Athenian Cookery and the Symposium.
154. Greek Meal Times.—The streets are becoming empty. The Agora has
been deserted for hours. As the warm balmy night closes over the city
the house doors are shut fast, to open only for the returning master or
his guests, bidden to dinner. Soon the ways will be almost silent, to
be disturbed, after a proper interval, by the dinner guests returning
homeward. Save for these, the streets will seem those of a city of the
dead: patrolled at rare intervals by the Scythian archers, and also
ranged now and then by cutpurses watching for an unwary stroller, or
miscreant roisterers trolling lewd songs, and pounding on honest men’s
doors as they wander from tavern to tavern in search of the lowest
possible pleasures.
We have said very little of eating or drinking during our visit in
Athens, for, truth to tell, the citizens try to get through the day
with about as little interruption for food and drink as possible. But
now, when warehouse and gymnasium alike are left to darkness, all
Athens will break its day of comparative fasting.
Roughly speaking, the Greeks anticipate the latter-day “Continental”
habits in their meal hours. The custom of Germans and of many
Americans in having the heartiest meal at noonday would never appeal to
them. The hearty meal is at night, and no one dreams of doing any
serious work after it. When it is finished, there may be pleasant
discourse or varied amusements, but never real business; and even if
there are guests, the average dinner party breaks up early. Early to
bed and early to rise, would be a maxim indorsed by the Athenians.
Promptly upon rising, our good citizen has devoured a few morsels of
bread sopped in undiluted wine; that has been to him what “coffee and
rolls” will be to the Frenchmen,—enough to carry him through the
morning business, until near to noon he will demand something more
satisfying. He then visits home long enough to partake of a
substantial déjeuner (_ariston_, first breakfast = _akratisma_). He has
one or two hot dishes—one may suspect usually warmed over from last
night’s dinner—and partakes of some more wine. This _ariston_ will be
about all he will require until the chief meal of the day—the regular
dinner (_deïpnon_) which would follow sunset.
155. Society desired at Meals.—The Athenians are a gregarious sociable
folk. Often enough the citizen must dine alone at home with “only” his
wife and children for company, but if possible he will invite friends
(or get himself invited out). Any sort of an occasion is enough to
excuse a dinner-party,—a birthday of some friend, some kind of family
happiness, a victory in the games, the return from, or the departure
upon, a journey:—all these will answer; or indeed a mere love of good
fellowship. There are innumerable little eating clubs; the members go
by rotation to their respective houses. Each member contributes either
some money or has his slave bring a hamper of provisions. In the fine
weather picnic parties down upon the shore are common.[*] “Anything to
bring friends together”—in the morning the Agora, in the afternoon the
gymnasium, in the evening the symposium—that seems to be the rule of
Athenian life.
[*] Such excursions were so usual that the literal expression “Let us
banquet at the shore” σήμερον ἀκτάσωμεν came often to mean simply “Let
us have a good time.”
However, the Athenians seldom gather to eat for the mere sake of animal
gorging. They have progressed since the Greeks of the Homeric Age.
Odysseus[*] is made to say to Alcinoüs that there is nothing more
delightful than sitting at a table covered with bread, meat, and wine,
and listening to a bard’s song; and both Homeric poems show plenty of
gross devouring and guzzling. There is not much of this in Athens,
although Bœotians are still reproached with being voracious, swinish
“flesh eaters,” and the Greeks of South Italy and Sicily are considered
as devoted to their fare, though of more refined table habits.
Athenians of the better class pride themselves on their light diet and
moderation of appetite, and their neighbors make considerable fun of
them for their failure to serve satisfying meals. Certain it is that
the typical Athenian would regard a twentieth century _table d’hôte_
course dinner as heavy and unrefined, if ever it dragged its slow
length before him.
[*] _Odyssey_, IX. 5-10.
156. The Staple Articles of Food.—However, the Athenians have honest
appetites, and due means of silencing them. The diet of a poor man is
indeed simple in the extreme. According to Aristophanes his meal
consists of a cake, bristling with bran for the sake of economy, along
with an onion and a dish of sow thistles, or of mushrooms, or some
other such wretched vegetables; and probably, in fact, that is about
all three fourths of the population of Attica will get on ordinary
working days, always with the addition of a certain indispensable
supply of oil and wine.
