausibly attributed two fragments which refer to Ino to a Euripidean deus
ex machina:22
povntou plavnhte" Leukoqevan ejpwvnumon

wanderers on the sea [shall worship you] as Leukothea
and van Looy 2000: 186 n.4).

19 For discussion of the possible meaning of the cauldron either as a way of preparing a
cannibalistic feast (e.g. the feast of Tereus) or as a method of giving someone
immortality (e.g. Medea and the daughters of Pelias), see Farnell (1916: 41 2).
20 Cf. Fontenrose (1948: 128); Lloyd Jones (1996: 10 11). Ino appears briefly in her sea
goddess incarnation in Homer’s Odyssey, but without any mention of the slaughter of
her children or the reason for her transformation (5.333 5). The differing versions of
epic and tragedy will be discussed in further depth below. See Farnell (1916) for an
account of Ino as sea deity.
21 Newton (1985: 500) sees Ino’s jump as a paradoxical attempt to rescue Melicertes
from his father. An attempt at rescue is certainly not apparent in the text of
Euripides’ Medea upon which Newton is commenting. The assumption is perhaps
based on Hyginus, in particular Fab. 239, which states that Ino jumped while fleeing
Athamas. Cf. also Paus. (1.44.7 8) where Ino is said to flee Athamas.
22 Wilamowitz (1935: 201).
semno;" Palaivmwn nautivloi" keklhvsetai
he shall be called holy Palaimon by sailors
(ades. frs 100 and 101 Kannicht and Snell; trans. Webster 1967: 100)
These fragments are cited by Athenagoras (Suppl. pro Christ. 29) who says
that Ino was made into a goddess after suffering from madness (maniva).
If Wilamowitz’s attribution is correct and Athenagoras can be relied
upon,23 it seems that in his Ino Euripides did portray Ino as killing her son
while maddened.
In the varying versions of the Ino myth, two common elements appear.
First, problems arise when Athamas takes a second wife. The problems
are caused by jealousy and insecurity about whose children are being
favoured. The implication of these storylines is that it is dangerous to take
more than one wife, as the second wife will plot against the first wife’s
offspring. It seems that fears about the dangers of a stepmother were
grounded in reality, as Plato (when devising rules for his ideal Cretan city)
advises men not to bring in a stepmother because of the problems that
may be caused by a new wife and children (Leg. 930b).24 Second, divinely
inspired madness appears to have been a common factor in the tragic
plots in which Ino is said to have killed her own child(ren). This appears
to be a mitigating factor, explaining how an otherwise loving mother
could kill her own offspring.
II. Medea
Many playwrights, including Seneca, have chosen to represent Medea as
raving mad when she slaughters her own children.25 However, in
Euripides’ famous version, although Medea is represented as succumbing
to her passion, she is not raving.26 In fact, in Euripides’ play she does not
even use the language of madness in order to distance herself from the
killing.27 Indeed, Euripides shows Medea rationalizing her choice in that
23 It seems likely enough that Athenagoras, though a comparatively late source (2nd
century AD), refers to the play from which the fragments are drawn when he
describes Ino as mad.
24 Indeed, modern statistical analyses show that children are at greater risk from step
parents than from natural parents (Daly and Wilson 1988: 83 8). This point is not
appreciated by Easterling (1977) in her analysis of the infanticide in the Medea.
25 Cf. Costa (1973: 8); Gill (1997: 216 25). See also Mastronarde (2003: 18 n.33) on
vase paintings where frenzy accompanies Medea in the infanticide.
26 Gill (1997: 219 20); Burnett (1998: 194).
27 Gill (1997: 221), although Neophron’s Medea does: see below.
136 FIONA McHARDY
she feels this is how she can best punish Jason.28 However, we should not
expect that the audience would have sympathized with Medea’s choice.
This is made clear by the chorus who condemn Medea’s acts as wicked
(Med. 1279 92).
Medea’s motives for killing her own children are not immediately
comprehensible to us. While it is possible to compare her situation to that
of Ino in that both involve the difficulties which arise from the
introduction of a second wife, in the Ino myth the jealousy of the
wronged wife tends to be aimed against her rival’s children. Only in the
version of Plutarch can the Ino story be more closely compared to that of
the Eurpidean Medea. Perhaps in the chorus’ lyrics where they sing of
Medea’s terrible passion and compare her to the maddened Ino (1282
92), we can get a glimpse of their understanding of Medea’s mentality in
committing this terrible act.29 Her excessive jealousy (shown in Plutarch’s
version of the Ino myth as the cause of ‘insane’ filicide) leads to her
decision to kill her sons. By this comparison, the chorus suggest that
although Medea is not divinely maddened, she is in some ways like
maddened Ino, in that her actions appear to be mad and driven by
excessive passion. (See Gill in this volume on Medea’s passion.)
Modern scholars are fond of saying that Medea’s deliberate slaughter
of her own children was a Euripidean innovation. Certainly, this is an
element which does not seem to appear in epic versions. Medea is not
mentioned by Homer, although the death of the children does appear in
other early versions.30 Pausanias tells us that in Eumelus’ epics,31 Medea
takes all the children she has by Jason while ruling in Corinth to the
sanctuary of Hera Acraea to ‘hide’ (katakruvptein) them in an attempt to
make them immortal (fr. 3A Davies = Paus. 2.3.11).32 The attempts fail
and the children die. Jason leaves Medea after discovering what she has
been doing. Here Medea is responsible for the death of her children, but
she does not kill them on purpose. In another version which can
reasonably be assumed to pre-date Euripides,33 the relatives of Creon kill
28 See e.g. Seeck (1968). See also Gill in this volume.

29 Medea is also described as an Erinys at 1260.
30 It is unclear when Medea became involved in the story of the Argonauts (Huxley
1969: 61).
31 Several epics are attributed to Eumelus, a Bacchiad dated to the second half of the
eighth century BC (see Huxley 1969: ch.5). West (2002) has argued that the poems do
not date to this time, but were composed between the seventh and mid sixth century.
32 Cf. schol. Pindar Olympian 13.74, in which Hera is said to promise Medea immortality
for her children, but they die.
33 Page (1938: xxiv) argues that Euripides knew this version (cf. Med. 1303ff).
the children after Medea brings about his death (Creophylus FGrH 417 F
3 Jacoby = schol. on E. Med. 264).34 Alternatively, the Corinthians are said
to have killed the children out of hostility to Medea (Parmeniscus’ version:
schol. on E. Med. 264).35 A common factor in the varying versions of the
myth is that the children die at the shrine of Hera Acraea in which
Euripides’ Medea buries her sons (1378 83).36 Again, Medea is indirectly
responsible for the death of her children in these versions, although she
does not murder them herself. In Creophylus’ version the relatives are
accused of spreading a rumour that Medea killed the children herself. Page
sees this as the possible stimulus for Euripides’ decision to have Medea
perform the killing, but Mastronarde is doubtful about the authenticity of
this particular, which is probably late.37
At least one tragedy did deal with an apparently innocent Medea who
was accused by the Corinthians of killing her children. Aristotle (Rhet.
1400b) tells us that in Carcinus’ Medea, Medea was accused of the murder,
but she maintained her innocence, saying that she had only sent them
away. Medea apparently defended herself in the play by claiming she
would have killed Jason as well if she had killed the children.38 It is not
possible to detect whether Medea spoke the truth here, nor can we tell
from these details to what extent Carcinus was creating an entirely new
plot or simply recreating one of the older versions in which Medea did
not kill the children herself. Certainly, his Medea’s arguments as expressed
by Aristotle reflect thinking which is in line with well-known proverbs
about revenge.39
While Medea was connected with the children’s deaths in earlier
versions of her story, her decision to kill the children herself does not
34 Cf. Pausanias (2.3.6) where the children are stoned to death by the Corinthians after
Medea murders Glauce. Apollodorus (1.9.28) also gives this version after recounting
the Euripidean one.
35 See Mastronarde (2002: 50 2) for details of all these differing versions.
36 See Iles Johnston (1997) on the relationship between the Corinthian cult and the
infanticide.
37 Page (1938: xxiv); Mastronarde (2002: 51).
38 Xanthakis Karamanos (1980: 35 6) notes that in this detail, Carcinus was apparently
responding to Euripides’ version and possibly criticizing it. Cf. Webster (1954: 301).
Webster sees Carcinus as a great innovator who created his own variations of familiar
plots.
39 Here Carcinus appears to have reversed the proverb nhvpio" o}" patevra kteivna"
pai'da" kataleivpei, (‘foolish to kill the father and spare the sons’) from the lost
Cypria (Clement of Alexandria Stromateis 7.2.19; Aristotle Rhet. 1376a6 7. Cf. also Hdt.
1.155.1; S. El. 964 5; E. Andr. 519 22; El. 19 42; Hec. 1138 44; HF 168 9; Hcld.
1006 8; Supp. 545 6; Tro. 723).
138 FIONA McHARDY
seem to have been current before its incarnations in tragedy. However,

that is not to say that Euripides was the first to introduce the deliberate
filicide. In the hypothesis of Euripides’ Medea, it is maintained that his play
was in fact a modified version of Neophron’s earlier drama (to; dra'ma
dokei' uJpobalevsqai para; Neovfrono" diaskeuavsa", ‘Euripides seems
to have passed off the drama as his own, having revised it from
Neophron’). The sources cited for this claim are Dicaearchus’ Life of Greece
and Aristotle’s Commentaries (Hypothesis Eur. Medeae 25 7 Diggle).40 Much
of the scholarly debate on the subject of which play came first rests upon
the credibility of these two sources. Page, who dismisses the claims, has
been most influential in persuading others that Neophron post-dated
Euripides. Much of his argument rests on linguistic claims based on the
three substantial remaining fragments of Neophron’s Medea (frs 1 3
Snell).41 However, he also suggested that the play was mistakenly
attributed to an earlier instead of a later Neophron. Thompson (followed
by Michelini) has argued that the ancient sources should be believed when
they say that Euripides based his drama on Neophron’s play.42 Thompson
points out that it seems highly unlikely that a fourth-century source (such
as the author of the Aristotelian Hypomnemata) should mistake a fourth-
century playwright (perhaps his own contemporary) for a fifth-century
one.43 Thompson goes on to suggest that the transferral of the slaughter
of the children from the Corinthians to Medea makes sense in light of
Neophron’s Sicyonian origin.44
40 Other sources (Suda s.v. Neovfrwn; Diogenes Laertius 2.134) make a more advanced
claim that Euripides plagiarized Neophron’s play but, as Mastronarde points out
(2002: 60), these claims are exaggerated and not worthy of serious consideration.
41 Page (1938: xxx vi). Thompson (1944: 12 13), Manuwald (1983: 52) and Michelini
(1989: 115) argue against the linguistic claims. In particular Page’s claims that the
quality of the poetry indicates it is not from the mid fifth century BC should be
dismissed (cf. Thompson 1944: 12; Michelini 1989: 115).
42 Thompson (1944); Michelini (1989); cf. Manuwald (1983: 50 6); Snell (1971a: 199
205). Mastronarde in his recent commentary appears to be arguing for doubt on the
issue (2002: 57 63), but concludes that Neophron is most likely post Euripidean (64).
43 Thompson (1944: 10 11, 13); cf. Michelini (1989: 115). However, see n.72 below for
an Aristotelian error in attribution. The other much cited argument for the primacy
of Neophron is the fact that Medea is the only Euripidean tragedy which requires only
two actors. This perhaps suggests that Euripides was basing his play on an earlier
model (Page 1938: xxxi; Thompson 1944: 11). See Mastronarde (2002: 57, n.94) on a
new piece of papyrus evidence which claims that Euripides reworked a Medea to
eliminate the onstage murder of the children. Neophron is not mentioned. This
evidence could disprove claims that the Romans were the first to portray the
infanticide on stage (Cleasby 1907; cf. Horace Poet. 185).
44 Thompson (1944: 11). Cf. the report of Parmeniscus that Euripides was bribed by the
One of the fragments from Neophron’s play makes it clear that his
Medea makes the decision to kill her children, although it is difficult, in
order to repay wrongs which have been done to her:
ei\eJn: tiv dravsei", qumev… bouvleusai kalw'"

pri;n ejxamartei'n kai; ta; prosfilevstata
e[cqista qevsqai. poi' potÅ ejxh'ixa" tavla"…
kavtisce lh'ma kai; sqevno" qeostugev".
kai; pro;" tiv tau'ta duvromai, yuch;n ejmh;n
oJrw'sÅ e[rhmon kai; parhmelhmevnhn
pro;" w|n ejcrh'n h{kista… malqakoi; de; dh;
toiau'ta gignovmesqa pavsconte" kakav…
ouj mh; prodwvsei", qumev, sauto;n ejn kakoi'"…
oi[moi, devdoktai: pai'de", ejkto;" ojmmavtwn
ajpevlqetÅ: h[dh ga;r me foiniva mevgan
devduke luvssa qumovn. w\ cevre" cevre",
pro;" oi|on e[rgon ejxoplizovmesqa. feu',
tavlaina tovlmh", h} polu;n povnon bracei'
diafqerou'sa to;n ejmo;n e[rcomai crovnw/.
Well. What will you do, [my] spirit? Make your plans well
before doing wrong and making the dearest things most hateful.
Where in the world have you rushed madly, wretched one?
Prevail over your temper and god hated strength.
And why do I lament these things, seeing
my soul alone and abandoned
by those who ought least to do it? But am I becoming
soft from suffering such evils?
You will not betray yourself, my spirit, in your troubles.
Ah me. It is decided. Children, leave
my sight. For now a murderous madness
has descended upon my great spirit. Oh hands, hands,
to such a deed we arm ourselves. Alas,
unhappy for my boldness. Truly I go to destroy
my long labor in the briefest time.
(Neophron fr. 2 Snell; trans. Celia Luschnig 1999)45
Clearly this fragment is closely comparable to the great monologue in

Euripides’ Medea in which Medea decides to kill her children.46 As in
Euripides’ play, Medea is motivated by a perception of dishonour done to
Corinthians to transfer the murder to Medea (schol. E. Med. 9). This tale is dis
credited by all the commentators.
45 Cf. also Diggle (1998: 180 1).
46 For comparison and close analysis of the fragment see Michelini (1989). For linguistic
parallels see Page (1938: xxxiii).
140 FIONA McHARDY
her and is determined to react against those who have mistreated her.47
Although he is not mentioned by name in this fragment, it seems clear
that the person who is neglecting her, although he least ought to, is
Jason.48 It is perhaps suggested here that the murder of the children is
motivated by a desire to make Jason feel as deserted as Medea has been.
Certainly in Euripides’ play Medea’s aim is to accomplish the complete
annihilation of Jason’s line and the greatest amount of suffering for him
(817). She does this because the destruction of a man’s kin and the loss of
his descendants is the worst possible fate for a Greek man.49
Significantly, in the fragment a link is made between the filicide and
madness when Medea says h[dh ga;r me foiniva mevgan / devduke luvssa
qumovn (‘For now a murderous madness has descended upon my great
spirit’). While Medea appears to be debating the options quite rationally,
her mention of luvssa seems to refer to the kind of madness that is
connected with kin-killing elsewhere in tragedy (cf. E. HF 822ff).50
Michelini claims that Neophron allows his Medea to ‘resign herself to
madness’.51 This is not an adequate account of what Medea says. Instead,
it seems that the word luvssa symbolizes the nature of her impending
actions. The playwright makes the connection between madness and kin-
killing even though Medea is not portrayed as divinely maddened.
Although the connection between madness and infanticide is indicated,
Neophron’s Medea is not raving. The Roman poets, on the other hand,
appear to have preferred to show Medea in that way. In Seneca’s play,
Medea is frequently compared to a maenad (e.g. 123 4, 382 6, 806 7,
849 52) and believes that she can see the Furies and her brother’s ghost
urging her on to commit the murder (958 71).52 Scholars speculate that
Seneca could well have based his play on the lost Medea of Ovid, a play of
which only two fragments survive.53 In fr. 2 (Lenz = Seneca Suasoriae 3.7)
a character, thought to be Medea, is associated with divine madness: feror
47 Cf. Knox (1977) for Medea as a Sophoclean style hero. Cf. also Burnett (1998: 273ff);
Foley (2001: 243ff); Gill (in this volume) on interpretations of Medea’s great
monologue in Euripides’ Medea.
48 He is discussed in fr. 3 (Snell) where Medea predicts that he will suffer a shameful
death by hanging because of his evil deeds. This element certainly differs from
Euripides’ play.
49 Cf. Loraux (1998: 51). The father’s loss of his children is the loss of his ‘hope’ (Padel
1995: 208). Cf. Hdt. 6.86, 8.104 6.
50 For luvssa as madness inspired by Dionysus see E. Bacch. 851. Cf. Harris (2001: 344).
51 Michelini (1989: 133).
52 See Gill (1997: 222) on the difference between Senecan and Greek conceptions of
madness.
53 Cleasby (1907).
huc illuc ut plena deo (‘This way and that I am carried like one possessed by
the god’). Perhaps both these versions rely on the idea that murderous
mothers are often depicted as divinely maddened in Greek tragedy. In this
respect, it would be interesting to see what Ennius made of Medea’s
madness, since Cicero claims that his Medea was a translation of Euripides’
play.54 Unfortunately, though, nothing of the great monologue remains.
Whether the fragments of Neophron come from an earlier play or not,
it is overconfident to insist that Euripides was the first to introduce the
deliberate filicide. However, I think that Medea’s decision to kill her own
children is particularly appropriate to tragedy. Certainly, as we have seen,
in epic versions and other earlier versions this aspect is absent. Here the
preoccupation appears to be based on two familiar and inter-related
themes which occur frequently in tragedy. The first is the problem of the
need to introduce a dangerous ‘alien’ bride for the procreation of
children.55 The second is the idea that the husband is more closely related
to his children than the wife is.56 Again, as in the story of Ino, a mother is
portrayed as being a threat to her own children through her excessive
emotion (jealousy which leads to rage and a desire for revenge). Although
Medea is not portrayed as maddened by a deity when she acts, but instead
deliberately decides to murder the children and her rival, nevertheless in
the plays of both Neophron and Euripides she is filled with passion and is
associated with madness when she contemplates and commits the deed.
III. Procne
Similar ideas appear to underlie the myth associated with Procne. In the
earliest versions of her myth Procne, in her incarnation as Aedon
(nightingale),57 is said to act out of jealousy against a rival (this time her
sister-in-law) and to kill her son by accident.58 In Pherecydes’ version,
dating to the sixth century BC (FGrH 3 F124), we are told that Aedon had
intended to kill the son of her brother-in-law, Amphion, because she was
jealous that his wife [Niobe] had so many sons. However, she killed her
own son, Itylus, by mistake. For this reason, Zeus pitied her and changed
54 Although Brooks (1981: 185ff) notes that Ennius made adaptations to suit his play to
a Roman audience.
55 Cf. Seaford (1990: 151).
56 Cf. Seaford (1990: 152). Loraux (1998: 55) says that ‘feminine wrath threatens the
son, because he stands in for the father’. Cf. esp. A. Eum.
57 The transformation into a nightingale is a constant in all the Greek versions of the
story. This aspect is derived from an aetiology of the nightingale’s lament.
58 See Fontenrose (1948) for parallels between the myths of Ino and Procne.
142 FIONA McHARDY
her into a nightingale. It is possible that this version lies behind Homer’s
rather stark account which shares the same names as Pherecydes’
version.59 In the Odyssey, Aedon is said to have killed her son Itylus (Od.
19.518ff), but no motive is given for the murder. Instead, she is said to
have killed him di’ ajfradiva" (523). It is unclear whether this means
‘accidentally’ or ‘senselessly’. But the version of Pherecydes (cited in the
scholia ad loc.) implies that we should understand di’ ajfradiva" as
‘accidentally’.60 Notably, Aedon does not intend to kill her son in either
version and there is no reference to the revenge of the sisters nor to the
dreadful banquet. Indeed, the intentional filicide and cannibalism do not
appear to have been part of the story before tragedy.61
Aristophanes’ Birds (281 2) refers to two tragedies inspired by this
myth both entitled Tereus: one by Sophocles62 and one by Philocles.63 A
hypothesis, which could refer to one of these plays, survives on an
Oxyrhynchus papyrus (P.Oxy. 3013).64 The hypothesis summarizes the
elements of the story which are familiar to us through the famous version
of Ovid (Met. 6.424ff). The characters now take on different names: the
heroine is Procne,65 an Athenian princess, daughter of Pandion, her sister
59 Aedon’s father is named as Pandareus, her husband as Zethos and her son as Itylus.
60 A similar version is recorded in very stark form in Pausanias (9.5.9) who tells us that
Zethos’ son was killed by his own mother ‘for some fault’ or ‘though some error’
(kata; dhv tina aJmartivan). Zethos is said to have died of grief.
61 Or before Euripides’ Medea, if one is persuaded by the arguments of Jenny March
(2000) who claims Euripides’ play influenced Sophocles’ decision to make Procne kill
her son. March demonstrates that the intentional murder and the feast do not occur
in extant versions that predate tragedy. Cf. also Fitzpatrick (2001: 91 and n.7).
Dobrov (1993: 213, n.54) argues that Euripides’ Medea must have been inspired by
Sophocles’ Tereus and not the other way around, as the infanticide is indispensible to
the myth of Procne because of the aetiology for the call of the nightingale. However,
as I have noted above, both women unintentionally kill their sons in earlier versions
of the myth, so this argument is not conclusive.
62 Numerous reconstructions of this play have been attempted. These include: Welcker
(1839); Pearson (1917); Calder (1974); Sutton (1984); Kiso (1984); Hourmouziades
(1986); Dobrov (1993); Burnett (1998); Fitzpatrick (2001). March (2000) discusses the
nature of the plot without full reconstruction.
63 The scholiast informs us that Sophocles’ play pre dated that of Philocles. Some
fragments of Tereus plays by Livius and Accius survive, but it is unclear whether they
are based on Sophocles’ play or not.
64 Cf. Parsons (1974: 46 50); Kiso (1984: 57 8); Dobrov (1993: 198); van Rossum
Steenbeck (1998: 21 2) for discussion of the hypothesis. Most scholars believe that
this is the hypothesis of Sophocles’ play. Most recently, Fitzpatrick (2001: 91) argues
for its reliability.
65 She is named in fr. 585 (Radt).
is Philomela, her husband is Tereus, King of the Thracians66 and her son
is Itys. In the hypothesis we are told that Procne asked her husband to
fetch her sister from Athens. However, when Tereus had taken Philomela
from her father, he raped her and cut out her tongue to prevent her from
telling her sister. Nevertheless, Philomela manages to reveal what
happened by means of a piece of weaving.67 When she learns what has
happened Procne is said to be stung by jealousy (ejpignou'sa de; hJ
Pr[ovknh th;n ajlhv]qeian zhlotup[iva/ th'/ ejscavth/] oijstrhqei'sa) and
to have killed her son and served him up as a feast for his father.68 There
are difficulties with reading this part of the hypothesis, but it seems that
Procne could have been described as a Fury when she committed the
murder.69 If these elements were indeed part of Sophocles’ play, it seems
that a woman ‘maddened’ by jealousy towards her husband reacted by
killing his son. This element is not clear from Ovid’s version (which is
otherwise very like the hypothesis) in which Procne is described as angry
rather than jealous. Nevertheless, her participation in Bacchic revels
makes a link between Ovid’s Procne and the maenadic mothers who kill
their offspring (Met. 6.587 8). Dobrov suggests that this was an aspect of
Sophocles’ play, based on his understanding of fr. 586 (Radt)
speuvdousan aujthvn, ejn de; poikivlw/ favrei, which he interprets as
meaning ‘in great haste, dressed in a maenad’s attire’.70 In Dobrov’s
reconstruction of the play both Procne and Philomela are dressed as
maenads when they set about killing Itys.71 Although there can be no
certainty about this, the suggestion seems plausible.
The hypothesis concludes with a list of the transformations of the
66 Fr. 582 (Radt) ( {Hlie, filivppoi" Qrh/xi; prevsbiston sevla") strengthens the case for
a Thracian location for Sophocles’ play. Cf. Thuc. (2.29) for a discussion of the
location. Cf. also Dobrov (1993: 216).
67 This aspect is linked to Sophocles’ Tereus by Aristotle who comments on the ‘voice of
the loom’ (hJ th'" kerkivdo" fwnhv) as a means of recognition (Poet. 1454b36 fr.
595 Radt).
68 See above on Ino where the motivation is also zh'lo". Cf. Ach. Tat. (5.5.6) in which
Procne is motivated by jealousy and Philomela by the violence done to her.
69 See Parsons in Oxyrhynchus Papyri vol. 42 (1974: 50) for discussion of the text. For the
association of Erinyes with revenge and madness, see Padel (1992: 172ff).
70 Dobrov (1993: 205 6). Lloyd Jones’ translation ‘coloured coat’ (1996: 295) is
misleading. ‘Dappled’ is perhaps best for poikivlo".
71 Dobrov also places Accius fr. 647 (Warmington) in this context: deum Cadmogena
natum Semela adfare et famulanter pete (‘entreat in servile fashion the god, son of Cadmus’
daughter Semele’). Cf. Ribbeck (1875: 579ff) on Accius’ play. Burnett (1998: 182,
187) argues against Dobrov’s suggestions and claims that there is no connection with
Dionysiac ritual in the play.
144 FIONA McHARDY
protagonists: the sisters become a nightingale and a swallow, while Tereus