Bread, oil, and wine, in short, are the three fundamentals of Greek
diet. With them alone man can live very healthfully and happily;
without them elaborate vegetable and meat dishes are poor substitutes.
Like latter-day Frenchmen or Italians with their huge loaves or
macaroni, _bread_ in one form or another is literally the stuff of life
to the Greek. He makes it of wheat, barley, rye, millet, or spelt, but
preferably of the two named first. The barley meal is kneaded (not
baked) and eaten raw or half raw as a sort of porridge. Of wheat
loaves there are innumerable shapes on sale in the Agora,—slender
rolls, convenient loaves, and also huge loaves needing two or three
bushels of flour, exceeding even those made in a later day in Normandy.
At every meal the amount of bread or porridge consumed is enormous;
there is really little else at all substantial. Persian visitors to
the Greeks complain that they are in danger of rising from the table
hungry.
But along with the inevitable bread goes the inevitable _olive oil_. No
latter-day article will exactly correspond to it. First of all it takes
the place of butter as the proper condiment to prevent the bread from
being tasteless.[*] It enters into every dish. The most versatile cook
will be lost without it. Again, at the gymnasium we have seen its great
importance to the athletes and bathers. It is therefore the Hellenic
substitute for soap. Lastly, it fills the lamps which swing over every
dining board. It takes the place of electricity, gas, or petroleum. No
wonder Athens is proud of her olive trees. If she has to import her
grain, she has a surplus for export of one of the three great
essentials of Grecian life.
[*] There was extremely little cow’s butter in Greece. Herodotus (iv.
2) found it necessary to explain the process of “cow-cheese-making”
among the Scythians.
The third inevitable article of diet is _wine_. No one has dreamed of
questioning its vast desirability under almost all circumstances. Even
drunkenness is not always improper. It may be highly fitting, as
putting one in a “divine frenzy,” partaking of the nature of the gods.
Musæus the semi-mythical poet is made out to teach that the reward of
virtue will be something like perpetual intoxication in the next world.
Æschines the orator will, ere long, taunt his opponent Demosthenes in
public with being a “water drinker”; and Socrates on many occasions has
given proof that he possessed a very hard head. Yet naturally the
Athenian has too acute a sense of things fit and dignified, too noble a
perception of the natural harmony, to commend drunkenness on any but
rare occasions. Wine is rather valued as imparting a happy moderate
glow, making the thoughts come faster, and the tongue more witty. Wine
raises the spirits of youth, and makes old age forget its gray hairs.
It chases away thoughts of the dread hereafter, when one will lose
consciousness of the beautiful sun, and perhaps wander a “strengthless
shade” through the dreary underworld.
There is a song attributed to Anacreon, and nearly everybody in Athens
approves the sentiment:—
Thirsty earth drinks up the rain,
Trees from earth drink that again;
Ocean drinks the air, the sun
Drinks the sea, and him, the moon.
Any reason, canst thou think,
I should thirst, while all these drink?[*]
[*] Translation from Von Falke’s _Greece and Rome_.
157. Greek Vintages.—All Greeks, however, drink their wine so diluted
with water that it takes a decided quantity to produce a “reaction.”
The average drinker takes three parts water to two of wine. If he is a
little reckless the ratio is four of water to three of wine; equal
parts “make men mad” as the poet says, and are probably reserved for
very wild dinner parties. As for drinking pure wine no one dreams of
the thing—it is a practice fit for Barbarians. There is good reason,
however, for this plentiful use of water. In the original state Greek
wines were very strong, perhaps almost as alcoholic as whisky, and the
Athenians have no Scotch climate to excuse the use of such
stimulants.[*]
[*] There was a wide difference of opinion as to the proper amount of
dilution. Odysseus (_Odyssey_, IX. 209) mixed his fabulously strong
wine from Maron in Thrace with twenty times its bulk of water. Hesiod
abstemiously commended three parts of water to one of wine. Zaleucus,
the lawgiver of Italian Locri, established the death penalty for
drinking unmixed wine save by physicians’ orders (_Athenæus_, X. 33).