becomes a hoopoe.72
Once again, it seems that in this play a woman acting under the
influence of excessive passion associated with madness was depicted
murdering her own son. Significantly, Procne’s actions are represented as
irrational and it is condemned as being worse than the act of her husband.
a[nou" ejkei'no": aiJ dÅ ajnoustevr<w"> e[ti

ejkei'non hjmuvnato <pro;" to;> karterovn.
o{sti" ga;r ejn kakoi'si qumwqei;" brotw'n
mei'zon prosavptei th'" novsou to; favrmakon,
ijatrov" ejstin oujk ejpisthvmwn kakw'n.
He is mad! But they acted still more madly

in punishing him by violence.
For any mortal who is infuriated by his wrongs
and applies a medicine that is worse than the disease
is a doctor who does not understand the trouble.
(fr. 589 Radt; trans. Lloyd Jones 1996: 297).73
I follow the majority of scholars who assign this speech to the deus ex
machina, although some think it was spoken by a messenger.74 Either way,
I believe that the Athenian audience would have concurred with the view
that Procne and Philomela’s actions were an excessive response to Tereus’
original crime.
Here again, the introduction of a second ‘wife’ causes trouble for a
husband, whose son is consequently killed. Scholars have argued that in
acting as she does, Procne supports the claims of her father (whose trust
has been violated according to the hypothesis) and sister above those of
her husband when she plots her revenge. By killing Tereus’ son, Procne,
like Medea, aims to achieve greater vengeance on her husband than by
killing him, for his son represents his future prospects, as he will carry on
72 Tereus’ transformation into a hoopoe is Sophoclean (Ar. Av. 100 1). Aeschylus says
Tereus became a hawk (Supp. 60 2). In fr. 581 (Radt) Tereus’ transformation into a
hoopoe is described. This fragment is attributed to Aeschylus by Aristotle (HA
633a17) and so may not belong to Sophocles’ play at all (cf. Burnett 1998: 183, n.22).
It is possible that this could be a fragment of Philocles’ play. Fitzpatrick (2001: 99,
n.58) notes Philocles’ kinship to Aeschylus, which he claims could explain Aristotle’s
mistake.
73 Cf. Accius’ version, which may have been based on Sophocles’ play, in which Tereus’
lust for Philomela is described as a form of madness and his act is condemned (frs
639 42 Warmington).
74 See Kiso (1984: 72 3) for references.
the patrilineal line.75 The particularly brutal revenge in which the child is
not only killed, but served up as a meal to his father, is condemned
through an association to ‘maddened’ behaviour, explicitly in the text, and
perhaps visually in the behaviour and costumes of Procne and Philomela
as well. If Dobrov is right in his suggestion that the women were depicted
as maenads on stage, the association between Dionysiac cult, tragedy and
filicide seems to be strong in this play. Certainly, it seems that the
intentional filicide driven by passion occurred first in tragedy, whereas in
earlier versions the death of Itys was accidental.
IV. Althaea
The story of Althaea who kills her son to avenge her brother(s) featured
in lost plays by Phrynichus, Sophocles and Euripides, as well as several
other minor poets. A full version of the tale occurs in Bacchylides (5.93
154), which is dated to around 476 BC.76 In Bacchylides’ poem, Meleager
explains that he died when fighting erupted between the Aetolians and the
Curetes over who should receive the hide of the Calydonian boar they had
united to fight and kill. In the ensuing brawl, Meleager kills his mother’s
brothers accidentally. She is angered by this turn of events and decides to
burn the brand which preserves Meleager’s life, whereupon he dies in the
fighting before the walls of Pleuron. Carl Robert speculated that this plot-
line was shared by Phrynichus’ Women of Pleuron.77
This story is also briefly mentioned at Aeschylus’ Libation Bearers (602
11), where it is said that Althaea killed her son by casting onto the fire the
magic firebrand that guaranteed his life. The chorus make it clear that
Althaea acted deliberately (provnoian), not accidentally, in causing the
death of her son, although Aeschylus does not specify any motive for
Althaea’s action.78
The magical brand was apparently a part of Phrynichus’ play, since
Pausanias (10.31.4) tells us that Phrynichus was the first to dramatize the
story of how Althaea burnt the brand given to her by the Fates in her fury
against her son. Again, Althaea is conceived of as acting wilfully and is
75 Cf. Padel (1995: 208) who states that eating one’s own child is like eating one’s own
future.
76 See also Apollodorus (1.8.2 3); Hyginus (Fab. 174); Ovid (Met. 8.267ff).
77 See Robert (1898) for an attempted reconstruction of the play. Phrynichus is the
earliest tragic poet for whom fragments remain. Problems exist with his dating (cf.
West 1989), but he seems to have been an approximate (probably slightly older)
contemporary of Aeschylus.
78 Cf. Garvie (1986: on lines 606 7).
146 FIONA McHARDY
condemned for her actions. This is made clear in fragment 6 (Snell).
kruero;n ga;r oujk

a[luxen movron, wjkei'a dev nin flo;x katedaivsato
dalou' perqomevnou matro;" uJpÅ aijna'" kakomacavnou
For cold doom

he did not escape, but a swift flame devoured him
when the brand was destroyed by his terrible mother, the contriver of evil
(Phrynichus fr. 6 Snell, my trans.)
Pausanias (loc. cit.) suggests that because Phrynichus only touches on the
brand without any detailed explanation, the story must already have been
current in Greece at the time.79 We do not possess any earlier version
which refers to the brand and there is a great difference of opinion among
scholars about whether the story is an ancient folk-tale80 or whether it was
a post-Homeric invention, perhaps by Stesichorus in his Suoqh'rai (Boar-
hunters).81 Certainly, the story of the brand appears to be connected with
other tales in which fire is deemed capable of making children immortal,82
but this does not necessarily make it early. Bremmer is probably right to
associate this tale with sixth-century Calydonian fire-festivals.83 Certainly
the brand does not occur in Homer.84
The Homeric version entails certain difficulties, as Phoenix tells the
story in order to convince Achilles that he should accept Agamemnon’s
apology and return to fight the Trojans (Il. 9.565 72). As such, several
elements of the story are designed to parallel Achilles’ situation.85 For this
reason, Althaea (who corresponds with Agamemnon) is first shown
cursing her son in her anger and later pleading with him to return to the
battle. Because of this latter detail it is unclear whether Althaea in this
version intends to kill her son, or whether she shouts out in a moment of
grief and rage (cf. Theseus in E. Hipp.). Nevertheless, Homer tells us that
the Fury hears her curse, implying that Althaea’s curse was the cause of
her son’s death. This is certainly how Pausanias interprets the line
(10.31.4). We do not hear of Meleager’s death in this episode and it seems
79 Recently, scholars have interpreted this as meaning that the events of the play did not
focus on the story of Meleager, but on later events (cf. Snell’s note ad loc.).
80 Kakridis (1935).
81 Croiset (1898: 77 80). Bremmer (1988: 45) says this cannot be proved. Swain (1988)
detects two early versions: an epic ‘heroic’ version and a folk tale version.
82 Garvie (1986: on lines 603 12).
83 Bremmer (1988: 45 6); cf. Burkert (1985: 63).
84 Cf. also March (1987) who argues that the story of the brand is post Homeric.
85 Cf. Willcock (1964: 149 52); March (1987: 30 2); Hainsworth (1993: 130 40).
that his mother’s involvement in it is only indirect, although she must bear
a degree of responsibility for her emotional outburst.86 Elsewhere in epic
(in the Eoiai and the Minyad, as Pausanias 10.31.3 informs us), Althaea is
not involved in Meleager’s death at all. Instead, he is killed by Apollo
while fighting against the Aetolians (Hes. fr. 25.9 13 Merkelbach West).87
Homer informs us that Althaea is angry because Meleager killed her
brother. March believes that this detail was an innovation of Homer, but
Bremmer has argued that the hunt with maternal uncles is related to
initiation and is, therefore, early.88 Furthermore, his death at the hands of
Apollo appears to be related to initiation. In this respect, the killing of his
maternal uncles is symbolic of Meleager’s separation from his mother.89
It has been suggested that Sophocles’ Meleager could have been based
on the Homeric version. Few fragments of the play remain,90 but a
scholion on the Homeric passage tells us that Sophocles’ chorus was
made up of priests, who formed part of the embassy to Meleager in the
Iliad. It is unclear what role Althaea played in Sophocles’ play. Pliny (Nat.
Hist. 37.11.40) says that Sophocles represented the metamorphoses of
Cleopatra and Althaea into birds who wept tears which turned into amber
for Meleager after he died on the battlefield. The metamorphosis of
Althaea can therefore be added to the list compiled by Seaford, who notes
the link between infanticide and metamorphoses into birds.91
More can be said about Euripides’ Meleager, from which a number of
fragments survive.92 Euripides’ play featured Atalanta who joins in the
hunt for the Calydonian boar (fr. 530 Kannicht).93 Atalanta is mentioned
in Hyginus’ account (Fab. 174), where we are told that Meleager killed his
uncles deliberately out of desire for the hide of the Calydonian boar, as he
wished to give it to his beloved, Atalanta (cf. also Apollod. 1.8.2; Ovid
Met. 8.267ff). Webster speculates that this aspect was part of Euripides’
play and that Althaea and Meleager originally argue in the play about
86 In Apollodorus’ account of this version Meleager dies while fighting and Althaea kills
herself (1.8.3).
87 Jebb (1905: 469 70) has noted the difference between the epic and tragic versions.
Cf. also Bremmer (1988: 43).
88 March (1987: 35); cf. Hainsworth (1993: 132); Bremmer (1988: 42).
89 Bremmer (1988: 48 9).
90 One refers to the boar sent by Artemis (fr. 401 Radt).
91 Seaford (1993: 124). Procne and the Minyads are transformed into birds, while Agave
is associated with a swan. Cf. also Harpalyce (Nonnus Dion. 12.71ff).
92 For reconstructions of this play see Welcker (1839: vol. II, 752 63); Page (1937);
Webster (1967: 233 6); Jouan and van Looy (2000: 406 11).
93 Atalanta is also present in Accius’ play. In frs 438 9 (Warmington) Meleager
announces that he has given the boar’s hide to her.
148 FIONA McHARDY
Meleager’s love for Atalanta.94 The fragments of Euripides’ play do not

make it clear what happened at the boar hunt or what Althaea’s reaction
was, but one fragment suggests she could have committed suicide.95
Several scholars have relied on the fragments of Accius to fill in this gap,
although it is by no means certain that his Meleager was based on
Euripides’ play.96 In Accius’ tragedy Meleager’s death was certainly caused
by the magical firebrand (frs 444 5 Warmington) apparently thrown into
the fire after Althaea becomes maddened in her fury: heu cor ira fervit
caecum, amentia rapior ferorque! (‘Oh! My blind heart seethes with anger! By
madness am I borne and hurried on’, fr. 443 Warmington). Here again the
connection is drawn between anger, kin-killing and madness. Although it
is not possible to say whether this was an element of Euripides’ play, it
seems likely enough that Accius derived this idea from Attic tragedy.
In these plays Althaea’s anger towards her son is prompted by his
murder of her brother(s). The lengthy preservation of the precious
firebrand by Althaea demonstrates her initial motherly care for her son,
but her revenge springs from her preference for her brothers over her
son. Before the death of her brothers, Althaea plays the role of caring
mother, concerned for the safety of her son. It is only when forced to
choose which to support that Althaea demonstrates stronger loyalty to her
brothers.97 Although a similar feeling of loyalty and grief for her brother is
apparent in Homer, it is not until the tragic versions that Althaea is
represented as deliberately killing her son. Unfortunately, there is a lack of
evidence for the way that Althaea was portrayed in either Sophocles or
Euripides’ play (even whether she played any part in the death of
Meleager at all), although perhaps the association of filicide with madness
found in Accius’ play is derived from these plays. However, the clear
condemnation of Althaea’s acts by Phrynichus and Aeschylus indicates
how the filicide would have been received by the Athenian audience.
94 Webster (1967: 235) cf. Page (1937: 179).

95 Fr. 533 (Kannicht); Webster (1967: 236); cf. Page (1937:180); Jouan and van Looy
(2000: 411). Cf. Apollod. (1.8.3); Ovid (Met. 8.267ff).
96 Both Webster and Page use the fragments of Accius to reconstruct Euripides’
Meleager. Warmington (1936: 470) speculates hesitantly that Accius’ play could have
been based on Euripides’ Meleager; cf. Ribbeck (1875: 506ff). However, Lloyd Jones
(1996: 213) notes a similarity between a Sophoclean fragment (402 Radt) and a
fragment of Accius (433 4 Warmington).
97 Cf. Ovid’s version of Althaea’s great speech which is similar to the great monologue
of Euripides’ Medea (Met. 8.478 511). Althaea is portrayed wavering between
choosing her brothers or her son (pugnat materque sororque, 8.463).
V. Iliona and Astyoche
Two other characters from lost tragedies show a more subconscious
preference for their natal families. Iliona is the daughter of Priam, married
to the Thracian Polymestor, while Astyoche is the sister of Priam, married
to Telephus, King of Mysia. Both are called on for favours by Priam.
Pacuvius’ Iliona appears to have shared the same plot as the story of
Iliona in Hyginus (Fab. 109).98 We are told that Priam sent his son
Polydorus to be raised by Iliona when he was still a baby (cf. frs 199 201
Warmington). In frs 215 17, Iliona explains that her own son and her
brother Polydorus were exactly the same age. Iliona decides to raise her
brother as her son and her son as her brother. This decision benefits her
brother, as Polymestor decides to kill Polydorus when he is bribed by the
Achaeans. However, as a result of his wife’s cunning substitution, he slays
his own son instead. Iliona’s decision is interesting, in that it informs us of
her distrust for her husband, as well as her preference for her brother,
who is protected by her act. The Greek model for Pacuvius’ play is
unknown, although there are some similarities with Euripides’ Hecuba. In
both plays Polymestor’s son or sons are killed and he is brought to ruin
himself because of his greed.99 However, in some central particulars the
plots differ substantially. In the Hecuba Polymestor succeeds in his plot to
kill Polydorus and there is no mention of Iliona.100 Neither does Iliona
appear in Homer, where Polydorus is killed by Achilles on the battlefield
at Troy (Il. 20.407 18).
In Sophocles’ Eurypylus Priam bribes his sister, Astyoche, to send her
son, Eurypylus, to help him fight at Troy. Astyoche is persuaded by her
brother and impels her son to go to his death at Troy (cf. Homer Od.
11.519 22 and schol.).101 However, this play seems to have exhibited the
difficulties that this choice of loyalties presented to mothers, as in fr. 211
(Radt) Astyoche laments her son saying that she ought not to have been
98 See Dietze (1894: 24). However, Wilamowitz (1883: 258) denies any direct
relationship between Hyginus and Pacuvius.
99 Also both plays contain a ghost. In Pacuvius’ play the ghost is Iliona’s son, who
appeals to his mother to bury him (frs 205 10 Warmington). At the beginning of
Euripides’ Hecuba the ghost of Polydorus appears to his mother Hecuba. Both
ghosts appear in dreams. Cf. Bardel in this volume on ghosts in Attic drama.
100 Steuart (1926: 277) thinks that by being selective about his material, Pacuvius created
a better plot for his tragedy than Euripides had done for the Hecuba.
101 The betrayal of Amphiaraus by Eriphyle shares common features with the story of
Sophocles’ Eurypylus, in that in both stories a brother asks for help from his sister
when seeking wartime allies. She betrays her husband to help her brother. This is
referred to in a fragment possibly from Sophocles’ Epigoni (fr. 187 Radt).
150 FIONA McHARDY
persuaded by her brother.

These mothers bring about the deaths of their sons through their
support of their natal kin. Although the mothers do not intend to kill their
children, their preferred allegiances lead to the death of their sons. The
lack of fragments of these plays allows no firm conclusions on the matter,
but perhaps the detachment of these mothers from the actual killing
would not have attracted a metaphor of madness.
Conclusion
Although scholars have emphasized reasons for understanding why
mothers kill their children in tragedy, a close reading of the fragments of
plays reveals that frequently there is a connection between filicide and
mad, irrational behaviour. This madness can be manifested as divinely
inflicted, an external force which helps us to explain the irrationality of
the mother’s action. Alternatively, the idea of excessive passion which
leads to violence is connected with metaphors of madness which indicate
how the mother’s behaviour would have been viewed not only by the
characters in the plays, but also, we may reasonably presume, by the
Athenian audience. Where an act is characterized as mad, it can be
understood to be beyond the bounds of normal human behaviour, and in
certain respects, inexplicable. Hence, even where a mother makes a
conscious decision to kill her child, an association is made between the
filicide and madness.
In some ways, the conclusion that mothers shown killing their children
in tragedy are frequently connected with ideas of madness is not
surprising. Today we would immediately characterize such an act as
‘madness’. However, I would like to push the idea slightly further to
suggest that there is a close connection between the use of maddened
mothers and the festival of Dionysus, in which the tragedies were
performed. The implications of this for understanding the prominence of
filicide in tragedy are important. If we draw together the various stories of
mothers killing their children in tragic plots and compare them to other
earlier versions of the same story, there seems to be a strong argument for
suggesting that the development of the motif of deliberate filicide springs
from tragedy, whereas in earlier versions of the same myths the children
tended to be killed accidentally or by people other than their mothers. My
suggestion here is that through the influence of ideas relating to Dionysiac
cult (especially maenadism) the portrayal of mothers killing their own
children was deemed particularly suitable for tragic performances.
8
TRAGIC FRAGMENTS, ANCIENT PHILOSOPHERS

AND THE FRAGMENTED SELF†
CHRISTOPHER GILL
In this chapter, I explore certain lines of connection between ancient

philosophy and Greek tragic fragments. Some of these relate to ancient
thought about self-division hence the reference in my title to the
‘fragmented self’. First, I consider how tragic fragments are, typically, cited
and used by ancient thinkers in ethical philosophy. Because many poetic
fragments are preserved in ethical philosophy, or in anthologies that draw
on ethical philosophy, it is useful to analyse the criteria of selection that
determine why poetic passages are cited and how they are deployed.
Ancient philosophers are generally interested in the detachable message of
such poetic passages rather than their meaning in the original context.
However, in some cases, philosophical concerns lead the ancient thinkers
to examine the content of the passages with special attention and
perceptiveness. This is true, I suggest, of an ancient debate about passion
and self-division preserved in Galen, which I discuss in the second part of
this chapter. Although the key text in this debate is a surviving play
(Euripides Medea 1078 80), ancient philosophers also make suggestive
comments about some tragic fragments on psychological division.
In the third part of this discussion, I take up a different aspect of the
†
I am grateful to Fiona McHardy and her fellow organizers for inviting me to take part
in the Exeter conference on tragic fragments. I would also like to thank very warmly
David Harvey for an exceptionally acute and helpful set of comments on an earlier
version of this chapter.
152 CHRISTOPHER GILL
relationship between ancient philosophy and tragic fragments. Bruno Snell

has suggested that we can make sense of the fragments of Euripides’ first
Hippolytus by relating them to Seneca’s (surviving) Phaedra. He thinks that
we can reconstruct the psychological core of Euripides’ lost play by
referring to Seneca’s portrayal of the passionate, self-conflicted figure of
Phaedra. I question this view, arguing that Seneca’s picture of Phaedra’s
subjection to her love reflects a specifically Stoic conception of passion,
and that we need to use a different psychological pattern to reconstruct
the lost Euripidean drama. In this way too, ancient philosophy bears on
the study of Greek tragic fragments, by enabling us to determine what
should count as an appropriate or an inappropriate type of interpretation.
I . Citation of Fragments in Ancient Ethical Philosophy

The citation of tragic passages by Greek and Roman philosophers
exemplifies a tantalizing feature of much ancient quotation of literature,
including the contest between Aeschylus and Euripides in Aristophanes’
Frogs. It is clear, from at least Plato’s Republic onwards, that philosophers
are capable of recognizing that dramatic speeches need to be interpreted
in the light of the specific fictional situation and the character of the figure
making the speech. However, they often treat poetic passages as
detachable sayings or exemplary statements which are significant only
because of their ethical content.1 This is not from sheer crassness,
although it sometimes seems to be. There is ample evidence in ancient
philosophy of a high level of sophistication about what is involved in
interpreting, and misinterpreting, the content of poetry. This comes out
clearly, for instance, in the subtle and outrageous misreadings of
Simonides’ poem offered in Plato’s Protagoras (339a 347a). It is evident in
later antiquity from the complex strategies of reading found in rhetorical
criticism, which develop partly from Aristotle’s approach in the Poetics and
Rhetoric.2
The way that philosophers use poetic passages reflects, in part, ancient
attitudes about what is appropriate for different areas of discourse within
the culture. What is generally taken to be relevant to ethical debate is the
1 Plato (Rep. 386a 392a) implies this recognition (which is more fully explicit in Arist.
Poet. chs 6, 15), though Plato also there treats poetic comments as significant for their
detachable ethical content; see further Gill (1993: esp. 44 7).
2 A particularly striking aspect of this contrast is the way that the subtlety and irony of
Plutarch’s use of poetry, especially in Gryllus and the Life of Demetrius, outruns the
moralistic recommendations about reading in On the Education of Children and How the
Young should Listen to Poetry; see Zadorojnyi (1999).
ANCIENT PHILOSOPHERS AND THE FRAGMENTED SELF 153
detachable content of poetic passages, which acquires its significant
context within philosophical debate. For this purpose, Greek thinkers
often de-emphasize a point which they themselves sometimes recognize
elsewhere, that we can only understand the full ethical content of a
passage if we take account of the dramatic situation within which it
occurs. However, in some cases, the philosophical issue itself leads
thinkers to pay closer than normal attention to the specific content and
context of the passage cited. My main example is a famous passage from
an extant tragedy: the close of the great monologue in Euripides’ Medea
(1078 80). But the perceptiveness shown by ancient philosophers in this
case suggests that we can, in principle, hope to find a similar level of
attentiveness to the fictional context in the citation of material from plays
which are now lost but which ancient philosophers could read as a whole.3
Here, first, are some examples of philosophers introducing tragic
passages for their detachable ethical content.4
The word proendhmei'n (dwell on beforehand) means to Posidonius

to imagine, as it were, in advance, and to prefigure in one’s mind what
is going to happen, and to bring about a gradual habituation to it, as
to something that has happened before. That is why he cited here the
story about Anaxagoras, that when someone brought the news that
his son was dead, he said with great composure, ‘I knew I had
fathered a mortal’; he also mentioned how Euripides took this idea
and portrayed Theseus as saying:
ejgw; de; <tau'ta> para; sofou' tino" maqw;n

eij" frontivda" nou'n sumforav" tÅ ejballovmhn
fugav" tÅ ejmautw/' pro<s>tiqei;" pavtra" ejmh'"
qanavtou" tÅ ajwvrou" kai; kaka;" a[lla" oJdouv",
w{stÅ, ei[ ti pavscoimÅ w|n ejdovxazovn pote,
mhv moi new're" prospeso;n yuch;n davkoi.
Taught <these things> by a certain sage, I

cast my mind into cares and calamities
and added to my lot flight from my native land,
untimely death, and other paths of woe,
so that if ever I suffered any of the things I kept imagining,
it might not fall on me as new and sting my heart.
3 However, even when complete plays were available to philosophers, it is often unclear
whether they cited directly from the texts of the plays themselves, from (sometimes
inaccurate) memory or from quotations found in other thinkers or anthologies. See
further on this question, in connection with Plutarch, n.14 below.
4 All translations are mine, unless otherwise indicated.
The following lines, he says, make the same point:
eij me;n tovdÅ h\mar prw'ton h\n kakoumevnw/

kai; mh; makra;<n> dh; dia; povnwn ejnaustovloun,
eijko;" sfada/vzein h\n a]n wJ" neovzuga
pw'lon calino;n ajrtivw" dedegmevnon:
nu'n dÅ ajmbluv" eijmi kai; kathrukw;" kakw'n.
If this were the first day of my afflictions,

if I were not voyaging far and wide through troubles,
I might be expected to rear up like a new yoked
colt that has just received the bit;
but now I am dulled and tamed to evils.
(Galen Plac. Hipp. et Plat. 4.7.8 11; trans. De Lacy 1978: 282, slightly modified) .5
Galen refers to the citation of two Euripidean passages by the Stoic

Posidonius, which are seen as exemplifying Posidonius’ therapeutic
strategy of habituating oneself to future possible disasters by dwelling on
them in advance (proendhmei'n). It is clear that Posidonius’ interest in
these extracts is limited to the fact that they prefigure this strategy in
slightly different ways. The first passage presents a figure (Theseus) as
having been ‘taught’ this strategy ‘by a certain sage’ (just as Posidonius
teaches his pupils). The second passage presents a figure whose life
illustrates the psychological truth of the idea on which the strategy is
based: that habituation to trouble makes it easier to bear. These passages
are quoted alongside Anaxagoras’ alleged comment, which is a much-cited
expression of fortitude, and are, in effect, treated as comparable with that
comment. The poetic passages, like Anaxagoras’ assertion, can be lifted
from their immediate context without much risk of distortion: it does not
matter much who the speaker is or in what circumstances the comment is
made, since the ethical point comes over clearly in any case. Both passages
are also cited (translated into Latin), together with Anaxagoras’ saying, by
Cicero in his discussion of therapeutic strategies in Tusculan Disputations
Book 3 (29, 58); and both Galen and Cicero are, presumably, drawing on
Posidonius’ treatise On Passions.6
5 The first fragment is perhaps from Euripides’ Theseus (fr. 964 Kannicht); the second
from Euripides’ Phrixus (fr. 818c Kannicht); cf. Snell’s Supplement (1964b: 13).
6 Anaxagoras’ saying (fr. A 33 Diels Kranz) is referred to in Diogenes Laertius (2.13),
Plutarch (Mor. 463D, 474D) and often elsewhere. In Cicero, the passages are cited in
connection with the strategy, ascribed to the Cyrenaics, of praemeditatio futurorum
malorum (‘preparing for future bad things by anticipating them’). See further, on
therapeutic strategies in Hellenistic and Roman philosophy, Nussbaum (1994); in
Cicero, White (1995); on Stoic thinking on poetry and emotional education,
Two other passages from the same Ciceronian context show how such
quotations acquired a virtually independent life within philosophical
debate. The first passage, cited in Latin, comes from Euripides’ Hypsipyle:
mortalis nemo est quem non attingat dolor

morbusque; multis sunt humandi liberi,
rursum creandi, morsque est finita omnibus,
quae generi humano angorem nequiquam adferunt.
reddenda terrae est terra, tum vita omnibus
metenda, ut fruges. sic iubet necessitas.
There is no mortal who is untouched by grief

and illness; many must bury their children,
and bear others; death is ordained for all;
the human race is pointlessly distressed at this.
Earth must return to earth; and life for all
be harvested, like crops. So Necessity commands.
(Cicero Tusc. 3.59)
This is based on a surviving fragment (E. fr. 757.921 5 Kannicht):7
e[fu me;n oujdei;" o{[sti" ouj ponei' brotw'n

qavptei te tevk[na ca[tera kta'tai neva
aujtov" te qnh/vske[i: kai; tavdÅ a[cqontai brotoi;
eij" gh'n fevronte" [gh'n. ajnagkaivw" dÅ e[cei
bivon qerivzein w{[ste kavrpimon stavcun.
The Stoic Chrysippus seems to have seen in these lines an expression of

the idea that suffering and death are part of the recurrent and inevitable
order of nature, and that humans therefore grieve pointlessly. Cicero’s
translation introduces certain changes from the Greek text which reflect
Chrysippus’ interpretation. He introduces ‘in vain’ (nequiquam) and ‘death
is ordained for all’ (morsque est finita omnibus), and omits the idea of death as
reaping crops that are ‘fruitful’ (kavrpimon).8 The Academic Carneades saw
in these same lines the idea that our subjection to ‘so cruel a Necessity’ is
‘itself a reason for grief’ (Tusc. 3.60).9 Both readings seem to be based on
Nussbaum (1993); on Posidonius’ theory of emotion in general, Cooper (1998).

7 The text printed here is that of Bond (1963: fr. 60, 90 4; cf. lines 233 7 in Diggle
1998: 146 7).
8 Cf. Bond (1963: 115).
9 Carneades, head of the Platonic (Academic) school in mid second century BC, usually
argued in an ad hominem way against other positions, including the Stoic one, so his
aim was, probably, to undermine the Stoic claim that grief was pointless rather than to
the ethical thesis the thinker wants to establish, rather than on the
significance of the passage in its poetic context.
A similar process is at work in the case of a passage from Sophocles’
(lost) Teucer, also cited in Latin in Cicero’s Tusculans.
nec vero tanta praeditus sapientia

quisquam est qui aliorum aerumnam dictis adlevans
non idem, cum fortuna mutata impetum
convertat, clade subita frangatur sua,
ut illa ad alios dicta et praecepta excidant.
No one is so well endowed with wisdom

that, despite relieving with words another’s grief,
when changing fortune shifts its attack,
he is not broken by his own sudden disaster,
so that the words and advice given to others fail him.
(Tusc. 3.71)
This is based on fr. 576 Radt (1977):10
tou;" dÅ a]n megivstou" kai; sofwtavtou" freni;

toiouvsdÅ i[doi" a]n oi|ov" ejsti nu'n o{de (sc. Oileus),
kalw'" kakw'" pravssonti sumparainevsai:
o{tan de; daivmwn ajndro;" eujtucou'" to; pri;n
mavstigÅ ejreivsh/ tou' bivou palivntropon,
ta; polla; frou'da kai; kalw'" eijrhmevna.
Cicero, and perhaps his source, is sufficiently attentive to the original

context to note the situation in which this passage occurs. This is that
Oileus breaks down at his own son’s death, despite having consoled
Telamon for the loss of his son Ajax. However, the value of the passage
for Cicero lies in its expression of a general claim. This claim is used to
support the anti-Stoic view that, under such circumstances, it is impossible
for anyone (even the perfect ‘sage’ or ‘wise person’) ‘to resist nature’ and
avoid grief.11 Again, Cicero’s translation seems to be coloured by the
advance his own view. On Chrysippus, see n.24 below.

10 This extract is quoted by Stobaeus (4.49.7) as being from Sophocles’ Oedipus, which
was later emended to ‘Oileus’. It is now generally attributed to Teucer; see Radt (1977:
ad loc.) and Lloyd Jones (1994 6: vol. 3, 289).
11 This view, characteristic of the Academic and Peripatetic schools in the first century
BC, is linked by Cicero (Tusc. 3.71) with the Academic Crantor (c.335 275 BC),
famous for his essay On Grief, which may have been his source for the Sophoclean
passage. On the Hellenistic Roman debate about emotional norms, see Dillon (1983)
and, on Crantor, Dillon (1977: 42 3).
interpretation which it is cited to support. The Greek extract focuses on
the idea that a quasi-personal daimôn brings about a change of attitude by
‘whipping’ each person in turn. Cicero’s version focuses, rather, on the
reaction of the agent, who is pictured as ‘broken’ (frangatur) by disaster,
however wise he may be, when ‘fortune’ changes; also the Greek plurals
(tou;" . . . sofwtavtou") have become singular (praeditis sapientia /
quisquam), perhaps evoking the ideal of the Stoic sapiens (wise person),
which is often put in singular form.
Discussions such as those of Cicero and Galen bring out the
background of the anthologizing approach that is displayed, eventually, in
the collection of Stobaeus (early fifth century AD), the source of many
tragic fragments, in which poetic and philosophical texts are cited
alongside each other, without comment, in illustration of some general
thesis, such as that similarity of character or habits (tropoi) creates
friendship.12
A similar approach is evident in Plutarch’s On Ethical Virtue (446A B);
his examples bear on a central theme in the rest of my discussion: the
presentation of self-division. Plutarch quotes a number of short poetic
passages to illustrate the Aristotelian distinction between willing self-
indulgence (akolasia) and weakness of will (acting on desire against one’s
better judgement, akrasia). The first extract, a comic fragment, is taken to
illustrate willing self-indulgence: ‘Leave me to die (or let me be ruined); this
is best for me’ (e[a mÅ ajpolevsqai: tou'to gavr moi sumfevrei) (Kassel
Austin vol. 8 [adesp.], 718; see also p. 162 below). The remaining passages
illustrate akrasia:
levlhqen oujde;n tw'ndev mÅ w|n su; nouqetei'":

gnwvmhn dÅ e[contav mÅ hJ fuvsi" biavzetai.
None of the advice you give has failed to occur to me;

I have judgement, but nature forces me.
(E. fr. 840 Kannicht = A. fr. 262 Weir Smyth; Plutarch gives only line 2.)
aijai', tovdÅ h[dh qei'on ajnqrwvpoi" kakovn,

o{tan ti" eijdh/' tajgaqo;n, crh'tai de; mhv.
Alas, this is a god given evil for human beings,

When one knows the good but does not act on it.
(E. fr. 841 Kannicht = Plut. Mor. 446A)
12 For this theme, see Stobaeus in Wachsmuth and Hense (1884: vol. 2, 255 7). On
another massive source of poetic fragments, Athenaeus’ Deipnosophistae, see Braund
and Wilkins (2000).
ei[kei ga;r h[dh qumo;" oujdÅ e[tÅ ajntevcei

qinw'de" wJ" a[gkistron ajgkuvra" savlw/:
The spirit yields and can no longer resist,

Like an anchor hook in sand when the sea swells.
(Plut. Mor. 446A = ades. 379 Kannicht and Snell)
nau'" w{" ti" ejk me;n gh'" ajnhvrthmai brovcoi",

pnei' dÅ ou\ro", hJmi'n dÅ ouj kratei' ta; peivsmata:
Like a ship, I have been tied to the land by ropes,

And when the wind blows, our cables do not hold.
(Plut. Mor. 446B = ades. 380 Kannicht and Snell)
Plutarch takes the first two extracts to need no comment. He explains the
imagery of the second two quotations by reference to philosophical ideas
about ethical psychology. The ‘anchor-hook in sand’ is explained as the
surrender of judgement to a psychological state marked by ‘looseness’ and
‘softness’. The ‘cables’ are interpreted as ‘judgements against wrongdoing’
which are broken by passion, as though by a strong wind. Plutarch’s aim is
to provide poetic evidence in support of the Aristotelian understanding of
akrasia and the Aristotelian distinction between akrasia and self-
indulgence. More broadly, it is to support the idea that the personality falls
into two parts, rational and non-rational, as Plato and Aristotle
maintained, rather than constituting a single, fundamentally rational, unit,
as the Stoics argued.13 As in the other philosophical discussions noted,
Plutarch makes no attempt to support his interpretation of the meaning of
the extract by close reference to the passage, taken in its original context.
Indeed, we do not know if Plutarch has read the relevant plays, and is
quoting from memory or from notes he has taken, or if he is simply re-
using quotations from compendia or other sources.14
II . Psychological Division in Poetry and Philosophy

As discussed so far, the quotation of tragic fragments by ancient
philosophers does not raise very complex interpretative issues. But things
become more complex when we try to locate such fragments in their
original context. The question of the relationship between the
13 For Plutarch’s overall thesis, see Mor. 440D E, 441C 442C. On the distinction
between akrasia and akolasia, see Mor. 445B E; also Arist. Eth. Nic. 7.8.
14 On Plutarch’s use of quotations, see Helmbold and O’Neil (1959: vii ix), also
Schläpfer (1950).
psychological thinking implied in the original play and in the philosophical
source then becomes more crucial. This point applies with special force to
the attempt by modern scholars to find the appropriate place in Euripides’
Chrysippus to locate two of the passages cited by Plutarch (frs 840 and 841
Kannicht, cited above). To define the interpretative point at issue, it is
helpful to refer to a distinction which is sometimes drawn in modern
philosophy between ‘hard’ (or ‘clear-eyed’) akrasia and ‘soft’ akrasia. ‘Hard’
akrasia is that in which someone acts in a way that she herself at the time of
acting sees as being against her better judgement. ‘Soft’ akrasia is that in
which a person acts in a way that she interprets at some other time as being
against her better judgement (or which another person interprets as being
against her better judgement).15 This distinction is not drawn in quite this
form in ancient philosophical discussions of self-division. But the
distinction is useful as a way of formulating ancient ideas about self-
division and of interpreting different types of self-division in tragic poetry,
including tragic fragments.
Plato, in the Phaedrus and Republic, for instance, focuses on ‘hard’
akrasia, or conscious inner struggle, understood as conflict between
different parts of the psyche; this focus was influential on much later
thinking in the Platonic tradition.16 Aristotle, in a famous and subtle
analysis (that of Nicomachean Ethics 7.3) analyses a form of ‘soft’ akrasia, in
which the akratic person fails to act at the relevant time on a kind of ethical
knowledge he in some sense possesses. The Stoics, who stressed the
psychological unity of the person, seem to have offered explanations for
both types of akrasia. In one analysis, recorded by Plutarch, akrasia is
explained as an oscillation (not recognized as that by the person
concerned) between two competing states. This can be seen as a type of
‘soft’ akrasia (Plut. Mor. 446F 447A).17 In the other, considered later,
passion is understood as a (sometimes) conscious rejection of reason, that is,
as a form of ‘hard’ akrasia.18
Euripides, whose interest in self-division has been recognized since
antiquity, displays both types in his surviving plays. The closing lines of
Medea’s great monologue constitute a famous expression of hard or clear-
15 For this distinction, see e.g. Gosling (1990: index s.v. ‘akrasia, clear eyed’), Price
(1995: index s.v. ‘acrasia, hard’). Both these books discuss a range of ancient and
modern ideas about weakness of will.
16 See e.g. Plato (Rep. 435c 441c, esp. 439e 440a, Phdr. 253d 254e); also Plutarch (Mor.
445B E, 446C E), Galen (PHP 5.7).
17 See further Nussbaum (1994: 383 4).
18 See e.g. Galen (PHP 4.4.16 17), De Lacy (1978: 254, 13 19); also Price (1995: 157
61), Gill (1998: 115 17).
eyed akrasia: ‘I know that what I am about to do is bad, but thumos (‘spirit’
or ‘anger’) is master of my plans’.19 Another famous speech from
Euripides’ second, surviving Hippolytus is better taken as an account of
soft, non-conscious akrasia. Phaedra describes as action against better
judgement behaviour that is not necessarily conceived in those terms by
the people concerned.
h[dh potÅ a[llw" nukto;" ejn makrw'/ crovnw/

qnhtw'n ejfrovntisÅ h|/ dievfqartai bivo".
kaiv moi dokou'sin ouj kata; gnwvmh" fuvsin
pravssein kakivonÅ: e[sti ga;r tov gÅ eu\ fronei'n
polloi'sin: ajlla; th'/dÅ ajqrhtevon tovde:
ta; crhvstÅ ejpistavmesqa kai; gignwvskomen,
oujk ejkponou'men dÅ ...
... in the long nights

I have considered how human life is destroyed.
It is not from the nature of their judgement that, I think,
people go wrong; many people think well enough.
But you should look at it this way:
We know and understand what is good,
But do not do it . . .
(Eur. Hipp. 375 81)20
Phaedra’s own psychological state in this play is rather complex, from this
standpoint. She describes her own conscious inner struggle (with her illicit
passion for her stepson), but she does not act on this. However, she does,
against her own better judgement, disclose her love; and this sets in train
the result that might have arisen if she had indeed acted (against her better
judgement) to satisfy her desire (E. Hipp. 391 430, 503 24).
These features of Euripidean representation and of ancient philosophi-
cal psychology form a relevant background for discussing the interpreta-
tion of the two passages from Euripides’ Chrysippus cited by Plutarch and
noted earlier (frs 840 and 841 Kannicht):
None of this advice you give has failed to occur to me;

Although I have judgement, nature forces me.
Alas, this is a god given evil for human beings,

When one knows the good, but does not act on it.
19 On the translation of these lines offered here, see n.26 below.

20 See also E. fr. 220 Kannicht (from the Antiope), cited by Snell (1964a: 64 5).
These lines, together with Medea 1078 80 and other such passages,
evidently became stock expressions of akrasia in later antiquity. Clement,
for instance, a Christian of the first century AD, couples fr. 840 with the
Medea passage (Strom. vol. 2, 63.1 64.1; see Irwin 1983: 192 3). More
suggestive, however, is the coupling of fr. 841 with Medea 1078 80 by
Alcinous (second century AD) in The Handbook of Platonism, ch. 24. This is
combined with an indication of the context and an interpretation of the
kind of akrasia involved: ‘similarly in the case of Laius, when he abducted
Chrysippus, we see desire struggling with reason’ (trans. Dillon 1993: 32).
Alcinous’ linkage of this extract with Medea’s lines implies that, in this
case too, we are dealing with conscious (‘clear-eyed’) akrasia. However,
Alcinous’ interest is not in the specific context of the passage but in the
psychological model seen as shared by both Euripidean passages, namely a
Platonic model of struggle between two psychic parts (see n.16 above).
Among modern scholars who have discussed this question, Bruno Snell
assumes that we are dealing with clear-eyed akrasia and goes on to locate
the two extracts in an exchange between Laius and Chrysippus, in which
Laius acknowledges the akratic force of his lust prior to his attempted
seduction of the boy.21 However, T.B.L. Webster, in a fuller re-
construction, locates the exchange in a later scene.22 Laius (after his rape
of the boy and Chrysippus’ suicide in shame) acknowledges his state of
mind to Chrysippus’ father Pelops (fr. 840), and Pelops replies (fr. 841). I
think that Webster’s view is more plausible; fr. 840, in this interpretation,
becomes an expression of ‘soft’ akrasia. Laius subsequently analyses in this
way a state of mind which was not necessarily experienced as akratic at the
relevant time. Without more evidence, it is difficult to confirm either
reconstruction. But in Alcinous’ discussion, we can see how (broadly)
Platonic psychological assumptions lead to misinterpretation, or at least
neglect, of the original context.23
So far, ancient philosophers have not emerged as very perceptive
literary critics. But I turn now to a striking case where at least one ancient
philosopher, though engaging in ethical debate, offers powerful insights
into the interpretation of the tragic portrayal of an akratic state, in
Euripides’ Medea 1078 80. The point at issue is the correct psychological
model with which to understand the passage and, hence, with which to
21 Snell (1964a: 63 4).
22 Webster (1967: 111 12).
23 It is possible that when Alcinous says, ‘when [Laius] abducted Chrysippus’ (Handbook,
ch. 24), he is referring simply to the overall plot of the play, and not to a specific
context, though the comparison with Medea invites us to look for a similar type of
akrasia, as Snell does (1964a: 63 4).
draw out the implications for actual human psychology. The combatants
are, on the one side, Galen (second century AD, the source of the debate)
and, on the other, the most brilliant Stoic thinker, Chrysippus, whose
interpretation Galen is attacking.24 This is Galen’s interpretation of the
monologue:
She knew what an unholy and terrible thing she was doing, when she
set out to kill her children, and therefore she hesitated . . . Then anger
dragged her again to the children by force, like some disobedient
horse that has overpowered the charioteer; then reason in turn drew
her back and led her away, then anger again exerted an opposite pull,
and then again reason. Consequently, being repeatedly driven up and
down by the two of them, when she has yielded to anger [she says:
(1078 9)]
kai; manqavnw me;n oi|a dra'n mevllw kakav,

qumo;" de; kreivsswn tw'n ejmw'n bouleumavtwn.
I understand the evils I am going to do,

But anger prevails over my counsels.25
In essence, Galen sees the to and fro in Medea’s monologue (1021 80) as
a struggle between two of the parts of Plato’s tripartite psyche in the
Republic and Phaedrus, reason and thumos (‘spirit’ or anger), a struggle won
by anger (see refs in n.16 above). Galen summarizes the contrasting view
of Chrysippus in this way:
Medea, on the other hand, was not persuaded by any reasoning to kill her
children; quite the contrary, as far as reasoning goes, she says that she
understands how evil the acts are that she is about to perform, but that her
anger is stronger than her deliberations; that is, her passion has not been made
to submit and does not obey and follow reason as it would a master, but
throws off the reins and departs and disobeys the command . . . 26
24 Chrysippus (not, of course, the rape victim in Euripides’ lost play) was head of the
Stoic school (232 c.206 BC) and its principal theorist. Although Galen is both a
source and a critic of Chrysippus, it is possible, though not easy, to disentangle
Chrysippus’ ideas from Galen’s reports; see further Tielemann (1996) and Gill (1998).
25 Galen (PHP 3.3.14 16), De Lacy (1978: 188, 18 28), his translation. On the
translation of lines 1078 9, see n.26 below.
26 Galen (PHP 4.2.27), De Lacy (1978: 244, 2 7), his translation, slightly modified.
Although reported by the critical Galen, the account of Chrysippus’ reading is in line
with Stoic psychology and seems to be reliable. Like Galen, Chrysippus seems to
assume that the meaning of 1079 is ‘anger is stronger than my (rational) deliberations’,
rather than ‘anger is master of (in control of) my (revenge )plans’. I see the latter as
Chrysippus, as thus summarized, sees the monologue, especially its closing
lines, as encapsulating certain key features of a passion (pathos), and of the
kind of psychic conflict this involves, as understood in Stoic theory.
However, there are several ways in which, I think, Chrysippus’ reading
captures key features of Medea’s monologue, as presented by Euripides.
By contrast with Galen, for whom the struggle is between psychic parts,
Chrysippus brings out how Medea is presented as a whole, though
complex, person, and one who alternately identifies herself with each of
the sets of reasons and feelings on either side of her dilemma. Chrysippus
also brings out the point that, in the concluding lines, Medea, as a whole
person, ‘rejects’ or ‘disobeys’ reasons for not killing the children, rather
than passively ‘yielding’ to anger, as Galen suggests. Chrysippus’ idea that
passion constitutes the ‘disobedience’ or ‘rejection’ of reason is coupled
with the image of passion as a ‘runaway’ state, here expressed as ‘throwing
off the reins’. This combination of ideas indicates how a passion, even if
actively aroused by the person concerned (as Medea does earlier in the
monologue, 1048 55, 1059 63), can render someone ‘subject’ to itself and
lead her to act against her better judgement. So, despite the fact that
Chrysippus’ concern is philosophical, rather than interpretative, this seems
to be a case where ethical debate leads a major Greek philosopher to give
a psychologically powerful reading of a tragic portrayal of psychic
conflict.27
Of course, Euripides’ Medea 1078 80 is not a fragment. If it were, it
would be much more difficult to form an independent view about the
quality of the readings of the two Greek thinkers.28 However, some
comments of Chrysippus on lines from lost plays are preserved. For
instance, Chrysippus seems also to have commented on the comic line
the more plausible reading and the one which would better suit Chrysippus’
interpretation. See further Gill (1983: 138), (1996b: 223 4, 232, n.215).
27 On the competing readings of Galen and Chrysippus, see further Gill (1983), (1996b:
227 33). There has been much modern debate about whether the whole monologue
is authentically Euripidean. Diggle (1984), following Reeve (1972), brackets 1056 80
as possibly post Euripidean, while Hübner (1984) questions also the authenticity of
1040 55. Lloyd Jones (1980) proposes the deletion of 1059 63, and Kovacs (1986)
that of 1056 64. See further on the debate Collard (1986). On the structure of the
monologue as a whole (regardless of authorship), see Gill (1987: 25 30).
28 In this case at least, it seems that an ancient philosopher responded to a whole
passage in context and not just an extract taken in isolation. Chrysippus’ interest in
Medea as a whole seems to be confirmed by Diogenes Laertius (7.180): he is said to
have copied out nearly the whole play in one of his treatises, presumably On Passions.
Hence, when a reader of the treatise was asked what he was reading, he replied,
‘Chrysippus’ Medea’.
also noted by Plutarch: ‘Leave me to die (or be ruined); that is best for
me.’29 Plutarch takes this as an expression of deliberate self-indulgence, by
contrast with akrasia. But Chrysippus, more plausibly, reads it as a case of
akratic ‘rejection’ or disobedience of reason (since ajpolevsqai has a
negative colour which does not fit deliberate self-indulgence).30
Chrysippus also cites two short Euripidean passages to illustrate the same
point:
Kuvpri" ga;r oujde; nouqetoumevnh cala'/:

a]n ga;r biavzh/, ma'llon ejnteivnein filei'.
Even when criticized, Love does not relax its hold,

If you force it, it is wont to strain still more.
nouqetouvmeno" dÅ “Erw"
ma'llon pievzei.
When criticized, Love
presses still more.31
Chrysippus’ point is that those in love, like those in anger, ‘reject’ reason,
even if it is offered as good advice, and that even they would see the force
of such reasoning if they were not in a state of passion. Chrysippus’
reading of these lines does not require us to see here the ‘hard’, clear-eyed
akrasia of Medea’s monologue. But it does imply the same (seemingly
paradoxical) combination of ideas that underlie his interpretation of
Medea: that passions are intentional in that they stem from our own
agency and yet that we are at some level capable of recognizing the
irrationality of the passion.
In the absence of further indications, it is hard to appraise the
29 Plutarch (Mor. 446A), referring to Kassel and Austin (1983 95: vol. 8, 718) cited in
Greek p. 157 above. Plutarch’s On Ethical Virtue overlaps in content and approach
with Galen (PHP bks 4 5), and both works seem to draw on the treatises On Passions
by Chrysippus and Posidonius.
30 Galen (PHP 4.5.42 6, esp. 43), De Lacy (1978: 270, 1). The passage is cited from
Posidonius’ criticism of Chrysippus; Posidonius seems to be querying Chrysippus’ use
of the passage. For a Roman parallel to this line, see Propertius (1.25 8): ‘Allow me,
whom Fortune wants to lie sick forever, to devote the end of my life to this
worthlessness’ (sine me, quem semper voluit fortuna iacere, / huic animam extremam reddere
nequitiae). ‘Many have pined away willingly in a long love affair; may the earth cover
me too along with them.’ Trans. Ruth Rothaus Caston, who drew my attention to this
passage.
31 Galen (PHP 4.6.30), De Lacy (1978: 276, 14 17). The passages are E. fr. 340
Kannicht (Dictys), E. fr. 665 Kannicht (Stheneboea); Galen does not cite the first two
words of fr. 665: toiau'tÅ ajluvei ‘he/she is so distraught’.
perceptiveness of Chrysippus’ reading of these passages. But there is a
general reason for doubting that his approach would be as illuminating in
connection with love as it is with anger (at least, as it is with Medea’s
anger). To judge from the surviving Euripidean Hippolytus and some other
examples, notably Sophocles’ Trachiniae, intense sexual desire, often
identified with Aphrodite or Eros (as gods), seems to be conceived in
fifth-century tragedy as a different type of psychological phenomenon
from anger.32 Anger and, to some extent, other emotions are presented as
reflecting the person’s beliefs and being to that degree intentional. In
Euripides’ Medea, the terrible intensity and violence of Medea’s anger can
to some extent be taken as an expression of her nature (what the chorus
describe as her ‘intense [literally, ‘great-livered’], insatiable character’
(megalovsplagcno" duskatavpausto" yuchv 108 10). But it is also, and
more emphatically, presented as what she sees as a justified ethical, as
well as emotional, response to Jason’s failure to maintain the claims of
reciprocity in a situation where those claims have special force.33 This
point reinforces the appropriateness of Chrysippus’ reading: her
passionate anger, her thumos, is an expression of her beliefs and intentions
(even though, once formed, it passes outside her control). Hence,
Chrysippus’ analysis of the monologue, which underlines the combination
of agency and passivity in her (now) runaway rejection of reason, has a
special appropriateness (see text to n.26 above). The same point could be
made, though with rather less force, about Chrysippus’ citation in the
same context of an exchange from Euripides’ (surviving) Alcestis (1079
80).
tiv dÅ a]n prokovptoi", eij qevlei" ajei; stevnein…

(Heracles) ‘What would you gain if you kept wanting to grieve forever?’
e[gnwka kaujtov", ajllÅ e[rw" ti" ejxavgei.