No wine served in Athens, however, will appeal to a later-day
connoisseur. It is all mixed with resin, which perhaps makes it more
wholesome, but to enjoy it then becomes an acquired taste. There are
any number of choice vintages, and you will be told that the local
Attic wine is not very desirable, although of course it is the
cheapest. Black wine is the strongest and sweetest; white wine is the
weakest; rich golden is the driest and most wholesome. The rocky isles
and headlands of the Ægean seem to produce the best vintage—Thasos,
Cos, Lesbos, Rhodes, all boast their grapes; but the best wine beyond a
doubt is from Chios.[*] It will fetch a mina ($18 [1914 or $310.14
2000]) the “metreta,” _i.e._ nearly 50 cents [1914 or $8.62 2000] per
quart. At the same time you can buy a “metreta” of common Attic wine
for four drachmae (72 cents [1914 or $12.41 2000]), or say two cents
[1914 or 34 cents 2000] per quart. The latter—when one considers the
dilution—is surely cheap enough for the most humble.
[*] Naturally certain foreign vintages had a demand, just because they
were foreign. Wine was imported from Egypt and from various parts of
Italy. It was sometimes mixed with sea water for export, or was made
aromatic with various herbs and berries. It was ordinarily preserved
in great earthen jars sealed with pitch.
158. Vegetable Dishes.—Provided with bread, oil, and wine, no Athenian
will long go hungry; but naturally these are not a whole feast. As
season and purse may afford they will be supplanted by such vegetables
as beans (a staple article), peas, garlic, onions, radishes, turnips,
and asparagus; also with an abundance of fruits,—besides figs (almost a
fourth indispensable at most meals), apples, quinces, peaches, pears,
plums, cherries, blackberries, the various familiar nuts, and of course
a plenty of grapes and olives. The range of selection is in fact
decidedly wide: only the twentieth century visitor will miss the
potato, the lemon, and the orange; and when he pries into the mysteries
of the kitchen a great fact at once stares him in the face. The Greek
must dress his dishes without the aid of sugar. As a substitute there
is an abundant use of the delicious Hymettus honey,—“fragrant with the
bees,”—but it is by no means so full of possibilities as the white
powder of later days. Also the Greek cook is usually without fresh
cow’s milk, and most goat’s milk probably takes its way to cheese. No
morning milk carts rattle over the stones of Athens.
159. Meat and Fish Dishes.—Turning to the meat dishes, we at once
learn that while there is a fair amount of farm poultry, geese, hares,
doves, partridges, etc., on sale in the market, there is extremely
little fresh beef or even mutton, pork, and goat’s flesh. It is quite
expensive, and counted too hearty for refined diners. The average poor
man in fact hardly tastes flesh except after one of the great public
festivals; then after the sacrifice of the “hecatomb” of oxen, there
will probably be a distribution of roast meat to all the worshipers,
and the honest citizen will take home to his wife an uncommon luxury—a
piece of roast beef. But the place of beef and pork is largely usurped
by most excellent fish. The waters of the Ægean abound with fish. The
import of salt fish (for the use of the poor) from the Propontis and
Euxine is a great part of Attic commerce. A large part of the business
at the Agora centers around the fresh fish stalls, and we have seen how
extortionate and insolent were the fishmongers. Sole, tunny, mackerel,
young shark, mullet, turbot, carp, halibut, are to be had, but the
choicest regular delicacies are the great Copaic eels from Bœotia;
these, “roasted on the coals and wrapped in beet leaves,” are a dish
fit for the Great King. Lucky is the host who has them for his dinner
party. Oysters and mussels too are in demand, and there is a
considerable sale of snails, “the poor man’s salad,” even as in
present-day France.
Clearly, then, if one is not captious or gluttonous, there should be no
lack of good eating in Athens, despite the reputation of the city for
abstemiousness. Let us pry therefore into the symposium of some good
citizen who is dispensing hospitality to-night.
160. Inviting Guests to a Dinner Party.—
Who loves thee, him summon to thy board; Far off be he who hates.
This familiar sentiment of Hesiod, one Prodicus, a well-to-do
gentleman, had in mind when he went to the Agora this morning to
arrange for a dinner party in honor of his friend Hermogenes, who was
just departing on a diplomatic mission to the satrap of Mysia. While
walking along the Painted Porch and the other colonnades he had no
difficulty in seeing most of the group he intended to invite, and if
they did not turn to greet him, he would halt them by sending his slave
boy to run and twitch at their mantles, after which the invitation was
given verbally. Prodicus, however, deliberately makes arrangements for
one or two more than those he has bidden. It will be entirely proper
for his guests to bring friends of their own if they wish; and very
likely some intimate whom he has been unable to find will invite
himself without any bidding.
At the Agora Prodicus has had much to do. His house is a fairly large
and well-furnished one, his slaves numerous and handy, but he has not
the cook or the equipment for a really elaborate symposium. At a
certain quarter on the great square he finds a contractor who will
supply all the extra appointments for a handsome dinner party—tables,
extra lamps, etc. Then he puts his slave boy to bawling out:
“Who wants an engagement to cook a dinner?”
This promptly brings forward a sleek, well-dressed fellow whose dialect
declares that he is from Sicily, and who asserts he is an expert
professional cook. Prodicus engages him and has a conference with him
on the profound question of “whether the tunnies or the mullets are
better to-day, or will there be fresh eels?” This point and similar
minor matters settled, Prodicus makes liberal purchases at the fish and
vegetable stalls, and his slaves bear his trophies homeward.
161. Preparing for the Dinner. The Sicilian Cook.—All that afternoon
the home of Prodicus is in an uproar. The score of slaves show a
frantic energy. The aula is cleaned and scrubbed: the serving girls are
busy hanging festoons of leaves and weaving chaplets. The master’s
wife—who does not dream of actually sharing in the banquet—is
nevertheless as active and helpful as possible; but especially she is
busy trying to keep the peace between the old house servants and the
imported cook. This Sicilian is a notable character. To him cookery is
not a handicraft: it is the triumph, the quintessence of all science
and philosophy. He talks a strange professional jargon, and asserts
that he is himself learned in astronomy—for that teaches the best
seasons, _e.g._ for mackerel and haddock; in geometry,—that he might
know how a boiler or gridiron should be set to the best advantage; in
medicine, that he might prepare the most wholesome dishes. In any case
he is a perfect tyrant around the kitchen, grumbling about the
utensils, cuffing the spit-boy, and ever bidding him bring more
charcoal for the fire and to blow the bellows faster.[*]
[*] The Greeks seem to have cooked over a rather simple open fireplace
with a wood or charcoal fire. They had an array of cooking utensils,
however, according to all our evidence, elaborate enough to gladden a
very exacting modern _chef_.
By the time evening is at hand Prodicus and his house are in perfect
readiness. The bustle is ended; and the master stands by the entrance
way, clad in his best and with a fresh myrtle wreath, ready to greet
his guests. No ladies will be among these. Had there been any women
invited to the banquet, they would surely be creatures of no very
honest sort; and hardly fit, under any circumstances, to darken the
door of a respectable citizen. The mistress and her maids are “behind
the scenes.” There may be a woman among the hired entertainers
provided, but for a refined Athenian lady to appear at an ordinary
symposium is almost unthinkable.[*]
[*] In marriage parties and other strictly family affairs women were
allowed to take part; and we have an amusing fragment of Menander as to
how, on such rare occasions, they monopolized the conversation.
162. The Coming of the Guests.—As each guest comes, he is seen to be
elegantly dressed, and to wear now, if at no other time, a handsome
pair of sandals.[*] He has also taken pains to bathe and to perfume
himself. As soon as each person arrives his sandals are removed in the
vestibule by the slaves and his feet are bathed. No guest comes alone,
however: every one has his own body servant with him, who will look
after his footgear and himation during the dinner, and give a certain
help with the serving. The house therefore becomes full of people, and
will be the scene of remarkable animation during the next few hours.
[*] Socrates, by way of exception to his custom, put on some fine
sandals when he was invited to a banquet.
Prodicus is not disappointed in expecting some extra visitors. His
guest of honor, Hermogenes, has brought along two, whom the host greets
with the polite lie: “Just in time for dinner. Put off your other
business. I was looking for you in the Agora and could not find
you.”[*] Also there thrusts in a half genteel, half rascally fellow,
one Palladas, who spends all his evenings at dinner parties, being
willing to be the common butt and jest of the company (having indeed
something of the ability of a comic actor about him) in return for a
share of the good things on the table. These “Parasites” are regular
characters in Athens, and no symposium is really complete without them,
although often their fooleries cease to be amusing.[+]
[*] It is with such a white fib that the host Agathon salutes
Aristodemus, Socrates’s companion in Plato’s _Symposium_.