(Admetus) ‘I know that myself; but a certain love carries me away.’34
The ‘love’ or ‘desire’ (erôs) involved here may be Admetus’ love for his
dead wife or his desire to grieve for her.35 But, in either case, it is a feeling
for which Admetus has grounds, even if it generates a response (of
insatiable grief) that, from another standpoint, Admetus can see as
32 See e.g. Sophocles (Trach. 497 530, Ant. 781 800); also Winnington Ingram (1980:
ch. 4, esp. 86 90, ch. 5).
33 See Gill (1996b: 156 74).
34 Galen (PHP 4.6.38), De Lacy (1978: 278, 13, 15).
35 Dale (1954: ad loc.) cites approvingly an ancient scholiast who adopts the latter
interpretation.
unreasonable. Hence, Chrysippus’ type of analysis, stressing the

combination of agency and passivity, is relevant here also. However, the
intense sexual desire, the Kupris or Erôs, of the fragments cited earlier, if
they are like the Kupris or Erôs of Phaedra’s speech in the surviving
Hippolytus, is seen as an overwhelming force, which comes on the person
from outside, and which she can only try to suppress.36 It does not have
grounds in the same way as anger, and to that extent does not fit
Chrysippus’ analysis, which treats all passions, including sexual desire, as
deriving from human agency, even if, once generated, they pass beyond
our immediate control.
III. Inner Conflict in Euripides and Seneca

I turn now to a rather different type of relationship between tragic
fragments and ancient philosophy, though one in which psychological
questions remain important. The topic is the relationship between the
presentation of sexual desire in Euripides’ first Hippolytus (I), which
survives only in fragments, and in Seneca’s Phaedra. In particular, I
examine critically Bruno Snell’s idea that the psychology of sexual desire in
Seneca’s play can be used to reconstruct that of Euripides’ lost play.
Ancient philosophy, specifically Chrysippus’ analysis of passion, plays an
important role in this question too because, as I argue later, the
psychology of Seneca’s Phaedra reflects Stoic thinking. I do not dispute
Snell’s view (which is widely shared) that there is a broad similarity
between the characterization of Phaedra in Hippolytus I and in Seneca’s
Phaedra, and that both figures are to be sharply contrasted with the
Phaedra of Euripides’ second (surviving) Hippolytus (II). In Hippolytus I and
Seneca’s play, Phaedra is prepared to act on her desire and to plead to
Hippolytus to respond to it.37 The aspect of Snell’s reconstruction that I
challenge is his account of the presentation of Phaedra’s willing surrender
to sexual desire in Euripides’ Hippolytus I and in Seneca’s Phaedra. I am
especially interested in what seem to be the opening scenes of the two
36 See Euripides (Hipp. 392 4, 398 402). Padel (1992) suggests that the ‘passive’
conception of emotions and desires is pervasive in Greek tragedy. I think this view is
rather overstated (see Gill 1996a); but it may hold good for the tragic presentation of
intense sexual desire and of, at least, certain types of tragic madness (Padel 1995).
37 Hence, she is described as a ‘prostitute’ (povrnh) in Aristophanes (Frogs 1043; see also
1052 4); cf. Barrett (1964: 26, 30 1). Aristophanes’ reference is not, explicitly, to the
first Euripidean play but this is the obvious inference, given the sharply different
characterization of Phaedra in the second Hippolytus. See also the ancient preface
(hypothesis) to E. Hipp. II, which says: ‘what was unsuitable and worthy of criticism in
the first play has been corrected’ (lines 29 30; Barrett 1964: 96).
plays: the opening soliloquy in Euripides’ Hippolytus I and Phaedra’s first
monologue and argument with the nurse in Seneca’s play.38
Snell argues that the two plays have one key point in common: they
show a figure who plays an active role in arousing her own infatuation,
rather than one who is passive, subject to the overwhelming force of
passion. He also thinks that the overall psychological pattern, and the
stages by which Phaedra actively embraces her desire, must have been
similar in the two plays. Snell supports this view by highlighting a series of
alleged similarities between the fragments of Hippolytus I and Seneca’s
Phaedra. For instance, he suggests (29 30) that the way in which Seneca’s
Phaedra sees her love as an expression of her inherited nature can be
paralleled in one of the Euripidean extracts:
fatale miserae matris agnosco malum:

peccare noster novit in silvis amor.
I recognize the fated evil of my mother [Pasiphaë]:

our love has learnt to go astray in the woods.
(Sen. Phaed. 113 14)
w\ dai'mon, wJ" oujk e[stÅ ajpostrofh; brotoi'"

tw'n ejmfuvtwn te kai; qehlavtwn kakw'n.
O daemon, there is no way for humans to avert

evils born within us and sent from the gods.
(E. fr. 444 Kannicht = Barrett S)
Snell (30 1) also uses a passage in Plutarch to establish a link between

Euripides’ play and the way that Seneca’s Phaedra justifies her passion by
referring to Theseus’ absence on a morally dubious mission.
. . . profugus en coniunx abest;

praestatque nuptae quam solet Theseus fidem.
. . . look, my husband, the runaway, is not here;

Theseus shows his wife his characteristic fidelity.
(Sen. Phaed. 91 2)
th;n . . . Faivdran kai; prosegkalou'san tw'/ Qhsei' pepoivhken

(sc. Eujripivdh") wJ" dia; ta;" ejkeivnou paranomiva" ejrasqei'san
38 For evidence for Hipp. I, see Barrett (1964: 11 12), who prints the fragments (as A to
U) (18 22) and the testimonia (26). He also refers to Seneca (16 17) and the various
other versions (29 45). See also Snell (1964a: ch. 2); Webster (1967: 64 71).
tou' ÔIppoluvtou.
[Euripides] made Phaedra accuse Theseus, saying that she fell in love
with Hippolytus because of his [Theseus’] wrongdoings.39
(Plut. Mor. 27F 28A = Barrett B)
Most significant of all is Snell’s linkage between two passages which he

sees as showing a parallel combination of psychological passivity and
agency, as the figure concerned embraces the force to which she is subject.
quae memoras scio

vera esse, nutrix; sed furor cogit sequi
peiora. vadit animus in praeceps sciens . . .
quid ratio possit? vicit ac regnat furor,
potensque tota mente dominatur deus.
I know that what you say is true, nurse,

but frenzy compels me to take the worse course.
My mind, though knowing, goes headlong . . .
What could reason do? Frenzy has conquered my mind and rules it,
and a powerful god dominates my whole personality.
(Sen. Phaed. 177 9, 184 5)
e[cw de; tovlmh" kai; qravsou" didavskalon

ejn toi'" ajmhcavnoisin eujporwvtaton,
[Erwta, pavntwn dusmacwvtaton qeovn.
As a teacher in daring and boldness,

one who knows the best way out of helplessness,
I have Love, the hardest of all gods to fight with.
(E. fr. 430 Kannicht = Barrett C)
Snell (38 40) does not claim that these two passages are wholly
comparable in their content. But he does claim that in both cases we see a
figure who both acknowledges the overwhelming force of her love and
who also, through her comments, expresses her acceptance of that power
and its impact on her motivation.
Snell (40 2) also links one of the Euripidean fragments with a Senecan
passage in which the nurse ascribes Phaedra’s abnormal lust to her
luxurious lifestyle. He thinks that this confirms the impression that
Phaedra’s response to her passion exhibits a similar psychological pattern
39 Phaedra is referring to Theseus’ infidelity to Ariadne; the dubious mission is that of

helping Pirithous in his (erotically motivated) seizure of Persephone from Hades. See
Snell (1964a: 30 1).
in the two plays.
quisquis secundis rebus exultat nimis

fluitque luxu, semper insolita appetit.
tunc illa magnae dira fortunae comes
subit libido.
Whoever takes undue pleasure in prosperity

And is softened by luxury, always wants the unusual.
Then comes that terrible companion of good fortune
wilful desire . . .
(Sen. Phaed. 204 7)
oJrw' de; toi'" polloi'sin ajnqrwvpoi" ejgw;

tivktousan u{brin th;n pavroiqÅ eujpraxivan.
My observation is that in many people

Their previous prosperity generates insolence.
(E. fr. 437 Kannicht = Barrett L)
u{brin te tivktei plou'to" ouj feidwv bivou.
What generates insolence is a wealthy, not a frugal life.40

(E. fr. 438 Kannicht = Barrett M)
What underlies these suggestions is Snell’s wish to show that Phaedra’s

sexual lust, in Euripides’ first Hippolytus, as well as Seneca’s Phaedra, is
motivated from within the character. This is part of his larger conceptual
programme of showing the ‘discovery of the mind’ (understood as the
discovery of psychological agency) in classical Greece.41 But a major
problem with Snell’s interpretation is that it runs together two very
different conceptions of how a person may come to act on her desire. In
Seneca’s play, I think that Phaedra’s monologue and the subsequent
dialogue with the nurse reflect a characteristically Stoic (and specifically
Chrysippean) pattern of thinking about passion, the general character of
which has been illustrated earlier in connection with Chrysippus’ reading
40 Snell’s claim is not that the nurse’s explanation is presented as correct in the two
plays; but that it fits in with a similarly psychologizing approach to Phaedra’s passion.
Other Senecan motifs that Snell thinks may have been present in Hipp. I (though
there is no explicit evidence of their presence) include Phaedra’s abnormal desire to
go hunting (1964a: 34 6) and her identification of Hippolytus with Theseus in his
youth (1964a: 42 3).
41 See further Snell (1953); also, on the (problematic) assumptions behind this
programme Williams (1993: ch. 2); Gill (1996b: 30 41, esp. 35 6).
of Euripides Medea 1078 80. The general form of this pattern is that a
passion, though deriving from the person’s own beliefs, takes her over,
even if she can now see the irrationality of her state. The opening
monologue in Seneca’s play, including the lines Snell highlights, shows
Phaedra, increasingly, thinking her way into her lust for Hippolytus, finding
reasons for this in Theseus’ absence and in her family’s propensity to
criminal love (Sen. Phaed. 91 2, 96 8, 113 14, 127 8). Subsequently, after
thus ‘rejecting’ or ‘disobeying’ reason, by playing an active role in arousing
her passion, Phaedra finds herself out of control (177 9, 184 5, cited
earlier). Although the nurse tries to talk Phaedra out of her passion (in
part by presenting it as voluntary and as the product of luxurious caprice),
Phaedra continues to present herself as now uncontrollably in the grip of
love (195 7, 204 7 [cited earlier], 216 19, 253 4). A similar pattern can be
found in other Senecan plays, especially in the final monologue of his
Medea (893 977).42 I have argued elsewhere (1997: 215 18) that this
pattern is most plausibly understood as a dramatic representation of the
Stoic (and specifically Chrysippean) conception of passion, which forms a
key part of the theoretical background for Seneca’s moral epistles and
essays.
It is, obviously, much more difficult to reach any firm views about the
pattern embodied in Euripides’ first Hippolytus. But there are general
conceptual reasons for questioning the idea that the two plays exhibit a
shared psychological model.43 The common themes which lend most
support to Snell’s case are Phaedra’s accusation of Theseus and Phaedra’s
expression of the idea that she is subject to the overwhelming force of
love (p. 166 7 above). However, in none of the Euripidean fragments is it
clear that Euripides’ Phaedra dissociates herself strongly from her love or
sees it as criminal and depraved in the way that Seneca’s Phaedra does.44
In Euripides’ version, therefore, there does not seem to be the same need
42 On the structure and psychology of this monologue (by contrast with the great
monologue in E. Med.), see Gill (1987). See also Seneca (Thy. 241 3, 249 54, 260 77,
283 6). The pattern, broadly, is that of arousing passion (sometimes by self
encouragement) and then being taken over by it; see further Henry, D. and E. (1985:
56 67, 75 83).
43 This is not to deny that Seneca may have reused some of the motifs of Euripides’ first
Hipp. in his own very different version. For a sceptical view (on dramaturgical, rather
than psychological, grounds) about connections between the two plays, see Barrett
(1964: 16 17, 35 6).
44 This theme is very clear in Seneca (Phaed. 112 28): in identifying with her mother’s
(non standard) love, she describes it as ‘going astray’ (peccare), ‘unspeakably wrong’
(infando malo), 114 15; on ‘criminality’, see nefandis, nefas in 127 8. For a more blatant
embracing of evil, see Seneca (Med. 900 25).
for Phaedra to think her way into her passion (while still seeing it as
criminal) as there is in Seneca. Thus, her accusation of Theseus may be a
straightforward complaint, which helps to excuse her lust for Hippolytus,
rather than the more complex rationalization of her passion that we find
in Seneca.45 Also, when she describes herself as afflicted by ‘bad things’
(kakw'n) and speaks of her ‘helplessness’ (ajmhcavnoisin), she may have in
mind simply the fact that she is in love with someone who is unlikely to
love her in return, rather than, as in Seneca, that she has made herself
subject to a (depraved) passion that she cannot now resist.46 When
Phaedra describes Love as ‘the hardest of all gods to fight with’ (pavntwn
dusmacwvtaton qeovn), this may refer to Phaedra’s own inability to ‘fight’
the power of the god. But it might also, in the light of the two preceding
lines, refer to the god’s ‘unconquerable’ ability to find means of satisfying
lust by teaching daring and boldness.47
Taken in isolation from the Senecan passages, and in the light of the
prevalent conception of love in fifth-century tragedy noted earlier (p. 163
above), the Euripidean fragments lend themselves to a quite different type
of interpretation. This is one that combines the idea of Love as an
irresistible divine force with the positive and active embracing of the love
so induced. This pattern is compatible with what seems to be the
prevalent tragic conception of intense sexual desire and with the moral
opprobrium the play seems also to have aroused.48 Although superficially
similar to the psychological pattern of Seneca’s drama, it assumes a
substantively different conception of what it means to act on one’s desire.
Reference to the Stoic thinking about human psychology that seems to
underlie the dramatic shape of Seneca’s Phaedra helps us to define this
difference with clarity and precision.
This brings out a further way in which the study of ancient philosophy
can, perhaps surprisingly, help in our interpretation of Greek tragic
45 On the intricacy of Phaedra’s complaints in Seneca (Phaed. 91 8), see Coffey and
Mayer (1990: ad loc.). Her use of moralizing language about Theseus (e.g. ‘frenzy’,
furoris, criminal sexuality, stupra et illicitos toros, 96 7) needs to be taken with her use of
such language for herself (see n.44 above).
46 E. frs 444 Kannicht ( Barrett S) and 430 Kannicht ( Barrett C); contrast Seneca
(Phaed. 177 9, 184 5; also 112 14, 126 8).
47 E. fr. 430 Kannicht ( Barrett C), cited on p. 168 above. The other passage noted (frs
437 8 Kannicht), cited on p. 169 above, lends only ambiguous support to Snell. Snell
takes them together and assigns them to the nurse (1964a: 40 2); but Barrett (1964:
20 1, n.4), assigns them to different speakers in a (conjectured) debate between
Theseus and Hippolytus, whereas Webster (1967: 68), reverses the order of the two
fragments and assigns both to Hippolytus.
48 See text to n.32 and n.37 above.
fragments. In spite of the fact that, as illustrated earlier, ancient

philosophers are sometimes rather cavalier in their reading of these
fragments, they can also provide useful material for the modern
interpretation of them, particularly when the extracts bear on subjects
such as self-division, in which ancient philosophers took a profound
interest.
9
ARISTOPHANES ON HOW TO WRITE TRAGEDY

What You Wear Is What You Are†
JAMES ROBSON
The special relationship with tragedy enjoyed by Old Comedy in general

and Aristophanes in particular is well documented. Indeed, there are many
ways in which ‘tragic fragments’ have become embedded in the works of
Aristophanes tragic quotations, tragic vocabulary and paratragic plot-
lines, to name but three. In addition to this, Aristophanes twice depicts
tragic poets in the act of composing text. In the Acharnians, Aristophanes’
Euripides is disturbed mid-composition, whereas in the Thesmophoriazusae
the audience sees his Agathon compose a passage of lyric whilst the
characters of Euripides and the Inlaw look on.1 It is these two passages
which will form the subject of the present discussion, one of the aims of
which will be to shed some light on Aristophanes’ own compositional
†
A version of this paper was delivered as part of the ‘Making the Text’ seminar series
at the Institute of Classical Studies, London (1995) as well as at the ‘Tragic
Fragments’ conference at the University of Exeter (1996): this paper was originally
included in a panel entitled ‘Fragments Without Tragedies’, the reasons for which are
no doubt already apparent. I am grateful to all those present for their useful
comments. Particular thanks are due to David Harvey, Michael Silk and Owain
Thomas for their helpful suggestions. Regrettably, this chapter was prepared before
the publication of Olson’s commentary on Acharnians (2002) and Austin and Olson’s
commentary on Thesmophoriazusae (2004).
1 If my expression when talking of the actions and speech of Aristophanes’ characters
sometimes appears convoluted, it is because I do not wish to ascribe to them a
capacity for thought. On this principle, see Silk (2000: 212), who argues: ‘the people
of Aristophanes per se are not strictly containable within any realistic understanding of
human character at all’.
174 JAMES ROBSON
processes as a comic writer.

In sections I and II, I explore the way in which the composition of
tragedy and the modus operandi of the two tragic poets are represented by
Aristophanes. In section III, I place this representation within the wider
context of ancient beliefs about the process of poetic composition and
subsequently attempt to assess the extent to which Aristophanes’ views of
this process were either derivative or innovative. In section IV, I offer
some concluding remarks on what the discussion can teach us about the
nature of Aristophanes’ own compositional technique. Whilst important
places in my discussion are occupied by a fragmentary play Euripides’
Telephus and a tragic poet whose work is known only through
fragments Agathon it is fully extant comedy rather than ‘tragic
fragments’ which will take centre stage. For this I crave the reader’s
indulgence.
I. Acharnians: From Rags to Rhesis

In the Acharnians we encounter a figure, Dicaeopolis, who is represented
as needing to perform an act of composition. According to the plot of the
play, Dicaeopolis has staked his life on his ability to produce, for a
violently anti-Laconian audience, a speech in defence of the Spartans.
Much of this play is paratragic and makes specific use of Euripides’ now
fragmentary Telephus: Aristophanes has borrowed elements from this
play’s plot and has transplanted them into the Acharnians.2 Various plot
developments which were no doubt logically sequential in the Telephus
appear in the Acharnians where they are no longer logically sequential. An
example of such a non-sequitur is the necessity, expressed by Dicaeopolis,
for a tragic speech delivered in ragged clothes. The visit to Euripides’
house, the need for which is announced at 394, is undertaken for the
purpose of acquiring these clothes, which will enable the composition of a
Telephus-style speech. At 384 5, Aristophanes has Dicaeopolis say:3
nu'n ou\n me prw'ton pri;n levgein ejavsate

ejnskeuavsasqaiv mÅ oi|on ajqliwvtaton.
So now, before I speak, please let me

dress myself up as piteously as I can.
2 For reconstructions of the Telephus, see Handley and Rea (1957); Jouan (1966: 222
55); Rau (1967: 19 26); Webster (1967: 43 8) and Heath (1987). On the exploitation
of this tragedy by Aristophanes, see Foley (1988: esp. 39 47).
3 All translations from Aristophanes are based on Sommerstein (1980 and 1994), from
which the Greek text is also taken.
ARISTOPHANES ON HOW TO WRITE TRAGEDY 175
Dicaeopolis is thus presented as expounding the view that, before being
able to compose, an author must have dressed himself in the appropriate
garb. Aristophanes has Dicaeopolis beg both garments and a number of
properties from Euripides, such as a Mysian felt cap (pilivdion . . . to;
Muvsion, 439), a beggar’s staff (ptwcikou' bakthrivou, 448), a small jar
plugged with a sponge (cutrivdion sfoggivw/ bebusmevnon, 463)4 and
wild chervil (skavndika, 478).5 The items borrowed most likely
correspond to those used by Telephus in the Euripidean play,6 with the
addition of a handful of properties introduced for the purpose of mocking
Euripides, the standard comic joke being that his mother was a vegetable-
seller.7
The clothes and properties of Telephus would appear to act as a
catalyst: without them, Dicaeopolis is represented as believing himself
unable to make a speech; with them, Dicaeopolis is rendered a deft
speaker, shown to be capable of convincing the chorus of Acharnians that
he is indeed no traitor.8
Dicaeopolis is represented as changing in mood as he dons the
clothes.9 The influence of the clothes upon him is presented in terms of a
drink or potion consumed. At 447, for example, he says:
eu\ gÅ: oi|on h[dh rJhmativwn ejmpivmplamai.
That’s good: how I’m filling up with deft phrases already!
Later, when Dicaeopolis is being shown as urging himself on to make the

speech, he says (484):
e{sthka"… oujk ei\, katapiw;n Eujripivdhn…
4 Sommerstein (1980: ad loc.) suggests: ‘if the Euripidean Telephus carried such a jar, it
may have contained ointment for his wound, which he could apply with the sponge’.
5 Ruck (1975: 16 19) argues that skavndix is not to be identified as wild chervil, but
rather a plant which was considered to be mind altering and an aphrodisiac. Thus,
inspired by this herb, Euripides was able to write his poetry. Contra Ruck’s position,
see Tammaro (1986 7: 181 2) cited by Dover (1993: 385, addenda).
6 Thus Rogers (1910: on 453).
7 Humorous references to the profession of Euripides’ mother include Thesm. 387, 456
and Ran. 840. Ruck (1975: 14 19) argues that the joke is rather that Euripides’
mother trades in aphrodisiacs and that this accounts for the salacious nature of his
plays (cf. n.5 above).
8 Or as Muecke (1977: 63) says: ‘by putting on the rags Dicaeopolis is automatically
transformed into a highly articulate beggar.’ Thus also Singleton Murray (1977: 150).
9 See Rau (1967: 33 4) on this passage.
176 JAMES ROBSON
What, you stand still? Won’t you move, now you’ve swallowed down a dose
of Euripides?
This latter analogy is drawn from the realm of cock-fighting, where

(instead of ‘Euripides’) cocks were primed with garlic to put them in the
mood to fight.10
Of course, Dicaeopolis is not the only character in this scene whom we
witness in the act of composition. When Dicaeopolis arrives at Euripides’
house, we catch the poet in the midst of composing a tragedy. When we
meet Euripides, we see him surrounded by various stage properties and
costumes, a number of which, as we have seen, are eventually lent to
Dicaeopolis. Our attention is first drawn to the presence of the costumes
by Dicaeopolis’ comment at 412 3:11
ajta;r tiv ta; rJavkiÅ ejk tragw/diva" e[cei",

ejsqh'tÅ ejleinhvn… oujk ejto;" ptwcou;" poiei'".
But why have you got those tragic rags,