[+] Of these “Parasites” or “Flies” (as owing to their migratory habits
they were sometimes called), countless stories were told, whereof the
following is a sample: there was once a law in Athens that not over
thirty guests were to be admitted to a marriage feast, and an officer
was obliged to count all the guests and exclude the superfluous. A
“fly” thrust in on one occasion, and the officer said: “Friend, you
must retire. I find one more here than the law allows.” “Dear
fellow,” quoth the “fly,” “you are utterly mistaken, as you will find,
if you kindly count again—only _beginning with me_.”
163. The Dinner Proper.—The Greeks have not anticipated the Romans in
their custom of making the standard dinner party nine persons on three
couches,—three guests on each. Prodicus has about a dozen guests, two
on a couch. They “lie down” more or less side by side upon the
cushioned divans, with their right arms resting on brightly striped
pillows and the left arms free for eating. The slaves bring basis of
water to wash their hands, and then beside each couch is set a small
table, already garnished with the first course, and after the casting
of a few bits of food upon the family hearth fire,—the conventional
“sacrifice” to the house gods,—the dinner begins.
Despite the elaborate preparations of the Sicilian cook, Prodicus
offers his guests only two courses. The first consists of the
substantial dishes—the fish, the vegetables, the meat (if there is
any). Soups are not unknown, and had they been served might have been
eaten with spoons; but Athens like all the world is innocent of forks,
and fingers take their place. Each guest has a large piece of soft
bread on which he wipes his fingers from time to time and presently
casts it upon the floor.[*] When this first course is finished, the
tables are all taken out to be reset, water is again poured over the
hands of the guests, and garlands of flowers are passed. The use of
garlands is universal, and among the guests, old white headed and
bearded Sosthenes will find nothing more undignified in putting himself
beneath a huge wreath of lilies than an elderly gentleman of a later
day will find in donning the “conventional” dress suit. The
conversation,—which was very scattering at first,—becomes more
animated. A little wine is now passed about. Then back come the
tables with the second course—fruits, and various sweetmeats and
confectionary with honey as the staple flavoring. Before this
disappears a goblet of unmixed wine is passed about, and everybody
takes a sip: “To the Good Genius,” they say as the cup goes round.
[*] Napkins were not used in Greece before Roman days.
164. Beginning the Symposium.—Prodicus at length gives a nod to the
chief of his corps of servers.
“Bring in the wine!” he orders. The slaves promptly whisk out the
tables and replace them with others still smaller, on which they set
all kinds of gracefully shaped beakers and drinking bowls. More
wreaths are distributed, also little bottles of delicate ointment.
While the guests are praising Prodicus’s nard, the servants have
brought in three huge “mixing bowls” (_craters_) for the wines which
are to furnish the main potation.
So far we have witnessed not a symposium, but merely a dinner; and many
a proper party has broken up when the last of the dessert has
disappeared; but, after all, the drinking bout is the real crown of the
feast. It is not so much the wine as the things that go with the wine
that are so delightful. As to what these desirable condiments are,
opinions differ. Plato (who is by no means too much of a philosopher
to be a real man of the world) says in his _Protagoras_ that mere
conversation is _the_ thing at a symposium. “When the company are real
gentlemen and men of education, you will see no flute girls nor dancing
girls nor harp girls; they will have no nonsense or games, but will be
content with one another’s conversation.”[*] But this ideal, though
commended, is not always followed in decidedly intellectual circles.
Zenophon[+] shows us a select party wherein Socrates participated, in
which the host has been fain to hire in a professional Syracusian
entertainer with two assistants, a boy and a girl, who bring their
performance to a climax by a very suggestive dumb-show play of the
story of Bacchus and Ariadne. Prodicus’s friends, being solid,
somewhat pragmatic men—neither young sports nor philosophers—steer a
middle course. There is a flute girl present, because to have a good
symposium without some music is almost unimaginable; but she is
discreetly kept in the background.