‘a garb most pitiable’? No wonder you create beggars.
Directly before Dicaeopolis’ comment on the clothes, however, our

attention is directed towards Euripides’ manner of composition. To
compose, he sits with his feet up. Dicaeopolis says (410 11):
ajnabavdhn poiei'",
ejxo;n katabavdhn… oujk ejto;" cwlou;" poiei'".
Do you compose with your feet up

when you could have them down? No wonder you create cripples.12
10 Cf. the allusion to the priming of cocks with garlic at Ach. 166 and Xen. Symp. 4.9.
On the former passage, see Starkie (1909: ad loc.), who cites the scholiast R on this
passage. Dicaeopolis’ metaphors appear to be mixed (the grammhv of 483 is the
starting or finishing line of a horse or running race) as is his register the high
flown w\ qumev of 483 alongside a metrically awkward auJthiv (complete with its
colloquial deictic iota).
11 It is, of course, a distinct possibility that Euripides is also wearing some of his rags.
12 The scholia at 410 imply that ajnabavdhn is to be understood as ‘high up, upstairs’,
whereas the scholia on 399 suggest the (surely superior) sense of ‘with his feet up’
(after all, Euripides is wheeled out: 408). For good discussion of this point, see Russo
(1994: 52 5). Ruck (1975: 20 1) ingeniously argues for the translation ‘with an
erection’, and suggests (1975: 24) that Euripides’ creations would walk awkwardly
either because of their ithyphallicity or, somewhat less convincingly, ‘by the
experience of anal copulation’ (quite how this would be represented on stage in a
character’s gait, I am not sure). My feeling is that a Euripidean hard on would serve
Here, then, are two expressions of the view that the manner of
composition determines the textual product. The connection is made
between a playwright composing surrounded by (and maybe clothed in)
ragged costumes and that playwright’s production of characters who wear
such costumes.13 A similar connection is made between a playwright not
using his legs whilst composing and his production of characters who are
lame.
Like Dicaeopolis, Euripides is also represented as having to achieve an
appropriate mood to allow the act of composition. Throughout the scene
Euripides’ ‘mood’ is displayed in his speech through tragic vocabulary and
phrasing, such as at 449, where Aristophanes has him refer to his house as
‘marble halls’ (lai?nwn staqmw'n).14 At the end of this episode, Euripides
is represented as having been so annoyed by Dicaeopolis that the mood
he requires for composing has been destroyed. He says at 470:
frou'dav moi ta; dravmata.
My plays are gone.
II. Thesmophoriazusae: Frock Tactics

This glimpse of Euripides composing is paralleled in the scene in the
Thesmophoriazusae where we encounter the tragic poet Agathon. At lines
101ff. the characters of the Inlaw and Euripides, like us, gain a
surreptitious glimpse of Agathon in the process of composing a tragedy.15
In this scene the poet is portrayed composing a hymn, where he takes on
the parts of both the chorus and a priestess.16 The actor playing Agathon
as a distraction from rather than complement the humour of the passage.

katabavdhn is a hapax legomenon, a comic coinage contrasting with ajnabavdhn.
13 See Ruck (1975: 24ff.), who argues that Euripides’ use of rags is to be taken as a sign
of the poet’s lasciviousness: scant clothing exposes the body.
14 This is not to say that Aristophanes always uses tragic vocabulary to such effect, but
merely that such is the use here. On Aristophanes’ use of tragic vocabulary, see Silk
(1993) and on its use in this passage in particular, see Rau (1967: 31) and Muecke
(1977: 63).
15 Aristotle comments on Agathon’s poetry (Poetics 1456a26 30) that he was the first to
write choral odes with themes unrelated to those of the play. Muecke (1982: 48)
argues that the unexceptional lyrics of the hymn would have emphasized the musical
content of the lyric.
16 Muecke (1982: 47) emphasizes that Aristophanes has devised a way of showing
Agathon in the act of composition. Showing the poet at work is certainly a striking
dramatic device. On this scene, see also Singleton Murray (1977: 150ff.).
178 JAMES ROBSON
would presumably have differentiated these two parts by appropriately

altering his voice.
One of the reasons why this passage is so memorable is that Agathon
is dressed in female clothing throughout. Although the exact nature of the
costume worn by the original actor is not known to us, a certain amount
of detail is provided in the script.17 In the initial comments made about
Agathon by the Inlaw, there is mention of a saffron gown (krokwtw/',
138), a hair-net (kekrufavlw/, 138), a breast-band (strovfion, 139) and a
mirror (katovptrou, 140). And when the Inlaw later asks for a mantle and
breastband (250 1), Agathon confirms that these items are also at hand
(252):
lambavnete kai; crh'sqÅ: ouj fqonw'.
Take them and use them. I don’t grudge you them at all.
Later on in the scene, it is resolved that the Inlaw will dress as a woman
in order to infiltrate the all-female festival of the Thesmophoria. To this
end, Agathon is seen to be able to provide the Inlaw with certain
properties, handed over in the following order: a razor (218), the
aforementioned breast-band (strovfion, 255) and saffron gown
(krokwtovn, 253), a hair-net (kekrufavlou, 257), a bandeau (mivtra",
257), a hairpiece (kefalh; perivqeto", 258), a mantle (e[gkuklon, 261)
and shoes (uJpodhmavtwn, 262).
The order in which the clothes are lent may suggest that the Inlaw is
putting the items on as Agathon is taking them off and that, in
consequence, at the end of the episode, the Inlaw is dressed as Agathon
was at the episode’s beginning.18 After donning the clothes, the Inlaw is
17 Csapo (1986) and Taplin (1987) identify the bell crater Würzburg H5697 (depicted
on the cover of Sommerstein’s paperback edition of the Thesmophoriazusae plate
11.4 of Taplin 1993) as portraying the scene from the play where the Inlaw (dressed,
of course, in a number of Agathon’s clothes) has seized the baby cum wine skin
(Thesm. 689ff.): see also Taplin (1993: 36 41). The artist is unlikely to have seen the
original fifth century production of the play, but Taplin argues that he may well have
seen a touring production in Italy (1993: 89 99). See Rogers (1911 on Thesm. 257 8)
and more especially Stone (1980: 407 8) concerning the nature of the items of
clothing mentioned and how they might have been worn.
18 Muecke (1982: 49 50) casts doubt on whether the clothes were indeed handed over
or even represented on stage at all; cf. Russo (1994: 51), who says that: ‘the female
clothes required by Euripides all appear to be on the couch’, and Sommerstein (1980:
45 and 47), whose stage directions reflect agreement with Russo’s position. Positive
indications in the text are few: the e[gkuklon is explicitly said to be on the couch
also shaved so that he is barefaced perhaps reflecting Agathon’s
appearance too (215 35). There is also instruction given to the Inlaw by
the stage Euripides that his voice should be altered in order to be more
convincing as a woman (267 8). This has a parallel in the modulation of
the voice which the audience has heard the character of Agathon use
previously when he was composing the hymn. In short, the Inlaw is
represented as having adopted Agathon’s look and manner.
Just as Agathon here is comparable with Euripides in the Acharnians in
that they are both glimpsed in the process of composing tragedy, there is
a parallel between the Inlaw and Dicaeopolis. Both are seen to don
clothes begged from playwrights and both sets of clothes could be said to
act as a catalyst. As we have seen, Dicaeopolis is represented as becoming
a deft orator through the adoption of the borrowed clothes. Like
Dicaeopolis, the Inlaw is also shown as going on to make a speech: one
that is also delivered in a persona connected with the clothes worn. In the
persona of a woman, he is seen to be able to enumerate many specifically
female vices to the women celebrating the Thesmophoria (466 ff.). Thus
the Inlaw is represented, in one respect, as having become a convincing
woman, inasmuch as he is shown to speak knowledgeably concerning the
female sphere. Similarly, Dicaeopolis is represented, in one respect, as
having become Telephus. For both characters, the skills required for
successful speech-making are in evidence once the borrowed clothes are
donned, but not before.19
Aristophanes has Agathon make some revealing comments about the
nature of composition, which are in accordance with the view that the
clothes worn by an author and his physical appearance determine the
nature of the text composed. At 148 52 Aristophanes has Agathon say:
ejgw; de; th;n ejsqh'qÅ a{ma gnwvmh/ forw'.

crh; ga;r poihth;n a[ndra pro;" ta; dravmata
a} dei' poiei'n pro;" tau'ta tou;" trovpou" e[cein.
aujtivka gunakei'Å h]n poih/' ti" dravmata,
metousivan dei' tw'n trovpwn to; sw'mÅ e[cein.
I change my clothing accordingly as I change my mentality.
(261), whilst the shoes appear to come from Agathon’s feet (262). Zeitlin (1981: 178)
talks of the ‘transfer of Agathon’s persona’ to the Inlaw.
19 It might be objected that the Inlaw ‘needs’ to be disguised as a woman to infiltrate
the all female Thesmophoria whereas Dicaeopolis could deliver his speech without
disguise. However, within the comic logic of the play, Dicaeopolis also ‘needs’ his
costume and stage properties (devomai, 448; deovmeno", 451; cf. 394: moi badistevÅ
ejsti;n wJ" Eujripivdhn).
180 JAMES ROBSON
A man who is a poet must adopt habits

that match the plays he’s committed to composing.
For example, if one is writing about women,
one’s body must participate in their habits.
Such views are both embellished and somewhat changed at 164 7, where
Aristophanes has Agathon comment:
kai; Fruvnico", touvtou ga;r ou\n ajkhvkoa",

aujtov" te kalo;" h\n kai; kalw'" hjmpevsceto:
dia; tou'tÅ a[rÅ aujtou' kai; kavlÅ h\n ta; dravmata.
o{moia ga;r poiei'n ajnavgkh th'/ fuvsei.
And Phrynichus, you must have actually heard him sing,

he was an attractive man and he also wore attractive clothes,
and that’s why his plays were attractive too.
One just can’t help creating work that reflects one’s own nature.
This latter idea differs from the earlier one, in that here it is claimed that
the poet’s internal state as well as external state is what is given expression
in his work.20 Critics have approached these lines in a variety of ways. The
apparent confusion as to whether it is the poet’s fuvsi" or his mivmhsi"
which allows him successfully to compose is resolved by scholars such as
Cantarella and Zeitlin by the claim that in Agathon’s case his fuvsi" was
simply feminine all along.21 But in keeping with what we have seen
elsewhere in Aristophanes’ plays, another approach suggests itself which
perhaps makes better sense of Agathon’s various claims: namely that it is
by mivmhsi" that Agathon has achieved his female fuvsi". In other words,
the clothing donned by the poet is to be viewed as having effected an
internal change.22
III. Aristophanes and Ancient Views of Composition

Let us summarize what these two passages imply about the act of
composition as performed by a tragic poet:
1. The stage properties possessed by an author, his physical appearance

and, above all, the clothes he wears have an effect on the end
product (the composition).
20 On the inconsistency in this passage, see MacDowell (1995: 256 7).
21 Cantarella (1967: 13 14); Zeitlin (1981: 177 8). Cf. Muecke (1982: 54).
22 See also n.48 below and Robson (forthcoming) where this idea is discussed more
fully.
2. In order to compose, the author may adopt an appearance
appropriate to the character for whom he is composing.
3. The donning of clothes can act like a potion, transforming the
personality of the composer.
4. Composition entails the adoption of a mood. This mood can be
destroyed, and the compositional process thereby ruined.
5. The physical gestures employed by the author affect the textual
product.
Such are the implications of these passages. The question may now be
asked whether the implicit notions are merely playful in nature an
example of Aristophanic wit or whether they represent beliefs which
were standard in the fifth century and simply cast in comic form by
Aristophanes in these scenes. To anticipate my conclusions, the answer
probably lies somewhere in the middle; that is, whilst Aristophanes taps
the resource of contemporary beliefs held about composition, he also
develops and embellishes them.23 Our evidence is difficult to assess,
however, since all our major accounts of composition are post-
Aristophanic.24 I shall first examine the similarities and differences
between the view of composition presented by Aristophanes in these
scenes and those expressed by other, later ancient writers, and then
comment on the ramifications of the fact that these accounts post-date
Aristophanes’ era.
It is a view commonly espoused by ancient writers that poets compose
either when divinely inspired or from Plato onwards when mad.25 In
23 MacDowell (1995: 256) suggests: ‘probably Aristophanes is mocking a theory that

someone had actually propounded, arguing that a dramatist by physical imitation
could feel his way into a character’s natural speech and behaviour’.
24 An added complication, of course, is that Aristophanes restricts himself to the
composition of tragedy, whereas most other accounts of composition cast their nets
wider to include other poetry and/or prose.
25 Singleton Murray (1977: ch.2) and Murray (1981) differentiates between early views
of poetic ‘inspiration’ and later views of ‘possession’. On Plato’s contribution to
views of the compositional process, see Murray (1981: 87), (1989: 17 19), where she
remarks (1989: 17) on Plato’s emphasis on the ‘passivity of the poet and the irrational
nature of his composition’. She further comments (1989: 18) ‘Plato may not have
invented the notion of inspiration as a kind of enthusiasm (we find it already in
Democritus: cf. n.43 below), but he was its most influential exponent, and he does
seem to have been the first to connect poetic inspiration with madness (mania).’ No
doubt we should use the evidence of Plato with some caution: as Rhill (1999: 124)
warns: ‘Plato is, on the whole, excellent evidence of what the average Greek did not
think’. See also Nagy (1989).
182 JAMES ROBSON
the Rhetoric, for example, Aristotle claims that ‘poetry is an inspired thing’
(e[nqeon . . . hJ poivhsi", 1408b19) and that poets are to be numbered
amongst the ‘possessed’ (ejnqousiavzonte", 1408b17).26 The author of the
pseudo-Aristotelian Problems juxtaposes poets, soothsayers and sibyls, and
claims that a certain Maracus was a better poet when he was mad
(954a39 40).27 In the Phaedrus, Plato claims that poets come under the
influence of a ‘madness from the Muses’ (ajpo; Mousw'n . . . maniva, 245a)
and in the de Oratore, Cicero also claims that poets cannot compose
‘without some kind of inspiration, like that of frenzy’ (sine quodam afflatu
quasi furoris, 194). This inspiration or madness of a poet might be
compared and indeed contrasted with the view expressed in the
Aristophanic passages that an author undergoes a change in mood whilst
composing, involving an alteration in his character (it ought to be noted,
however, that at Poet. 1455a29 34, Aristotle differentiates between a
poet’s imaginative identification and maniva).
In Aristotle’s Poetics as in Horace’s Ars Poetica advice is offered to the
would-be composer of a tragedy. Horace, for instance, advises (with an
interesting apostrophe to Telephus) (102 5):28
si vis me flere, dolendum est

primum ipsi tibi: tunc tua me infortunia laedent,
Telephe vel Peleu; male si mandata loqueris,
aut dormitabo aut ridebo.
If you would have me weep, you must

first feel grief yourself: then will your misfortunes hurt me,
o Telephus or Peleus; if the words you utter are ill suited,
I shall laugh or fall asleep.
Aristotle (Poetics 1455a22 26) says that the poet should try to visualize the
events he means to describe, keeping them ‘before his eyes’ (pro;
ojmmavtwn) a view shared by Quintilian (6.2.29 33) in his advice to orators.
Aristotle (Poetics 1455a30 32), Cicero (de Oratore 189, 193 4) and Quintil-
ian (6.2.26) all agree that the more a poet experiences the emotions he is
describing, the more persuasive he will be. In a passage in the Poetics, Ar-
26 On the meaning of e[nqeo", see Dodds (1951: 87 n.41).

27 On the significance of this passage, see Murray (1989: 20).
28 On this passage Rudd (1989: ad loc.) notes that the notion that ‘the actor reflects on
the fortune and condition of the character he is portraying, and induces in himself
the analogous emotion’ belongs to the Peripatetic tradition: the use of tua (103)
reinforces this identification between actor and character. See also Brink (1971: ad
loc.).
istotle (1455a29 30) also advises the author composing speeches, ‘as far
as possible, to carry out the appropriate schēmata’ (most likely ‘gestures’)
(o{sa de; dunato;n kai; toi'" schvmasin sunapergazovmenon).29
The sentiments detailed in these passages come close to paralleling the
views espoused about composition in the Aristophanic passages. As in
Aristophanes, the view is expressed that an author requires a certain mood
to enable him to compose and that he should, to some degree at least,
emulate both mentally and physically the characters for whom he is
writing dialogue.
What we do not see paralleled in any ancient work, however, is the
view that an author should wear clothes appropriate to the character for
whom he is composing. Amongst ancient accounts, this element of his
portrayal of the compositional process is unique to Aristophanes. As we
have seen, the positions later articulated by Plato and Aristotle dictate that
the author should empathize with the character he is creating, that the
author should experience the emotions he is attempting to convey, and
even that he should make gestures appropriate to the character for whom
he is composing.30 If the views expressed by Aristotle and Plato were
current in the fifth century also (but let us not assume this to be the case),
then Aristophanes’ model of the tragic poet at work has followed the logic
of these beliefs through to an extreme (and comical) conclusion: if the
playwright should do all these things, then why should he not also dress
up as his character and even, to a certain extent, become the character
concerned?31
29 For this view, see Lucas (1968) on this passage, and cf. Plato (Rep. 395c5). See also
Ketterer (1980: 220), who argues for the importance of gesture amongst ancient
dancers, dithyrambic poets and rhetoricians (cf. Athenaeus 21f.). Lucas (1968: 177)
cites instances of prose authors such as Ibsen, Trollope and Dickens, who all
performed gestures as a prelude to writing: see also Singleton Murray (1977: 171 3).
Singleton Murray devotes a sizeable portion of her thesis (1977: 148 81) to
examining ancient views that (149): ‘poets write most convincingly when they project
themselves into the characters whom they portray’. She also discusses the passages
cited here (and others). David Harvey has suggested to me that the fact that the early
dramatists were also actors may be important here as such, they would regularly
have been seen accompanying their words with actions. This may well have
happened (albeit in a more limited sphere) when poets rehearsed plays with their
casts, too.
30 For a fuller discussion of these views, see again Singleton Murray (1977: 148 81). She
suggests (1977: 181) that ancient views that the author should identify with the
characters for whom he is writing are ‘partly to be explained by the predominantly
oral nature of ancient poetry’.
31 On a parallel issue namely dress being considered to be indicative of a man’s moral
or literary style see Bramble (1974: 38 41), most of whose examples are,
184 JAMES ROBSON
In creating his view of the poet in action Aristophanes has, then, most
likely been innovative in making a connection between beliefs about
composition and the nexus of ancient beliefs concerning the importance
of clothes. Often in ancient Greece, the donning of new clothes marked a
change of status and the beginning of a new period in life.32 Cross-
dressing, for example, was a constituent part of many male rites of
passage ceremonies, the period of transvestism marking an intermediate
period between boyhood and manhood.33 Following this period, the boy
would dress in adult clothes, his boyhood clothes having been divested
for ever. In a number of city-states, girls would dress in male clothing at
their weddings in Argos, for example, the bride would wear a beard
(Plut. Mor. 245F);34 in Sparta, brides dressed in men’s clothing and had
their heads shaved (Plut. Lyc. 15.3). Cross-dressing would also occur
during initiation into various mystery cults.35
Examples of the connection between the donning of clothes and a
change of character also appear elsewhere in Aristophanes. As Bowie has
shown, the women in the Ecclesiazusae are shown as taking on male
characteristics when they don male clothing and the reverse process is
portrayed as happening to the men of the play.36 In the Wasps, too, the
change in character which Bdelycleon is represented as wanting to effect
in his father from a juror to a man of culture is accompanied by a
change of clothes.37
A question we are ill-equipped to answer, however, is whether post-
Aristophanic accounts of the compositional process are also typical of
fifth-century perspectives. The views expressed by ancient writers con-
admittedly, Roman.
32 On changes of clothes in Aristophanes, see Stone (1980: ch.3, 398 445). She
comments conversely (1980: 404): ‘The transformations . . . fall into two types.
Those which include a change of mask are complete and lasting. When the character
only changes his garments, however, his real identity is retained, and with it he
ultimately defeats any attempt at true transformation.’
33 See inter alia van Gennep (1960: 172); Brelich (1969); Seaford (1981: 259); Bowie
(1993) and Robson (1997: 68 70). Cf. Aristotle fr. 15 quoted by Bowie (1993: 237),
which says that the initiand does not learn (maqei'n), but experiences (paqei'n), his
change of state.
34 For discussion, see Bullough (1976: 115) and Robson (1997: 78 80).
35 See especially Seaford (1981: 258 9). Other cross dressers from the ancient world are
the Enarees amongst the Scythians, of whom Herodotus (4.67) gives an account.
These were men who dressed as women and who had the gift of divination: cf. Hipp.
(Aër, 22) and Hdt. (1.105).
36 Bowie (1993: 257 60).
37 Bowie (1993: 93 4). From a dramatic point of view, one may note the effectiveness
of having a costume change accompany Bdelycleon’s behavioural changes.
cerning composition certainly share much common ground, which makes
it tempting to postulate an ancient consensus on the subject,38 one from
which Aristophanes has departed in the ways just outlined. What must be
borne in mind, however, is that the Aristophanic scenes discussed in this
chapter might have contributed to the formation of these views.
Consequently, there are two extreme positions which might be taken
concerning the influence of Aristophanes’ treatment of tragic
composition, and no doubt a number of further positions tenable
between these two extremes. The extreme positions are as follows:
1. The account of composition given in the Aristophanic scenes is
highly derivative of contemporary views and had no influence
whatsoever on later accounts of tragic composition. Aristophanes
drew on established views of composition to produce an inventive
hybrid between these and the nexus of contemporary beliefs
connected with clothing.
2. The two Aristophanic scenes discussed in this chapter inspired key
elements of later, more scholarly accounts of the compositional
process. That is, views such as those espoused by Aristotle and
Horace were first formed in, and hence shaped by, these Aristophanic
scenes.
The dearth of relevant sources makes a secure conclusion impossible.

Although the interest in literary criticism in fifth-century Athens seems to
have been vast, we are denied a proper overview of its nature since none
of the numerous treatises written in the fifth century has come down to us
intact.39 Instead, to assess the nature of contemporary discussion, we must
rely on scattered references and fragments of lost texts.
In his article ‘Greek theories of art and literature down to 400 B.C.’,
Webster posits that the latter half of the fifth century was a period of
intense research and formalization of views. He lists ‘composition’ as one
of the elements of literary theory which, he believes, by Aristophanes’ era
had ‘been worked out and reduced to a system’.40 On the originality of
Aristophanes’ literary-critical views Webster remains silent, the
implication being that he would agree with what has become the communis
38 Murray (1981) details important variations between different early Greek accounts of
poetic inspiration, the most significant development being (1981: 100): ‘when [Plato]
described inspiration as ejnqousiasmov"’.
39 For a short account of these, see Lucas (1968: xv xx). Kennedy (1989: 185) briefly
discusses rhetorical handbooks of this era.
40 Webster (1939: 170).
186 JAMES ROBSON
opinio: namely, that the views on literary criticism found in Aristophanes

are either derivative or obviously playful (roughly, viewpoint 1).41
Certainly, elements of the views contained in the post-fifth century views
outlined above do seem to have been current in or before Aristophanes’
time.42 For example, the notion that the poet was inspired or even
mad may well pre-date Aristophanes,43 and the belief that a poet’s works
are strongly autobiographical certainly does.44 The technique of ‘method
composition’45 which Aristophanes has the characters of both Agathon
and Euripides employ could even have been inspired by if not actually
based on contemporary notions of poetic composition. For example,
the sentiment of the following lines from Euripides’ Supplices (180 3),
produced after the Acharnians but before the Thesmophoriazusae,46 parallels
notions with which we are familiar from the Aristophanic passages:
tovn qÅ uJmnopoio;n aujto;" a{n tivkth/ mevlh

caivronta tivktein: h]n de; mh; pavsch/ tovde,
ou[toi duvnaitÅ a]n oi]koqevn gÅ ajtwvmeno"
tevrpein a]n a[llou": oujde; ga;r divkhn e[cei.
The poet bringing songs into the world

should labour in joy. If this is not his mood,
He cannot, being inwardly distressed,
41 Proponents of this view include: Whitman (1964: 221); Rau (1975: 343); Hanson
(1976: 165) and Stohn (1993: 205). For an opposing view, see Cantarella (1967), who
nonetheless admits the possibility that Aristophanes’ views are derivative (1967: 15).
42 Summaries of which views are to be found in Webster (1939); Lucas (1968) and
Harriott (1969). See also Murray (1981), (1989).
43 Democritus frs 17, 18 and 21, on which see Murray (1981: 99 100), (1989: 17 19).
On the subject of Democritus, Singleton Murray comments (1977: 87 8): ‘we are not
in a position to know exactly what Demokritos did say about poetic inspiration,
because most of what he wrote is lost’. However, she adds in the light of a discussion
of Ach. 395 400, that Plato may well not have been ‘the originator of the concept of
“furor poeticus”’. On the poet as mad, see Dodds (1951: 82). On direct inspiration from
the Muses, see Webster (1939: 166); Dodds (1951: 80 2); Singleton Murray (1977:
ch.2); Murray (1981); Calame (1995: 77); Homer (Od. 8.62 4, 8.487 ff., and 22.347
8); Hesiod (Theog. 22 32): Calame also has a useful appendix of relevant sources
(1995: 202 12). For the poet as drunk (inspired, that is, in a different sense), see
Archilochus fr. 77 Bergk and Singleton Murray (1977: 123 38). Gudeman (1934: 308)
collects further anecdotes of poets writing whilst in their cups. Lucas (1968: 177 8)
also has a useful discussion of madness, drunkenness and poetic inspiration.
44 On this issue see Lefkowitz (1978 and references therein). Cf. Aristophanes fr. 694
Kassel and Austin: o[i|]a me;n p[o]ei' levge[i]n / toi'ov" ejstin.
45 A term which I coin on analogy with ‘method acting’.
46 Guesses on the production date of the Supplices range from 424 to 417 BC. On its
dating, see Collard (1975: 8 14), who himself opts for a date in the 420s.
Give pleasure outwardly. That stands to reason.
(Trans. Frank Jones, from Grene and Lattimore 1958)
With all this pre-fourth-century evidence paralleling Aristophanes’ view of

literary theory, what could lead to a sentiment such as that expressed by
Snell, then, that he is ‘inclined to believe that the personal contribution of
Aristophanes in these matters was very substantial’?47 It can only be the
suspicion that in these scenes, as elsewhere, Aristophanes has been highly
inventive ‘exuberant’ but in ways it is now difficult to detect, for the
simple reason that later writers adopted a number of his innovative,
playful views. This opinion is worth serious attention, not only because of
the uncertainty caused by our lack of sources, but also because parts of
the view of composition with which our poet presents us do bear a certain
Aristophanic stamp. To give one example, Aristophanes’ inventiveness
might well be detectable in his representation of poets literally performing
‘imitation’, mivmhsi", and literally ‘making’, poiei'n, their verses:48 mimesis
and poiein were most likely fashionable terms in literary theory in the latter
half of the fifth century49 and a much-discussed comic technique of
Aristophanes is that of making metaphors concrete.50
Position 2 also finds some support from the interesting possibility that
traces of Aristophanes’ influence are to be found in later discussions of
poetic composition. Such a suggestion must of course remain speculative
but, for example, Aristophanes could well be the ultimate source of
Aristotle’s advice to the tragic poet to employ schvmata, ‘gestures’, whilst
composing (1455a29).51 What is more, Aristophanic influence may also
47 Snell (1953: 115). This is a comment made more particularly about the Frogs, but his
view is clear. He goes as far as saying (1953: 116): ‘even to day’s literary criticism is
indebted to his influence’, viewing Aristophanes as having provided a rough account
of literary criticism which Plato systematized. Cf. Lucas (1968: xvi); Harriott (1969:
141 2). One clear difference between Aristophanic and Aristotelian approaches is
that the former is character based, the latter plot based.
48 Stohn (1993: 199) comments that Aristophanes’ portrayal of Agathon’s mimesis has to
be in a ‘bühnenwirksamer Form’; cf. Rau (1975: 343). Cantarella (1967: 12 15);
Zeitlin (1981: 177 8); Muecke (1982: 53) and Stohn (1993: 199) all note the inherent
contradiction in the Agathon scene created by the confusion of poiein and mimesis,
namely that the poet must both be like the character for whom he is composing and
make himself like the character.
49 See Denniston (1927: 114); Webster (1939: 168 9); Müller (1974: 39); Stohn (1993:
205).
50 Taillardat (1965: 498ff.); Rau (1975: 343). Muecke also comments in a similar vein on
the use of poiei'n (1982: 43) and mivmhsi" (1982: 55). See the comments of Newiger
(1957: 27) on the similar use of taravttein and kuka'n in the Knights.
51 See, however, n.29 above.
188 JAMES ROBSON
account for Horace’s reference to Telephus (Ars Poetica 104, see above).52
To maintain this view, it need not necessarily be argued that the
Aristophanic scenes inspired Aristotle and Horace directly, but merely
that Aristophanes had influenced the tradition on which such later writers
drew.
IV. Aristophanes on How to Write Comedy

Whilst the two positions given above do not lack common ground, they
remain essentially irreconcilable and the lack of corroborative evidence
precludes a firm conclusion either way. Whichever is the more accurate,
however, through this brief discussion of Aristophanes’ representation of
the act of the compositional process we nonetheless gain a small but
important insight into Aristophanes’ own compositional technique.
Judging from his depictions of Euripides and Agathon in the scenes
discussed, it would appear that Aristophanes has taken a more or less
prevalent view of literary composition, exaggerated the ideas for playful
effect and, in so doing, has made connections between different fields of
thought. Most notably, he has made a link between contemporary views
of composition and the nexus of ancient beliefs concerning clothing.
What is more, he may have been the first to articulate the notion of
‘method composition’. It might be added in conclusion that the inventive
techniques used by Aristophanes in these scenes are part of an altogether
larger picture of comic composition, since the abuse of standard logic and
the marrying of ideas which are usually unconnected are the stock-in-trade
of almost any comic writer.
52 I am indebted to Michael Silk for pointing out these possible correspondences.

10
HY]<[IPYLE
A Version for the Stage
DAVID WILES
Tony Harrison in his Trackers of Oxyrhynchus demonstrated that fragments

have their own aesthetic. If the right frame is created, an incomplete text
can be turned into a complete experience for an audience. Ruined
medieval abbeys often seem more beautiful than intact buildings, I
believe, because they leave more work to the viewer’s imagination. There
is great potential in the classical lacuna, because the fragmentary text
forces the spectator to imagine what might have been. While most
productions offer a single reductive view of what Greek theatre was, the
lacunose production is at a great advantage, because every spectator has
their own idea of what is missing. The illusion of authenticity is removed.
The text which follows was prepared for presentation to the annual
conference of the Classical Association at Royal Holloway, University of
London (RHUL), on 12 September 1997. Performance took place in the
studio theatre of the Department of Drama, Theatre and Media Arts. The
guiding concern of the translation was to be performable. I was
concerned in the first instance to capture the stylistic variety of Euripides’
writing, with its movement between speech, recitative and song. I gave
aesthetic form precedence over localized semantic accuracy, though I
have done my best to be accurate, subject to the avoidance of
translationese. I am grateful to David Harvey for suggesting a number of
revisions, where I strayed from the Greek further than necessary. For the
benefit of the reader, invented or reconstructed lines are indicated by italic
print. The translation was based on the editions by Page (1950) and Bond
(1963).
190 DAVID WILES
Amongst the corpus of Euripidean fragments, the Hypsipyle seems

unique in the way it tells a complete story. The Phaethon contains a
wonderful opening and the Antiope a finale, but the Hypsipyle offers
beginning, middle and end. The major hole in the narrative concerns the
arrest of Hypsipyle: how does the woman on a murder charge extricate
herself from her predicament? Does Eurydice relent or do many more
complications precede the denouement? Perhaps the most striking feature
of the narrative as we have it is the way Euripides counterpoints tragedy
against joy. Whilst an army marches to destruction, a mother is happily
reunited with her sons and restored to freedom.
My solution to the problem of presenting this fragment was to frame it
as a performance at the Dionysia, before a statue of the god which finally
comes to life as the deus ex machina of the play. The audience arrived in a
procession, and a panel of ten judges was appointed. Nick Lowe and Lene
Rubinstein of RHUL Classics department were crowned for services to
the demos. With the performance well under way, a hiatus in the text
precipitated a breaking of illusion and there was touching sympathy in the
audience for an apparent panic amongst the actors. Three groups of
actors then decided to play the longest surviving scene in three different
ways and the panel of judges was asked to vote at the end for the most
successful mode of representation, with five of the ten votes being duly
counted. Rightly in my view (convincing me of the fundamental genius of
the Athenian system), the judges opted for the ritual version driven by a
strong background rhythm. This device had its longueurs, partly because
doubling made it impossible to keep the three groups apart in rehearsal
and there was an unconscious tendency for one group to pick up
another’s rhythms. The device served, however, to show that there is no
right way to do Greek tragedy, or to interpret the play. Whether Eurydice
is victim or villain, Amphiaraus a saint or clever puppeteer, became more
open questions.
Besides telling a complete story, the Hypsipyle contains the full repertory
of formal devices: narration, agon, stichomythia, strophic choral ode,
monody, recitative, deus ex machina. The festive frame allowed us to
explore the power of these devices to create a sense of eventness. The
play tells of a miraculous intervention by divine forces and we view the
story differently when we see it shaped as a set of practices laid out before
the eyes of a god. Late Euripides is famed for his musical experimentation
and one of the attractions of this text was the way it allowed the actors to
experiment with music and movement. The improvisatory skills of the
percussionist and clarinet-player were tested to the utmost as they worked
out scenes with the actors, neither controlling nor following but
HY]<[IPYLE: A VERSION FOR STAGE 191
contributing as equals in the manner of the ancient aulos-player. In order
to create a continuous text, I gave the chorus the lyric fragments relating
to the death of the child. Although it is not clear how the chorus qua
characters know what has happened, it did not seem a problem in
performance for the chorus to adopt a narrator function and create a
mimetic enactment of the serpent. In the absence of manuscript evidence,
I made my own decisions about the allocation of particular lines. In the
final scene, the manuscript allocates lines to ‘Hypsipyle’s sons’, so I have
divided the dialogue which follows between the two sons, despite the fact
that this involves a fourth speaking actor.
One of the advantages of performing to an audience of classicists was
that one did not have to explain the story. (The player of Amphiaraus was
disconcerted by the muttered correction of a mispronunciation, but that’s
another matter.) The actors could dwell on the magic of the names of
mythic figures, confident that their allusions would be fully understood. It
still seemed necessary to trim out many proper names to create clarity of
thought and feeling, and a language that the actors felt to be alive. Not
even members of the Classical Association can respond emotionally to the
political context in the same way as Athenians in 408/7 BC. Euripides’
portrayal of an Argive army marching to certain destruction must have
reflected his foreboding at the fate which awaited Athens at the end of the
Peloponnesian War. It was around this time that he abandoned Athens
and decamped to the Macedonian court. The setting in Nemea would
have been full of resonance for an Athenian audience since the great
temple of Zeus at Nemea had recently been destroyed, probably in 418
BC when Athens and her ally Argos were defeated at Mantinea. The play
helped to legitimate Argos’ appropriation of the Nemean games. The
‘political’ interpretation was necessarily hampered because not even
members of the Classical Association have this sort of information in the
front of their minds and the psychological interest element slides to the
fore.
The cast were students in the Department of Drama, Theatre and
Media Arts taking a course unit in Greek Theatre. I am grateful to the
dedicated and inventive performers who brought this text to life. The text
of the chorus is divided up for five chorus members, but in the event two
were unwell and unable to participate. Jim Oliver, leader of the chorus,
died in a car accident in 2002 and this translation is dedicated to his
memory. The final cast of the production was as follows:
Dionysus: Daniel Harvie

Hypsipyle: Sacha Billingham (Louise Ewbank, Julia Rollo)
192 DAVID WILES
Euneus: Nicola Masterton

Thoas: Jenny Suggitt
Amphiaraus: Tony Williams (Jim Oliver, Nicola Masterton)
Soldier: Jenny Suggitt
Eurydice: Julia Rollo (Christina Schlereth, Louise Ewbank)
Chorus: Jim Oliver, Christina Schlereth, Georgina Terry
Music composed and played by: Eugenia Arsenis and Ashley Thorpe
Stage Manager: Lucy Grantham
Set design: Abigail Wheeler
Lighting design: Tony Williams
Board Operator: Saul Grant
Assistant Stage Manager: Katie Taylor
Edidaske: David Wiles
The production was supported by the technical staff of the department:
Technical director: Nick Firth

Design tutor: Katie Lewis
Stage manager: Phil Bowbanks
HY]<[IPYLE: A Fragment
A PROCESSION ESCORTS THE STATUE OF DIONYSUS BY

TORCHLIGHT TO THE THEATRE. RITUALS EN ROUTE TO
INCLUDE INSULTS AT THE BRIDGE. IN THE THEATRE,
LIBATIONS AND THE BESTOWAL OF CROWNS. ONE ACTOR
POURS LIBATIONS WHILE ANOTHER PRONOUNCES: Men and
women of the demos, welcome to this Dionysiac space. Before we present our poem by
Euripides, I shall bestow crowns upon two citizens who have performed singular service
to our democratic community. xx and xx. THE ACTOR PLAYING
DIONYSUS SITS IN THE CENTRE OF THE FRONT ROW. TEN
PLACES ARE RESERVED FOR JUDGES. HYPSIPYLE ENTERS
CARRYING A BABY AND LAYS IT ON THE GROUND BEFORE
HER. SHE ADDRESSES DIONYSUS WITH MAXIMUM
FORMALITY.
Clarinet link
HYPSIPYLE: Grandfather Dionysus who, girt in thyrsus and fawnskin

amid the pine trees over the plateau of Parnassus, dances with maidens of
Delphi . . . To your four sons you granted four islands. To Thoas, my father, the
fertile island of Lemnos . . . [CRUMBLES BURNT REMNANTS LYING
ON THE ALTAR] Unenviable . . . my heart . . . youth . . . dead . . .
luckless . . . harsh slavery . . . endless talk . . . stopped . . . freedom . . . you
child . . . to thank your nurse . . . Fragments. All that remains of my prologue. In
which Euripides must have recounted my myth. Allusively, for you knew it already.
You know do you not? that I Hypsipyle am a woman of Lemnos. We women of
Lemnos were famous once, for we did not like our husbands. They said that we stank.
So we killed every male on the island men, children, babies. Only I Hypsipyle
betrayed my sisters. For I spared my father Thoas and set him adrift in a boat without
oars or sail. My sisters never knew. And then the Argonauts arrived, those beautiful
men, sailing in quest of the golden fleece. We told them nothing of our past, but decided
to copulate with them, for purposes of breeding. Since I was a princess, I claimed for my
partner Jason, captain of the vessel. We made those shapely men ecstatic. They would
have stayed forever but Heracles waved his great club and away they went. My twins
were born nine months later, Euneus the famous musician, and Thoas, a fighter like
his grandfather. Then my treachery was discovered, for my father made landfall and
became king of the Taurians. My sisters in their fury sold me off as a slave. I was
bought by Lycurgus, king of Nemea, and curator of Zeus’ temple, here above the pass,
north of Argos. It is my job to nurse the son of Lycurgus and Eurydice. [SHE
PICKS UP THE BABY. CLARINET. FROM THE VALLEY ENTER
THOAS AND EUNEUS. THEY DO NOT SEE HER, BUT KNOCK
ON THE DOOR. THEY STEP BACK AND WAIT.]
EUNEUS: Look, up there, upon the pediment, can you see the images?
HYPSIPYLE (TO THE BABY): Don’t cry. When your daddy comes
back he will have some toys for you, and you’ll be happy again. Boys, was
that you hammering on the door? I don’t know who your mother is, but
she is a fortunate woman indeed. What necessity has brought you to our
abode?
THOAS: We need shelter, lady. If we could stay for just one night? We
have our own things. Well? We’ll be no trouble, leave you well alone.
HYPSIPYLE: The men of the house are away. The king’s wife is left in
charge.
THOAS: Then we shall have to move on.
HYPSIPYLE: We respect the laws of hospitality. [SHE OPENS THE

DOOR AND THEY ENTER THE HOUSE. SHE SINGS TO THE
194 DAVID WILES
CHILD.]
I look into your eyes
as I look into my mirror, little child
growing, yes you’re growing
as I watch you as I smile
as a nurse is trained to do
here’s your rattle rat-a-tat
back at home I would be weaving now
singing local songs of Lemnos as the shuttle bangs across the loom
not here
lullaby time
so to please a tiny child and do my duty as a slave
I sing my lullaby.
[MUSICAL INTERLUDE. ENTER THE CHORUS OF NEMEAN

WOMEN, WITH BROOMS. SWEEP. THEY CHANT AND
SPRINKLE WATER.]
CHORUS all: What is your job for today, nurse?

Got to sweep the entrance? Sprinkle to douse the dust?
Slaving, slaving.
Singing your usual song, maybe?
CHORUS 5: The fifty Argonaut heroes, the tale of the golden fleece?
CHORUS 4: The sacred fleece on an oak-tree’s branch

With the dragon on guard who never sleeps?
CHORUS 4/5: Yes, you’re dreaming of Lemnos, encircled by sea,
CHORUS 3/4/5: The waves curling up, thundering down
CHORUS 3: Look here over the meadows:
CHORUS all: The flashing of bronze armour

Lights up the whole plain of Argos,
Bound for the city of Thebes
CHORUS 4: Whose stones were raised to notes of notes of a lyre,
CHORUS all: Led by quick-marching Adrastus.

He gave the orders, assembled the banners,
The archers with golden bows,
One by one, surging up from the plain.
HYPSIPYLE: [SINGS SAME TUNE AS BEFORE]

I hear music from the north
see a ship bound for Lemnos, wants to dock
the swelling and the falling
and the helmsman is the son
of a river-dwelling nymph
by the mainmast Orpheus
a sad song of the north he chants
his lyre gives the beat for the ‘heave hard’ on your wooden oars
and ‘easy now’
that’s what my heart wants to see before its eyes
not southerners’ broils,
that belong to a different singer.
CHORUS: [CHANT SAME RHYTHM AS BEFORE]

CHORUS 5: We were schooled in many tales
that tell about exile. Home across the sea.
CHORUS 1: Homeless, homeless.
CHORUS 2: Remember the tale of Europa.
CHORUS 1/2: Zeus took her and swam,
CHORUS 1/2/3: took her from Tyre to Crete,
CHORUS 1/2/3/4: The sacred island where Zeus was nursed,

where handsome youths guarded him well.
CHORUS 1: She gave him sons, heroes and kings,

happy and wealthy, all three of her sons.
CHORUS 5: I know another story:

of Io the Argive princess
goaded to run far far from home
CHORUS 3/5: Till marriage made her free

196 DAVID WILES
CHORUS 5: And she lost from her head those horns of a cow.
CHORUS all: If a god controls your mind,

drive him out, think sensible thoughts.
CHORUS 5: Your father’s father will find you,
CHORUS all: Dionysus
CHORUS 5: will run from the hills to give help.
HYPSIPYLE: [SINGS]
Procris was a huntress
Who spied upon her man
He thought she was a beast of prey
So at the bush he ran
The spear that never missed
Caught Procris through the heart
He mourned her long and Procris’ tale
Lives on in songs and art
Is there a keener’s cry
Or chords on the lyre for me
A form of words an epic song
To record my destiny?
CHORUS 5: Zeus preserve us, look into the woods. What’s their
business?
CHORUS 2: They’re coming this way.
CHORUS 3: Strangers in southern dress.
CHORUS 5: Definitely heading this way. They’ve been in the grove where
no-one goes.
[ENTER AMPHIARAUS. A SERVANT CARRIES A PITCHER.]
AMPHIARAUS: It’s a dreadful thing to be away from home. People need

things when they travel, and all they see is barren soil, the occasional
shack, nothing civilized, no-one to ask, no idea how to manage. And there
you have my predicament. So what a joy to see this house, in the
meadows of Zeus at Nemea. You are maybe the slave on duty, or maybe
you’re not a slave, but tell me, good lady, regarding this land and livestock,
who is the rightful owner?
HYPSIPYLE: This is the residence of Lycurgus. He was elected by the

region to serve as warden of the sanctuary of Zeus.
AMPHIARAUS: My request is running water to fill this pitcher, so I can

perform the rituals due to gods of the wayside. The water below is muddy.
The great army has polluted all the ditches.
HYPSIPYLE: Who are the army? Where are you from?
AMPHIARAUS: Argives. From Mycenae. As we leave Argive soil to

cross the border, we wish to sacrifice on behalf of the soldiers. We are
marching against the city of seven gates, where we may prove victorious,
or perhaps we may not.
HYPSIPYLE: Is the reason for this war made public?
AMPHIARAUS: To put the exiled Polyneices back on his throne.
HYPSIPYLE: And you who have chosen to join the chase?
AMPHIARAUS: Am Argive born and bred. Amphiaraus.
HYPSIPYLE: Who sailed once as priest with the Argonauts.
AMPHIARAUS: Tell me your name and land of origin.
HYPSIPYLE: Lemnos was my country. Thoas my father.
AMPHIARAUS: Whom Hypsipyle saved from vengeful women.
HYPSIPYLE: As a man of peace why fight this war?
AMPHIARAUS: My wife is sister to the king of Argos.
HYPSIPYLE: Is she loyal to the gods or to her brother?
AMPHIARAUS: She was given a necklace that restored her beauty.

198 DAVID WILES
HYPSIPYLE: Whose necklace? What was its magic?
AMPHIARAUS: At the famous wedding of Cadmus and Harmony.
HYPSIPYLE: Cadmus, founder of Thebes. But the necklace?
AMPHIARAUS: Harmony had it as a wedding gift from Aphrodite.
HYPSIPYLE: The gods are generous to their own.
AMPHIARAUS: Their son was Polydorus, ‘greatly gifted’.
HYPSIPYLE: Indeed, as the grandson of a goddess.
AMPHIARAUS: His son Labdacus inherited the necklace.
HYPSIPYLE: And thus it passed to Polyneices the exile.
AMPHIARAUS: Who gave it to my wife to make her beautiful again.
HYPSIPYLE: And she accepted it despite the scandal?
AMPHIARAUS: She accepted it. I shall not return from the war.
HYPSIPYLE: Does an oracle say you have to die?
AMPHIARAUS: I have to fight, my wife made that promise.
HYPSIPYLE: But is death a certainty?
AMPHIARAUS: There will be no returning.
HYPSIPYLE: Why sacrifice for good luck?
AMPHIARAUS: It’s no effort. And simpler that way. Lead me to your spring.
HYPSIPYLE: It is forbidden. [TO CHORUS] Shall I show the Argives the

source of the river Achelous? [PAUSE CLARINET] I will take you.
[CLARINET LINK. THE CHORUS ENACT A MIME

PERCUSSION ONLY.]
CHORUS all: First find the source of the river.
Scoop water into the pitcher.
Take the first fruits of the land.
Lay them out as an offering.
Sprinkle water all around them.
Thanks to the gods, givers of all things.
The holy man has completed his rites.
CHORUS 4: And the cause of this war?
CHORUS 5: Polyneices
his friend Tydeus
dressed as beggars
asylum seekers in Argos
as they lay in the doorway
insult met insult
late at night
out came the knives
a fight to the death
sons of the great
exiles
with a fighting spirit
they woke the king from his slumbers
he remembered the prophecy
his daughters would marry two ravening beasts
he opened his arms
he welcomed them in
[A SCREAM FROM HYPSIPYLE. SHE ENTERS IN DISTRESS.]
CHORUS 4: The dear child was sleeping

As she held him in her arms,
Laid him on the grass of the meadow.
And he saw the flowers,
Crawled from one cluster to the next,
Snatching at his trophies,
Just a tiny child that could never have enough.
CHORUS 5: He died in her care.
[THE SERVANT OF AMPHIARAUS BRINGS ON THE BODY OF

200 DAVID WILES
THE CHILD. CLARINET BACKING.]
CHORUS all: The spring shaded by trees

is the lair of a serpent
who looked on with his terrible eyes
gently shaking his crest
the sight that makes shepherds run for safety
as he glides forwards.
[CLARINET CONTINUES.]
HYPSIPYLE: Friends, dearest friends, I was not to blame. I am so afraid.
CHORUS 2: Is there no way to escape?
HYPSIPYLE: To run away. If only I knew the trails.
CHORUS 4: What other protection have you?
HYPSIPYLE: I shake when I think how the baby’s death will be

punished.
CHORUS 5: You have lived through troubles enough in the past.
HYPSIPYLE: I know the consequences. I will take care of myself.
CHORUS 1: Where will you head for?
CHORUS 2: What city will take you?
HYPSIPYLE: My feet will take me somewhere. I’ll follow my instinct.
CHORUS 3: There are guards on the border in all directions.
HYPSIPYLE: You are right. Drop that plan. But I shall escape.
CHORUS 5: Think.
CHORUS all: We are friends who can help with good advice.
HYPSIPYLE: I need a guide to show me how to get out.

CHORUS all: Too dangerous to help a runway slave.
[SILENCE. THE ACTORS DROP THEIR ROLES AND EXPLAIN

THAT ANOTHER HUNDRED LINES ARE MISSING COVERING
THE ARRIVAL OF EURYDICE AND ARREST OF HYPSIPYLE.
DIONYSUS RISES UP IN PROTEST. THE DIALOGUE THAT
FOLLOWS MAY BE ADAPTED OR OMITTED AS DESIRED.]
DIONYSUS: This tattered fragment cannot be called a play. In presenting such a

work, you do a dishonour to the god. When Dionysus is slighted, his anger is no slight
thing.
THE ACTORS CONSULT.
AN ACTOR: So what would please you, Dionysus?
DIONYSUS: A real play.
AN ACTOR: What is a real play?
ANOTHER: A coherent work of art?
ANOTHER: Beginning, middle and end?
ANOTHER: You’re not supposed to be the god of order.
DIONYSUS: A real play is, is . . . is an agon. [HE RETURNS TO HIS

STATUESQUE STATE.]
ANOTHER: Then let’s have an agon.
ANOTHER: We shall do the play three different ways, and the audience can judge.
ANOTHER: What ways?
ANOTHER: Psychological.
ANOTHER: Maybe.
ANOTHER: Brechtian?
202 DAVID WILES
ANOTHER: Boring.
ANOTHER: Artaudian?
ANOTHER: I’m sure Dionysus would like a ritual version.
ANOTHER: Let’s start with being psychological.
ANOTHER: Going for character.
ANOTHER: I shall play Hypsipyle.
ANOTHER: I’ll take Amphiaraus.
ANOTHER: Eurydice.
ACTOR: And what shall we call the third version?
ANOTHER: Mixed?
ANOTHER: Rhetorical?
ANOTHER: Forensic?
ANOTHER: The art of persuasion, as taught by the sophists.
[HYPSIPYLE IS TIED UP, EURYDICE WEARS A VEIL, AND THE

BODY OF OPHELTES LIES ON THE GROUND.]
CHORUS 1: Admirably put. Any sane person would agree.
EURYDICE: You can’t keep bandying arguments forever and clinging to

my knees for mercy, when you have killed Opheltes, the delight of my
eyes, whom I can never forget, my baby whom you have murdered.
HYPSIPYLE: Have you decided, majesty, on my execution in a moment

of passion, before establishing the true facts? Silence? No reply? It’s not
the prospect of dying that upsets me, not at all, compared with the very
thought that I murdered a baby, whom I breast-fed, carried everywhere,
who except that I was not his mother I loved and fed as my own, and
who was my happiness. Oh where is the Argo, bows cutting the white
water, throwing up spray, where are my boys, at my life’s hateful end?
Amphiaraus, your reverence, I am condemned. Rescue me, don’t see me
die on a false charge, and all because of you. Find me. You know the
facts. She would accept your evidence as honest, about the plight I am in.
Take me away. I can see no supporter who will help me. My deed of piety
was wasted.
[SHE HAS NOT SEEN AMPHIARAUS ENTER BEHIND HER.]
AMPHIARAUS: Halt, you who send her to execution, royal lady. The
nobility that I see in your looks must also be found in your soul.
HYPSIPYLE: Amphiaraus, I plead as your suppliant, by these knees, by

your beard, as you are Apollo’s prophet. You have come in my hour of
need. Protect me. I am punished for helping you. I am condemned. You
see my bonds. I cling to you, I who went along with strangers. You will
do a holy deed, being a holy man. Desert me, and you will cast shame
both on Argos and on Greece. You can look into the flame and read the
future of the southern army, so tell her about the baby. You saw it, you
know it. She claims that I planned her baby’s death, a calculated plot.
AMPHIARAUS: I came because I knew, and suspected what would

become of you after the child’s life was taken from him. I have come to
help in your trouble, not with force of arms but with religious devotion.
There would be no morality in receiving a kindness, while doing nothing
in return for that kindness. [TO EURYDICE] Show me your face,
ladyship. The chasteness of my gaze is legendary. That is how I am. Total
self-discipline, and a fixed eye upon life’s essentials. Now listen, and
nothing more in haste. In other things you can make mistakes, but in the
matter of life and death, no.
EURYDICE: [UNVEILING] Sir, your home town close to Argos is

known to me, so is your reputation for decency. Otherwise you would not
have looked upon my face. I am ready, if you so wish, to hear you out,
and to state the facts. To that you have a right.
AMPHIARAUS: Madam, this poor unfortunate has incurred your wrath,

which I would like to assuage, not because of her, no, but in the interests
of truth. I would discredit the name of Apollo, whose art of clairvoyancy I
practise, if I told you lies. It was at my request that she showed me a glis-
tening spring, so that I might use its pure and sacred water for purposes
204 DAVID WILES
of sacrifice, to mark the army’s departure from Argive soil. She laid the child
upon the ground amidst a bed of parsley and parted the undergrowth to reveal the
source. As we turned our backs a snake slid forward and bit him with its fangs.
At the scream we ran, but too late. It coiled itself about him and crushed the life
from his body. I shot the snake with my bow. And this will be the start of
many evils. I have given your child a new name Archemoros, ‘the beginning of
doom’. The loss will not be yours alone. This is an omen for every citizen in
the land. Many will march, but few will return. Of the seven champions,
King Adrastus alone will return to the city of Argos. Thus the meaning of
what has passed. My advice for the future, you should take in good part.
To be born is to suffer. What is a life? You bury a few children, get a few
more, then it is your turn to die. And men resent this process, earth re-
turning to earth. Yet so it has to be. Life is reaped, like an ear of corn in
summer. Now here, now gone. What point is grieving, at the path we were born
to tread? Give your child to us, so that Argos may bury him as he deserves, and
his name live on, not tomorrow, but for all time. Men will remember what
you have suffered. And he will be famous as founder hero of the Nemean
games. In honour of Archemoros the victors will wear garlands wound with
parsley and be envied by all. This will be his memorial in the grove of Ne-
mea. She is innocent, and has indeed brought glory to you and your son.
CHORUS 4: You have been spared, little child, a life full of complication.
CHORUS 5: How hard it is to understand human beings, to understand

events, to understand the ways of good and bad men.
CHORUS 2: I place my trust in those who have wisdom.
CHORUS 5: Those who are wrong should be spurned.
CHORUS 1: The content of the next six hundred lines is a mystery. Was Eurydice
persuaded or was she not?
CHORUS 3: We may guess that Hypsipyle’s two sons competed in the Nemean
games, founded in memory of Archemoros. When the names of the victors were
announced, Hypsipyle recognized her two sons.
HYPSIPYLE [SINGS VOCAL BACKING FROM CHORUS]:

The fate which split us once apart
My sons and myself
Wheels us down a single road
Together once more
Off we spun on the side of fear
Then spun towards joy
A second dawn has lit our sky
A sky with no cloud.
AMPHIARAUS: And so, Hypsipyle, the favour is returned. You obliged

me by meeting my request, and I have obliged you by finding your twins.
Keep your children safe. Twins, look after your mother. And so farewell.
We must keep to our plan, and lead the army from the front, as it marches
to Thebes.
EUNEUS: May god’s blessing go with you, for you have earned it.
THOAS: God’s blessing indeed. As for you, my poor mother, it seems

that some god could never be satisfied.
[MUSICAL BACKING BEGINS HERE FOR HYPSIPYLE’S LINES.]
HYPSIPYLE: Aiai, after living so long in exile! If only you knew how it
was, driven from Lemnos over the sea since I would not lop the head of
my aged father.
THOAS: You, no, never ordered to kill your father?
HYPSIPYLE: I shudder still at the evil of distant days. Yes, child, like
monster-women they slaughtered their husbands asleep in their beds.
EUNEUS: How did you manage to hide and avoid being killed?
HYPSIPYLE: I went to the beach, where the waves thundered, and the
sea rose and fell, and birds made lonely nests.
THOAS: But you reached here. How were you conveyed?
HYPSIPYLE: Sailors picked me up, and their oars carried me to a port I

did not know called Nauplion, and when I landed, child, there I was a
slave, and I was sold in the market to southerners, women of Argos.
EUNEUS: What cruel days.

206 DAVID WILES
HYPSIPYLE: No tears on our day of happiness. What of you? Who took

you in her arms and fed you and nursed you, child, my child, tell, tell your
mother.
THOAS: The Argo carried him and myself to the city of Colchis.
HYPSIPYLE: Your lips torn from my breasts.
EUNEUS: And so, mother, when my father Jason died . . .
HYPSIPYLE: Alas what a history, child, your words fill my eyes with
tears.
THOAS: So Orpheus took him and myself to somewhere in Thrace.
HYPSIPYLE: What form did the gratitude take that he showed your
luckless father? Tell me, child.
EUNEUS: Me he taught music on the Asiatic lyre. Him he drilled in the

use of weaponry.
HYPSIPYLE: And somehow you crossed the Aegean and landed on

Lemnos?
THOAS: Thoas your father transported the both of us there.
HYPSIPYLE: So he is alive and well?
EUNEUS: Thanks to the cleverness of Dionysus.
DIONYSUS: From my epilogue ex machina, a single gnomic fragment survives.

Think about it carefully . . .There is a fatal error to which mortals are prone.
They are foolish enough to attribute things to chance, and not to the
gods. If it’s chance, that means gods are not to blame. But gods do exert
their power, so don’t blame chance.
AN ACTOR [SPEAKING AFTER THE BOW]: Ladies and gentlemen of the

demos, you now have to determine the result of the agon. Your representatives will place
a white token in the urn for the psychological version, a red token for the ritual version,
or a blue token for the third version. THE TEN JUDGES VOTE. MUSIC
PLAYS. AN ACTOR DRAWS OUT FIVE BALLOTS FROM THE
URN. AN ACTOR: Ladies and gentlemen it is your democratic decision that the
xxx version should be victorious. I will ask the protagonist, deuteragonist and
tritagonist to step forward and receive your applause. DIONYSUS CROWNS
THE WINNING TRIO.
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Zielinski, T. (1894) August Nauck: ein Bild seines Lebens und seiner Werke, Berlin.
INDEX OF FRAGMENTARY PLAYS
AND OTHER PASSAGES CITED
adesp. Fr. 100 Kannicht and Snell (Eur.?) 134–5

Fr. 101 Kannicht and Snell (Eur.?) 134–5
Fr. 378 Nauck
( E. Oedipus Fr. 539a Kannicht) 58
Fr. 379 Kannicht and Snell 158
Fr. 380 Kannicht and Snell 158
Fr. 718 Kassel Austin 157
Accius Meleager Frs. 433–4 Warmington 148n96
Frs. 438–9 Warmington 147n93
Fr. 443 Warmington 148
Frs. 444–5 Warmington 148
Tereus 142n63
Fr. 647 Warmington 143n71
Achilles Tatius 5.5.6 143n68
Aeschylus adesp. Fr. 262 Weir Smyth
( E. Fr. 840 Kannicht) 157
Fr. 284 Radt (Cares?) 65, 82
Fr. 315 Radt (Cares?) 65, 82
Fr. 446 Radt 73
Agamemnon 223 117n19
227 115n5
227–47 117
235–43 117n18
385 117n19
690–2 115n5, 116n13
745 115n7
1107 117n19
1178–9 116n13
1178–81 115n5
1235 121
1247 117n19
Athamas Fr. 1 Radt 134
Cares (or Europa) 3, 63–82
Fr. 99 Radt ( Fr. 145? Mette) 31, 34n81, 64–7,

68n29, 70, 81
Fr. 100 Radt ( Fr. 146 Mette) 63, 67, 72n63, 81
Fr. 101 Radt ( Fr. 147 Mette) 64, 73, 82
Fr. 284 Radt 82
Fr. 315 Radt 82
Fr. 144a Mette 63, 81
Fr. 144b Mette 73
Choephori 23 96
346 73
439 97
594–623 118n24
602–11 145
604 117n19
698 121
722–4 115n7
Circe 85
Dictyoulci 34, 43
Fr. 47a Radt 46
Edonians 65
Eumenides 835 115n6
Glaucus Pontius 34, 65n10, 66
Glaucus Potnieus 34, 65n10, 66, 79
Memnon 66n14, 66n16
Myrmidons 34, 64n4, 65
Niobe 4, 34, 65, 113–27,
Fr. 154a Radt 113–15
Ostologi 85
Penelope 85
Persae 623–32 90
633–8 87
683 96, 96n53
686 94
687 96
688 87
690 87
697 96n53
719 117n19
770 74
Philoctetes 51
Phineus 66
Phrygians 66n14
Prometheus Bound 469 117n19
Prometheus Unbound 65–6
Psychagogoi 4, 36, 84–92, 102
Fr. 273 Radt 83, 87–8
Fr. 273a Radt 83, 88–90
Fr. 274 Radt 91
Fr. 275 Radt 90–1
Fr. 276 Radt 91
Fr. 277 Radt 92
Fr. 278 Radt 91
Psychostasia 66n14
INDEX OF FRAGMENTARY PLAYS AND OTHER PASSAGES CITED 229
Septem 262 117n19

Sphinx 109
Supplices 60–2 144n72
524–99 79
548–50 74
869–70 (and schol.) 71
Theori or Isthmiastae 34, 65
Xantriae 34
Agathon Cretan Women Fr. 1 Snell 53n8
Agias of Troezen Nostoi 108.24–6 Allen 94
Alcinous Didaskalikos 24 161
Alexis Thesprotians 88
Fr. 93 Kassel–Austin 88–9
Trophonius 89
Anaxagoras Fr. A 33 Diels–Kranz 154n6
Antimachus of Colophon Fr. 70 Wyss 61n22
Antiphanes Cares Fr. 113 Kock 78n85
Aphthonius Progymnasmata 11.10–13 (and schol.) 99, 100n67
Apollodorus Bibliotheca 1.8.2–3 145n76, 147,
147n86, 148n95
1.9.28 137n34
3.1.2 80n92
3.2.2 52
3.4.3 133
3.5.6 115n9, 122n41
Epitome 1.4–6 132
Apollonius
Rhodius Argonautica 1.216–17a (schol.) 71n59
2.911–29 (and schol.) 104
Appian Bella civilia 4.10.78–9 71
Archilochus Fr. 77 Bergk 186n43
Arctinus Iliupersis 108.6–8 Allen 94
Aristides,
Publius Aelius Orationes 3.365 100
Aristophanes adesp. Fr. 694 Kassel Austin 186n44
Acharnae 166 176n10
384–5 174
394 174
395–400 186n43
399 (schol.) 176n12
408 176n12
410 (schol.) 176n12
410–11 174, 176
412–13 176
433 (schol.) 53
439 175
447 175
448 175
449 177
463 175
470 177
478 175
483 176n10
484 175
Aves 100–1 144n72
281–2 142
1553–64 86
Nubes 426 110n118
622 66
Ranae 840 175n7
849–50 52
849a (schol.) 55
849b (schol.) 52
871 110n118
888 110n118
911–13 103
911–26 117
1028–9 85
1043 166n37
1052–4 166n37
1266 83
Pax 1337–40 116n14
1352 116n14
Thesmophoriazusae 101ff. 177
138 178
139 178
140 178
148–52 179
164–7 180
215–35 179
218 178
250–1 178
252 178
253 178
255 178
257 178
257–8 178n17
258 178
261 178, 179n18
262 178, 179n18
267–8 179
387 175n7
394 179n19
448 179n19
451 179n19
456 175n7
466ff. 179
689ff. 178n17
Vespae 96 110n118
763a (schol.) 53, 56
861 110n118
Plutus 1114 110n118
Aristotle Fr. 15 Rose 184n33
Fr. 101 Rose 123n49
Historia animalium 633a17 144n72
Nicomachean Ethics 7.3 159
7.8 158n13
Peplos Fr. 641, 58 Rose 71
Poetics 1449b21–1450b20 152n1
1450b16 92
1453b19–22 131n6
1454a16–1454b18 152n1
1454b36 143n67
1455a22–6 182
1455a29 187
1455a29–30 183
1455a29–34 182
1456a1–2 91–2
1456a26–30 177n15
[Problemata] 954a39–40 182
Rhetoric 1376a6–7 137n39
1400b 137
1408b17 182
1408b19 182
Arrian Periplus
Maris Euxini 23 98n64
Asclepiades of Tragilus Fr. 1 Jacoby 66
Athenaeus Deipnosophistae 21f. 183n29
Athenagoras Legatio
pro Christianis 29 135
Bacchylides Fr. 10 Campbell 80
Fr. 20E Campbell 80
3.53–6 108n113
5.78 94
5.93–154 145
Carcinus II Cretan Women
(or Aerope) Fr. 1 Snell 53n8
Medea 137
Cicero de Oratore 189 182
193–4 182
Tusculan
Disputations 3.29 154
3.58 154
3.59 155
3.60 155
3.71 156, 156n11
Clement
of Alexandria Stromateis 2.63.1–2.64.1 161
4.48.4 82
7.2.19 137n39
Crates Heroes Fr. 12 Kassel Austin 85n7
Cratinus Dionysalexandros 37
Pytine Fr. 208 Kassel Austin 10n7
Creophylus Fr. 3 Jacoby 137
Democritus Fr. 17 Diels Kranz 186n43
Fr. 18 186n43
Fr. 21 186n43
Dio Chrysostomus Orations 52 50n5, 51
59 50n5, 50n6, 51
Diodorus Siculus 5.79.2 67n26

5.79.3 80
11.60.4 80–1
Diogenes Laertius 2.13 154n6
2.133 34
2.134 138n40
7.180 163n28
Ennius Medea 141
Ephorus Fr. 127 Jacoby 75–6
Eumelus Fr. 3A Davies 136
Eupolis Demes 100, 100n67,
100n68, 112
Frs. 99–146 Kassel Austin 100
Euripides adesp. Fr. 912 Kannicht 87n18, 90
Fr. 964 Kannicht (Theseus?) 154n5
Aegeus Fr. 4 Kannicht
( Fr. 6 Jouan and van Looy) 131
Aeolus 50
Alcestis 114 73n69
1079–80 165
1128 (schol.) 86
Alcmaeon in Psophis 57
Alexandros 36, 45, 50, 52n7, 57
Andromache 519–22 137n39
Andromeda 45, 48, 50–1, 125
Fr. 122 Kannicht 126
Fr. 125 Kannicht 127n63
Antigone 4, 36, 50
Fr. *175 Kannicht 50n4
P.Oxy. 3317 50n4
Antiope 14, 36, 45, 50–1, 190
Fr. 223 Kannicht 31, 35
P.Oxy. 3317 50n4
Archelaus 36, 45, 50, 52n7
Auge 36
Bacchae 33 130
234 86
851 140n50
1094 130
Bellerophon 48, 50, 78
Heraclidae 1006–8 137n39
Chrysippus Fr. 840 Kannicht 157, 159–61
Fr. 841 Kannicht 157, 159–61
Cresphontes 46, 50, 52
Cretan Women 3, 49–57, 62, 72
Fr. 465 Kannicht 53–6

Fr. 466 Kannicht 53, 55–6
Fr. 470 Kannicht 53
Fr. 470a Kannicht 53
Cretans 33, 45, 48, 50–1, 55
Fr. 472e Kannicht 56
Cyclops 654 73n69
Dictys Fr. 340 Kannicht 164n31
Electra 19–42 137n39
719ff. 55
Erectheus 45, 48, 50
Fr. 360 Kannicht 51
Eurystheus Satyricus Fr. 379a Kannicht 86
Hecuba 1 94
1–58 93, 93n40
1138–44 137n39
Heracles Furens 168–9 137n39
822ff. 140
1397 122n42
Hippolytus (I) 5, 152, 166–7,
169n40, 170–1
Fr. 430 Kannicht ( Barrett C) 55, 168, 171n46,
171n47
Fr. 437 Kannicht ( Barrett L) 169, 171n47
Fr. 438 Kannicht ( Barrett M) 169, 171n47
Fr. 444 Kannicht ( Barrett S) 167, 171n46
Hippolytus (II) Hypothesis 29–30 Barrett 166n37
337ff. 55
375–81 160
391–430 160
392–4 166n36
398–402 166n36
503–24 160
752–63 115n5
1038 86
Hypsipyle 33, 46–8, 50–2,
189–207
Fr. 757 Kannicht 155
Ino 132, 134–5
Ion 1024–5 132n10
Iphigeneia at Aulis 667–70 115n5
876 130
Iphigeneia in Tauris 370–1 115n5
Medea Hypothesis 25–7 Diggle 138
9 (schol.) 139n44
27–8 118n23
28–33 118
37 115n8
39–41 118
108–10 165
148–53 118
264 (schol.) 137
1021–80 162
1048–55 163
1056–64 163n27
1056–80 163n27
1059–63 163, 163n27
1078–9 162
1078–80 151, 153, 161–3, 170
1079 162n26
1164 118
1260 136n29
1279–92 136
1282–9 133
1282–92 136
1284 133
1297 122n42
1303ff. 136n33
1378–83 137
1388 115n7
Melanippe Desmotis 33
Melanippe Sophe 36
Meleager Fr. 530 Kannicht 147
Oedipus 3, 49–50, 53, 57–62
Fr. 539a Kannicht
( adesp. Fr. 378 Nauck) 58
Fr. 540a Kannicht 58–9, 62n24
Fr. 540b Kannicht 58–9
Fr. 543–8 Kannicht 61
Fr. 545 Kannicht ( Fr. 88 Austin) 58, 58n16, 60n20
Fr. *545a Kannicht ( Fr. 909 Nauck) 58, 58n16, 60n20, 61
Fr. 548 Kannicht 62
Fr. 551 Kannicht 58–9, 61
Fr. 552 Kannicht 62
Fr. 553 Kannicht 62
Fr. 554b Kannicht 58, 61
Fr. 556 Kannicht 58, 58n15
Fr. 557 Kannicht 58
P.Oxy. 2459 57–8
Orestes 318 (schol.) 66
1296 61n23
Palamedes 46, 57
Phaethon 46, 48, 50, 52, 190
Fr. 771 Kannicht 51
Philoctetes 50–1
Frs. 787–9 Kannicht 51
Fr. 789a Kannicht 51
Fr. 789b Kannicht 51
Fr. 789d Kannicht 51

Phoenissae 44 60n22
60–2 58
159–60 117n17
1352–3 115n7
1485–92 116
1760 (schol.) 60n22
Phrixus Fr. 818c Kannicht 154n5
Phrixus A P.Oxy. 3652 132
Phrixus B P.Oxy. 2455 132
Pirithous 46n128
Rhesus 29 66
224–6 66
543–5 66
Sisyphus 57
Stheneboea 48, 50–1, 52n7, 56
Supplices 180–3 186–7
545–6 137n39
Telephus 46, 50–2, 57, 174
Fr. 721 Kannicht 57
Thyestes 53
Theseus 48
Troades 455–6 115n5
569–71 115n5
723 137n39
Galen On the doctrines of
Hippocrates & Plato 3.3.14–16 162n25
4–5 164n29
4.2.27 162n26
4.4.16–17 159n18
4.5.42–6 164n30
4.6.30 164n31
4.6.38 165n34
4.7.8–11 153–4
5.7 159n16
Herodotus 1.105 184n35
1.147.1 76
1.155.1 137n39
1.173.1–2 74–5
1.173.3 79
1.173.4 76
2.43.1 80n91
3.33 130
4.67 184n35
5.92 109
5.92.2–4 88
6.86 140n49
8.104–6 140n49
Hesiod Fr. 25 Merkelbach West 147
Fr. 140 Merkelbach West 77
Fr. 141 Merkelbach West 77
Theogony 22–32 186n43

Hesychius s.v. ƓơƱưƧƤƼƭƩƯƭ 71n59
Hippocrates De aera, aquis, locis 22 184n35
Homer Iliad 2.791–4 104
2.867 75
2.876 71
6.155 66, 79
6.196–7 66, 79
6.198–9a1 (schol.) 80n92
6.199 79
6.206 66, 79
9.565–72 146
12.292 (schol.) 77
12.307–30 78
16.419–683 68
16.431–58 70
16.454 68
16.667–75 68
16.681–3 71
16.682 68
16.855–7 94
20–22 98
20.407–18 149
24.602 (schol.) 115n9
24.602–17 124n50
24.614–17 119
Odyssey 1.249 115n6
3.141–5 93
5.333–5 134n20
8.62–4 186n43
8.487ff. 186n43
11.35–6 90
11.37 91n31
11.90 94
11.108–13 91
11.134–7 91
11.152 91
11.213–24 91n31
11.226 91n31
11.475 91n31
11.476 91n31
11.519–22 (and schol.) 149
11.628 91
11.634–5 91n31
12.327–402 91
19.518ff. 142
19.523 142
20.74 115n6
22.347–8 186n43
Horace Ars poetica 102–5 182
103 182n28
104 188
185 138n43
Hyginus Fabulae 4 132–3

67 60, 60n21
109 149
174 145n76, 147
239 134n21
250.3 66
273.11 66
Isaeus 1.20 130
Livius Tereus 142n63
Livy 38.38.9 71n59
[Longinus] On the sublime 9.5 99
14.1–2 99
15.1 99
15.7 94, 98–9
Lucian Menippus 9 86
Maximus of Tyre 8.26 86n8
Menander Dyskolos 842 117n20
Perikeiromene 1013–14 117n20
Samia 325 61n23
325–6 58
Sikyonios 6 73n66
Menander Rhetor Peri epideiktikon 404.11–12 116n14
405.32–2 116n14
406.32 116n14
407.6 116n14
Neophron Medea 135n27
Frs. 1–3 Snell 138
Fr. 2 Snell 139
Fr. 3 Snell 140n48
Ovid Medea Fr. 2 Lenz 140
Metamorphoses 4.464–542 133
6.301–12 120
6.424ff. 142
6.587–8 143
8.267ff. 145n76, 147, 148n95
8.463 148n97
8.478–511 148n97
Pacuvius Iliona Frs. 199–201 Warmington 149
Frs. 215–17 Warmington 149
Papyri P.Bodmer 25 58
P.Harris 13 52–3, 54n10
P.Osl. 1413 90, 90n29, 97
P.Oxy. 213 Fr. 1 120n33
P.Oxy. 663 37
P.Oxy. 2161 46
P.Oxy. 2455 37, 58, 132
P.Oxy. 2459 57–8
P.Oxy. 2536 58
P.Oxy. 3013 142
P.Oxy. 3317 50n4
P.Oxy. 3652 132
P.Vindob. 29779 57n14
Pausanias 1.17.5 88
1.44.7–8 134n21
2.3.6 137n34
2.3.11 136
2.13.6 34
2.35.11 109
3.17.7 86
5.15.10 109n118
6.6.4–11 98n64
6.20.3 109
7.2.5 76n75
7.3.7 76
7.21.12–13 109
7.22.2–3 109
9.5.9 142n60
9.30.6 88
9.39.2 89n26
10.31.3 147
10.31.4 145–6
Peisandros Fr. 10 Jacoby 60n22
Pherecrates Crapatali Fr. 100 Kassel Austin 92
Pherecydes Fr. 38 Jacoby 115n9, 122n41
Fr. 124 Jacoby 141
Philocles Tereus 142, 142n63
Philostratus Vita Apollonii 4.16 97n55
Heroicus 748–9 98n64
Phrynichus Phoenissae 111
Women of Pleuron 145
Fr. 6 Snell 146
Pindar Olympian Odes 13.74 (schol.) 136n32
Pythian Odes 3.112 80n92
9.66 115n6
9.113–14 115n7
12.25 58
Plato Laws 800e2–3 78
847b–c 109n118
909b1–5 86
930b 135
Phaedrus 245a 182
253d–254e 159n16
261a6–7 92
271c10 92n33
Protagoras 339a–347a 152
Republic 386a–392a 152n1
395c5 183n29
435c–441c 159n16
439e–440a 159n16
558a4–8 85n7
599d3 100n66
600e5 100n66
605c3 100n66
Sophist 236c6–39d4 99n66
Pliny Naturalis Historia 5.92 71n59
5.98 71n59
30.14 110
37.11.40 147
Plutarch Life of Lycurgus 15.3 184
Moralia 27F–28A 167–8
245F 184
267D 133
440D–E 158n13
441C–442C 158n13
445B–E 158n13, 159n16
446A 158, 164n29
446A–B 157
446B 158
446C–E 159n16
446F–447A 159
463D 154n6
474D 154n6
609f. 122n43
Pollux 3.38 115n6
Polybius 21.43.14 71n59
Pomponius Mela 1.77 71n59
Propertius 1.25–8 164n30
Ptolemy Geography 5.7.3 71n59
Python Agen Fr. 1 Snell 86
Quintilian 6.2.26 182
6.2.29–33 182
[Scylax] 102 71n59
Seneca (Elder) Suasoriae 3.7 140
Seneca (Younger) Medea 123–4 140
382–6 140
806–7 140
849–52 140
893–977 170
900–25 170n44
958–71 140
Oedipus 302 110
305 110
308 110
Phaedra 91–2 167, 170
91–8 171n45
96–7 171n45
96–8 170
112–14 171n46
112–28 170n44
113–14 167, 170
114–15 170n44
126–8 171n46
127–8 170, 170n44
177–9 168, 170, 171n46
184–5 168, 170, 171n46
195–7 170
204–7 169–70
216–9 170
253–4 170
Thyestes 241–3 170n42
249–54 170n42
260–77 170n42
283–6 170n42
Troades 95
Sophocles adesp. Fr. 187 Radt (Epigoni?) 149n101
Fr. 843 Radt 20
Achaion Syllogos or Syndeipni 33, 44
Achilles 36
Ajax 85 116n11
630–3 96
646–92 125n53
1054 73–4
1293 52
1295–7 52, 56
1297a (schol.) 52, 56
Andromeda 125
Antigone 781–800 165n32
821 123
823ff. 123
824–5 125–6
834–7 123
1241 115n6
Athamas 132
Electra 136 123n46
150–2 123n46
445 97
964–5 137n39
Eurypylus 33, 79, 149n101
Fr. 211 Radt 149
Hermione or Phthiotides 44
Ichneutae 32n74, 33–4, 44
Meleager 147
Fr. 401 Radt 147n90
Fr. 402 Radt 148n96
Niobe 36, 44, 120
Oedipus Rex 184–5 115n7
398 62n24
420–3 115n5, 115n7
540ff. 58
798ff. 60
P. Vindob.29779 57n14
Phaedra 44
Polyxena 4, 44, 84–5, 92–100
Fr. 522 Radt 93, 96
Fr. 523 Radt 93–6
Fr. 524 Radt 93
Fr. 525 Radt 97
Fr. 526 Radt 97
Fr. 527 Radt 97
Fr. 528 Radt 97
Salmoneus Fr. 540 Radt 73n69
Satyri Fr. 1130 Radt 33

Teucer 156n10
Fr. 576 Radt 156
Tereus 25n25, 39, 44,
130n3, 142
Fr. 581 Radt 144n72
Fr. 582 Radt 143n66
Fr. 585 Radt 142n65
Fr. 586 Radt 143
Fr. 589 Radt 144
Fr. 595 Radt 143n67
Trachiniae 497–530 165n32
1078 116n13
Troilus 44
Tympanistai Fr. 636 Radt 20n29
Tyro A and B 44
Stephanus of Byzantium s.v. ƍƽƫơƳơ 64, 73, 82
s.v. ƗƱƵƳơƯƱƟƲ 76
s.v. ͶƫƥƭƯƲ 82
Stobaeus 4.10.24 63, 67, 72n63, 81
4.49.7 156n10
Strabo 6.1.5 98n64
8.7.5 82
10.3.14 93
12.8.5 75
13.4.6 71n59
14.1.6 75–6
14.3.3 73
14.5.4 71n59
14.5.16 73
16.2.39 110
Suda s.v. Neovfrwn 138n40
Thucydides 1.4 78, 78n83
1.8.1–2 78
2.29 143n66
Virgil Aeneid 6.119ff. 91n31
6.494ff. 97
Xenophon Symposium 4.9 176n10
General Index
Achelous 57, 198 Amphion 113, 126, 141

Acheron 93, 109 anakalypteria 116
Achilles 70 1, 90, 91n31, 93 9, 146, 149 anapaests 89 90
Achlus 99 Anaxagoras 153 4, 154n6
Admetus 57, 86, 165 6 Anaxagorean doctrine 15
Adrastus 194, 204 Andromeda 125 7
adultery 51 6 anger 132n7, 145 6, 148, 160, 162 6,
Aedon 141 2 201
Aeetes 100 2 Anticleia 91
Aegeira 82 Antigone 116 7, 123 6
Aegion 82 Aphrodite 110n118, 165, 198
Aegisthus 120 Apollo (Phoebus) 4, 57 9, 113, 147, 203
Aeneas 91n31 Apollo Sarpedonius 69n43
Aeolus 82 Apollodorus 42, 119, 132n9, 134
Aerope 51 7 Apollonius 52
Aeschylus 4, 7, 19, 23, 25n30, 34 36, 38 Archemoros, see Opheltes
39, 42 43, 46 7, 51, 63 82, 84 92, 97 Ares 65, 81
8, 102 3, 113 27, 145n77, 148, 152 Argonauts 104, 136n30, 193 4, 197
Aesyetes 104 Argos 54, 72, 184, 191, 193 4, 197, 199,
aetiology 141n57, 142n61 203 5
Agamemnon 53, 93 4, 96 7, 115n7, 130, Ariadne 168n39
146 Aristides 100n67
Agathon 5, 53n8, 173 4, 177 80, 186 88 Aristophanes 5, 22, 112n125, 116, 173
Agave 130, 147n91 88
agon 190, 201, 206 Aristotle 157 9, 183, 185, 187n47, 188
Ajax 156 Arsinoe 57
akolasia 157, 158n13 Artemis 4, 113, 147n90
akrasia 157 61, 164 Asia Minor 67, 71, 74, 113
Alcinous 161 Astydamas 36
Alcmaeon 57 Astyoche 79, 129, 149
Alcmene 107 8 Atalanta 147 8
Althaea 129, 145 8 Athamas 132 5
Amphiaraus 149n101, 190 1, 196 9, Athena 61, 93, 108
202 3, 205 Athena Chalcioecus 86
Athenaeus 12 135, 195

Athenagoras 135 Creusa, daughter of Erectheus 132n10
Athens 1, 61, 143, 185, 191 Croesus 106n101, 107 8, 110
Atreus 52 7 cross dressing 178 80, 184
aulos player 105, 107, 191 Cumae 88
Avernus, Lake 88 Cyclades 78
Cyrenaics 154n6
Bacchylides 32, 77
Basil 12 Darius, ghost of 84 5, 87, 91, 95 7, 107,
Bdelycleon 184 111
Bellerophon 56, 79 Darius Painter 107
Bothe, Friedrich 22, 25 26 Death 68; see also Thanatos
Bura 82 death imagery 4, 113 27
death ritual 114, 12
Cadmus 61n23, 143n71, 198 Deiphobus 97
Callimachus 8 9, 14 15, 16n16 Delian League 80
Calydonian boar 145, 147 Delphi 32n74, 48, 192
Cambyses 130 Demeter 109
Canter(us), Theodorus 11 deus ex machina 134, 144, 190, 206
Carcinus 53n8, 137 Dicaeopolis 174 7, 179
Caria/Carians 67, 68n29, 71 76, 78, 80, Diggle, James 26, 41
82 Dindorf, Karl Wilhelm 22 24, 27
Carneades 155 Dionysia Festival 150, 190
Catreus 52 7 Dionysus 85, 91n31, 105 6, 110, 130 1,
Ceryneia 82 134, 140n50, 150, 192, 196, 201 2,
Chaerophon 86 206 7
Chrysaor 82 Dionysiac cult 145, 150
Chrysippus, son of Pelops 161 Dionysiac imagery 106
Chrysippus (Stoic) 155, 156n9, 162 6, Dionysiac ritual 130n3, 144n71
169 70 Dionysiac theme 131
Cicero 141, 155 7 Theatre of Dionysus 110 11
Cilicia 71 2 Dyme 82
Circe 87n18
Cleopatra, wife of Meleager 147 ecphrasis 59
Clericus, Ioannes 13, 18 Egypt/Egyptians 31 32, 34, 48, 63n2,
clothing 100, 108, 133, 174 88; see also 72, 80n91, 105
rags eidolon 94 5, 98 103, 112
Clymene 52 3 Eileithyia 109
Clytemnestra 84, 95 7, 120 1, 130 Electra 122 4, 123n45
cock fighting 176 Elpenor 85n7, 91, 103 4
Colchis 206 Enarees 184n35
Collard C. 41 Ennius 141
Collard, Cropp and Lee 39, 44 5 Eos 69n43
composition of tragedy 5, 51, 66n14, Epirus 109
173 88 Erinyes 84, 92, 136n29, 143n69
Corinth/Corinthians 60, 102 6, 108, Eriphyle 149n101
110 11, 136 8, 137n34, 137n36, Ernesti, Johann August 9 10
139n44 Eros 165
Creon 58 9, 61, 136 Erythrae 76
Crete/Cretans 52 6, 74 7, 78, 80n93, Eumelus 136
GENERAL INDEX 245
Euneus 193, 205 6 Hermione 132n10

Euphorion, son of Aeschylus 66n14 Herodas 32
Euphronius 68 Herodotus 109
Eupolis 100 Hertel(ius), Jakob 10 11, 14
Euripides 4, 7, 14 5, 23 4, 27 8, 34, 36 Hesiod 77
9, 44 46, 48, 49 62, 74n70, 93, 95 6, Hippolytus 166, 168, 169n40, 170 1
98, 136, 138, 141, 145, 153, 159, 163, Homer 19, 28, 68, 71, 78 80, 91 2, 98,
166 71, 175, 177n13, 189 93 136, 146 7
Euripides in Aristophanes 5, 83n1, Horace 185
152, 173 7, 179, 186, 188 Hunt, A.S. 33 4, 41, 47
Europa 64 5, 67 70, 72, 74 5, 77 9, 81, Hyginus 42, 60n21, 61n22 132 4,
195 149n98
Eurydice 190, 193, 201 4 Hyperides 32
Eurylochus 85n7 Hypnos (Sleep) 68 71
Eurypylus 149 hypotheses (plot summaries) 36 37, 45,
49 51, 65, 132, 138, 142 4, 166n37
Fabricius, J.A. 13 Hypsipyle 190, 195 206
filicide 4, 118, 129 50
Icarus 55
Galen 151, 154, 157, 162 3, Idrias (Stratonicea) 76, 79
ghosts 1, 3 4, 83 112, 140, 149n99 Iliona 129, 149
Glauce 118, 137n34 immortality 65, 67, 123 7, 134n19, 136,
Glaucus, son of Sisyphus 66, 79, 82 146
Glaucus, Homeric 66, 71, 79 Ino 129, 131 6, 141, 143n68
Glaucus, son of Hippolochus 76 inspiration, poetic 175n5, 181 2, 185n38,
Glaucus, subject of Glaucus Pontius 66 186
gnômai, see sententiae Io 79, 195
Goethe, J.W. 15, 17, 20 Iphigeneia 116, 117n18
Gorgias (the younger) 18 Itylus 141 2
grief 66, 116n11, 118, 121 4, 124n50,
130, 142n60, 146, 148, 155 6, 166, 182 Jason 117, 136 7, 140, 193, 206
Grotius, Hugo 11 14, 16, 18 jealousy 58, 129 33, 135 6, 141, 143
Jocasta 58 62
Hades 53, 56, 85n7, 88, 90 2, 94, 123, Jouan and van Looy 39, 44 5
168n39
Harmony 198 Kadmos Painter 108n111
Harpalus 86 Kannicht, Richard 3, 41 42, 44 5, 48
Harpalyce 147n91 katabasis 91, 100n68
Harrison, Tony 32n74, 47, 189 Kock, Theodor 22
Hector 77 kommos 69
Hecuba 149n99 Krumeich, R. 34n84
Helice 82
Helle 132 Labdacus 198
Hephaestus 70 Laius 58 60, 161
Hera 70, 133 4, 136n32 Lake Avernus, see Avernus, Lake
Hera Acraea 136 7 Lake Stymphalus, see Stymphalus, Lake
Heracles 57, 80n91, 86, 91, 107 8, 165, Laodameia 79, 80n95, 104
193 Learchus 133 4
Hermann, Gottfried 22, 24 25 Lebadeia 89
Hermes 59, 85n7, 87 8, 90, 106n100 Lelegians 76
Hermes Agoraeus 109 Lemnos 193 5, 197, 205 6
Leningrad Painter 106, 108 Morelius, Guilelmus 10

Leto 113 mourning 57, 66, 69, 78, 91, 94, 96, 114,
Lexicon Iconographicum Mythologiae Classicae 116, 7, 119n26, 121 4, 126, 196
41 murder 4, 59 60, 97, 125, 129 50, 190,
libations 90, 192 202; see also filicide
love (erôs) 65, 148, 152, 160, 164 5, 167 Mycenae 54 6, 197
8, 170 1 Mylasa 73, 79, 82
Lukka 78 Mylasus 79, 82
Lycia/Lycians 3, 63 82 Mysia/Mysians 73 4, 79, 149, 175
Lycurgus 193, 197 Myson 107
Lydians 73 4
Naeke, August Ferdinand 8
Macedonia 38, 191 Nauck, August 3, 21 2, 24 33, 37, 39,
madness 4, 130 1, 133 5, 139 141, 42 5, 47
143n69, 144, 148, 150, 166n36, 181, Nauplion 205
182, 186n43 Nauplius 52 3, 55 6
maenadism 121, 130, 150 necromancy 83, 85 92, 96, 100n68, 102
maenads 104n93, 116, 120 1 130 1, 140, 5, 109 11
143, 145 nekyia 85, 91
Malalas, John 59, 61 2 nekyomanteion 88, 109
Mantinea 191 Nemea 191, 193 4, 197, 204
Manto 110 Neophron 138 41
Maracus (poet) 182 Nephele 132
mechane 69 New Comedy 11
Medea 5, 100, 117 8, 122, 129, 132 3, Nicander 15
134n19, 135 41, 144, 160 5 Niobe 4, 41, 113 27, 141
Medusa 120n33
Megara 125 Odysseus 85, 87n18, 88 91, 102 3
Meineke, August 2, 8, 18, 21 2, 26, Oedipus 41, 58 62
28n49 Oileus 156
Meleager 145 8 Old Comedy 11, 18n22, 173 88
Melicertes 133 4 Olenus 82
Melissa 88, 109 Olympus 70, 93, 108
Memnon 66, 69n43 Opheltes (Archemoros) 202, 204
Menander 8, 18, 35n89 Orestes 120
Menelaus 52 3, 93, 96 Orpheus 91n31, 103n87, 195, 206
messenger speech 59 60, 93, 95 6, 108, Ovid 122, 134
144 Oxyrhynchus historian 32
metaphor 4, 8, 17, 112, 115, 120 1, 124,
130, 150, 176n10, 187 Pacuvius 149
method composition 186, 188 Page, Denys L. 35, 137 8, 148n96, 189
Meursius, Ioannes 7 8, 12 13 Pamphylians 76
Middle Comedy 11, 18 Pandareus 142n59
Miletus 75 6, 78 9 Pandion 142
Milyas 74 5 papyri 3, 31 37, 42 6, 48 52, 54, 138n43
mimesis 180, 187 Parmeniscus 137, 138n44
Minos 64 5, 67, 74 80 Parnassus 192
Minyads 147n91 Pasiphae 55 6, 167
Mithrobarzanes 86 Pasithea 70
monody 52, 54 5, 190 pathos 163
GENERAL INDEX 247
Patroclus 79, 103, 107 8 Polyxena 93 6, 98

Pausanias 136, 146 7 Posidonius 153 4, 155n6, 164n30
Pausanias (Spartan) 86 Priam 104, 149
Peisander 86 Procne 129, 132, 141 5, 147n91
Peleus 182 Procris 196
Peloponnesian War 191 Proetus 56
Pelops 161 Protesilaus 104
Penthesileia 70 Pylos 88
Pentheus 130 Python 107n108
Periander 88, 109
Periboea 60 Radt, Stefan 3, 19, 42 4
Pericles 100 rags, as clothing 53 5, 174 7
Persephone 91 2, 168n39 reason 159, 161 5, 168, 170
Perseus 125 7 reception 4, 122
Persia/Persians 67n20, 91, 97, 107 recognition tokens 60 1, 143n67
petrification 4, 118n24, 119 22, 124 5, reconstruction, see plot reconstruction
127 revenge 129, 131, 137, 141 2, 143n69,
Phaedra 152, 160, 166 171 144 5, 148, 162n26
Phegeus 57 Rhadamanthys 64 5, 67, 75, 77
Pherecydes 119, 142 Rhesus 66
Philemon 8, 13, 18 Rhypae 82
Philomela 143 5 Ritschl, F.W. 18 19
philosophy 1, 5 6, 14 15, 151 72
Phoebus, see Apollo sacrifice 85n7, 89 90, 93 6, 98, 98n64,
Phoenix 146 109n118, 110, 116, 197 8, 204
Photius 38 Sarpedon 64 72, 74 7, 79 80
Phrasicleia 124, 127n63 Sarpedon Painter 69, 71
Phrixus 132 satyr play 19, 34, 35n84, 47, 57, 85 6
Phrygia/Phrygians 73 4, 125 6 satyrs 104n93
Phrynichus 85, 143 5, 148, 180 Scythians 184n35
physis 180 seduction 52 3, 56, 161
Pickard Cambridge, Sir A. 35, 40 self division 151, 157 66, 172
Pirithous 168n39 Seneca 135, 140n52, 166 71
Plataea 97 sententiae 2, 5, 10 16, 21n1, 39
Plato 135, 158 9, 161 2, 181, 183, sexual desire (kupris) 165 71
185n38, 186n43, 187n47 Simonides 94, 98 9, 152
Plautus 19 Sipylus 113, 115, 119 20, 122, 124
Pleisthenes 52 3, 55 7 Siris 132
Pleuron 145 Sisyphus 79, 82
plot reconstruction 2 3, 5, 14, 25 6, 28 Snell, Bruno 3, 30, 42, 45, 152, 161, 166
9, 37, 40, 45 6, 48 62, 65, 71, 95, 132, 70, 187
142n62, 143, 145n77, 147n92, 148n96, Socrates 15, 86
152, 161, 166 7, 174n2 Solymi 74 5
Plutarch 136, 152n2, 153n3, 158, 164 Sophocles 1, 4, 7, 15, 19, 23 24, 27n42,
poiein 187 34, 35n89, 36, 38 39, 42 44, 51, 55,
Polites, son of Priam 98n64, 104 58, 60 2, 73 4, 92 100, 115n9, 120,
Pollux 91n31 125, 145
Polybus 58, 60 Sparta/Spartans 174, 184
Polydorus 84, 93 6, 98, 149, 198 Sphinx 58n15, 59 62
Polymestor 149 staging 1, 4, 48, 69, 91, 94 6, 98 9, 110
Polyneices 197 9 1, 189 91
Stephanus, Henricus 10 thumos 160, 162, 165

stepmothers 131 3, 135 Thyestes 53 7
Stesichorus 146 Trophonius 89
Sthenelus 104 Trojan War 77, 80
stichomythia 67, 190 Troy/Trojans 65, 67 8, 71, 73 5, 77 9,
Stobaeus 11 12, 16, 19, 28, 39, 157 93, 104, 146, 149
Stoics/stoicism 152, 154 9, 162 3, 166, Tydeus 199
169 71 Tyre 195
Strabo 73 4, 78
Stratonicea, see Idrias Underworld Painter 100
Stymphalus, Lake 88
suicide 133, 148, 161 Valckenaer, L.C. 9, 14 16, 23
van Looy 27, 44, 52, 56 7; see also Jouan
Tantalus 113 15, 119, 122, 126 and van Looy
Taurians 193 van Rossum Steenbeek, M. 37
Teiresias 85n7, 90 1, 102 3, 110 vase painting 2, 4, 39 41, 63n2, 68 72,
Telamon 156 84, 85n7, 91, 100 12, 113, 117 22,
Telephus 149, 175, 179, 182, 188 124 7, 131, 135n25, 178n17
Tereus 134n19, 143 4 veiling 103, 116 7, 119, 202 3
Termilae 75, 79
testimonia 5, 9n6, 14n13, 29, 41 2, 46, Webster, T.B.L 45, 52, 57, 132, 147, 161,
49n3, 50 1, 52n7, 53 5, 60n21, 61n22, 185
73, 167n38 wedding imagery and ritual 4, 113 27
Teucer 52 Weir Smyth, H.W. 43, 68
Thanatos (Death) 68 71 Welcker, Friedrich Gottlieb 22, 25 27,
Thebes 58n15, 60 1, 91, 113, 117n17, 29
119 20, 194, 198, 205 West, M.L. 45
Themisto 132 3 Wilamowitz, U. von 14, 22n3, 24, 38, 43,
Theseus 91n31, 104n93, 132, 146, 153 4, 56, 134 5
167 9, 170 1 Wolf, F.A. 16 17
Thesmophoria 178 9
Thesprotia 88 Xanthos (Xanthus) 71 2, 78
Thetis 70
Thoas (1) 192 3, 197, 206 Zethos 142n59, 142n60
Thoas (2), grandson of (1) 193, 205 6 Zeus 64, 67 8, 70, 77, 79, 90, 93,
Thrace/ Thracians 143, 149, 206 108n113, 123, 141, 191, 193, 195 7

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LOST DRAMAS OF CLASSICAL ATHENS

GREEK TRAGIC FRAGMENTS

Lost Dramas of Classical Athens offers an exciting range of new and

Editors: Fiona McHardy is Lecturer in Classical Civilisation at Roehampton

Edited by Fiona McHardy,

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

ISBN 978 0 85989 752 5

Printed in Great Britain

1 Fragments and their Collectors 7

2 Tragic Thrausmatology: the Study of the Fragments of

3 Euripidean Fragmentary Plays:

4 Lycians in the Cares of Aeschylus 63

5 Spectral Traces: Ghosts in Tragic Fragments 83

6 Death and Wedding in Aeschylus’ Niobe 113

7 From Treacherous Wives to Murderous Mothers:

9 Aristophanes on How to Write Tragedy:

10 HY]<[IPYLE: a Version for the Stage 189

Index of fragmentary plays and ancient passages cited 227

General Index 243

We would like to thank the University of Exeter for providing funding

This volume appears at a time when classical scholars are turning

in fragments of tragedy may be better understood when judged alongside

FRAGMENTS AND THEIR COLLECTORS†

In 1619 a book whose title included the names of Aeschylus, Sophocles

Philologie (Halle 1832) 267 to a declaration of intent by Wyttenbach. In Bibliotheca critica

approximation to an arrangement of a collection of fragments in a way

Austin, Poetae Comici Graeci V, xxi).

9 See n.1 above. The Bibliotheca Attica is printed on pp.1395 1624.

Grammaticam potius quam ad Ethicam pertinebant.’ [‘I tried to increase these

14 S.L. Radt, TrGF IV, 9 13.

(1986) 1 13; id., ‘Sophokles in seinen Fragmenten’ [‘Sophocles in his fragments’] in

anything written by a northern poet living in a wet climate.[29] And as he

ta; me;n didakta; manqavnw, ta; dÅ euJreta;

[What can be taught, I learn; what can be found,

[29 fr. 636 (Tympanistai):

Rudolf Kassel’s magisterial account of scholarship on tragic fragments1

fragments (1839 57) was the forerunner of the collection edited by

9 Dindorf in Schenkl (1863: 312).

of his scholarship. During the quarter-century before the publication of

16 Jouan and van Looy (1998: lxvi n.166).

of Welcker, and dismisses his work as ‘not of much independent value’.32

32 Pearson (1917: xcii with note).

fragments, with condensed critical comments. This amounted to a second

44 Nauck (1869); supplement at xv xxvi.

52 Zielinski (1894: 55).

The importance of Nauck’s collection may easily be measured by the

day.’67 Indeed, as we have seen, he felt it necessary to preface his Index

. . . the difficulty was to find enough baskets in all Behneseh [=

67 Nauck (1892: v vi).

A total of sixty-two baskets of Byzantine archives, that is, not of tragic

admirably thorough bibliography. These works make it unnecessary to cite further

fragments hesitantly ascribed); but after the earliest years, it becomes

IV. After Nauck

96 van Rossum Steenbeck (1998: 12 22).

Herwerden,101 S. Mekler, F.W. Schmidt,102 M. Seyffert, T.G. Tucker and

‘photographic’ view of their material.112

standard practice in Oxford Classical Texts, but particularly unfortunate in

123 See also Kannicht (1997).

V. Individual dramatists, individual dramas