[*] Plato again says (_Politicus_, 277 _b_), “To intelligent persons, a
living being is more truly delineated by language and discourse than by
any painting or work of art.”
[+] In his _Symposium_—which is far less perfect as literature than
Plato’s, but probably corresponds more to the average instance.
165. The Symposiarch and his Duties.—“Let’s cast for our Symposiarch!”
is Prodicus’s next order, and each guest in turn rattles the dice box.
Tyche (Lady Fortune) gives the presidency of the feast to Eunapius, a
bright-eyed, middle-aged man with a keen sense of humor, but a correct
sense of good breeding. He assumes command of the symposium; takes the
ordering of the servants out of Prodicus’s hands, and orders the wine
to be mixed in the craters with proper dilution. He then rises and
pours out a libation from each bowl “to the Olympian Gods,” “to the
Heroes,” and “to Zeus the Saviour,” and casts a little incense upon the
altar. The guests all sing a _Pæan_, not a warrior’s charging song
this time, but a short hymn in praise of the Wine-God, some lilting
catch like Alcæus’s
In mighty flagons hither bring
The deep red blood of many a vine,
That we may largely quaff and sing
The praises of the God of wine.
166. Conversation at the Symposium.—After this the symposium will
proceed according to certain general rules which it is Eunaius’s duty
to enforce; but in the main a “program” is something to be avoided.
Everybody must feel himself acting spontaneously and freely. He must
try to take his part in the conversation and neither speak too seldom
nor too little. It is not “good form” for two guests to converse
privately among themselves, nor for anybody to dwell on unpleasant or
controversial topics. Aristophanes has laid down after his way the
proper kind of things to talk about.[*] “[Such as]‘how Ephudion fought
a fine pancratium with Ascondas though old and gray headed, but showing
great form and muscle.’ This is the talk usual among refined people
[or again] ‘some manly act of your youth; for example, how you chased a
boar or a hare, or won a torch race by some bold device.’ [Then when
fairly settled at the feast] straighten your knees and throw yourself
in a graceful and easy manner upon the couch. Then make some
observations upon the beauty of the appointments, look up at the
ceiling and praise the tapestry of the room.”
[*] _Wasps_, 1174-1564.
As the wine goes around, tongues loosen more and more. Everybody
gesticulates in delightful southern gestures, but does not lose his
inherent courtesy. The anecdotes told are often very egoistic. The
first personal pronoun is used extremely often, and “I” becomes the
hero of a great many exploits. The Athenian, in short, is an adept at
praising himself with affected modesty, and his companions listen
good-humoredly, and retaliate by praising themselves.
167. Games and Entertainments.—By the time the craters are one third
emptied the general conversation is beginning to be broken up. It is
time for various standard diversions. Eunapius therefore begins by
enjoining on each guest in turn to sing a verse in which a certain
letter must not appear, and in event of failure to pay some ludicrous
forfeit. Thus the bald man is ordered to begin to comb his hair; the
lame man (halt since the Mantinea campaign), to stand up and dance to
the flute player, etc. There are all kinds of guessing of riddles—often
very ingenious as become the possessors of “Attic salt.” Another
diversion is to compare every guest present to some mythical monster, a
process which infallibly ends by getting the “Parasite” likened to
Cerberus, the Hydra, or some such dragon, amid the laughter of all the
rest. At some point in the amusement the company is sure to get to
singing songs:—“Scolia”—drinking songs indeed, but often of a serious
moral or poetic character, whereof the oft-quoted song in praise of
Harmodius and Aristogeiton the tyrant-slayers is a good example.[*] No
“gentleman” will profess to be a public singer, but to have a deep,
well-trained voice, and to be able to take one’s part in the symposium
choruses is highly desirable, and some of the singing at Prodicus’s
banquet is worth hearing.
[*] Given in _Readings in Ancient History_, Vol. I, p. 117, and in many
other volumes.
Before the evening is over various games will be ordered in, especially
the _cottabus_, which is in great vogue. On the top of a high stand,
something like a candelabrum, is balanced rather delicately a little
saucer of brass. The players stand at a considerable distance with
cups of wine. The game is to toss a small quantity of wine into the
balanced saucer so smartly as to make the brass give out a clear
ringing sound, and to tilt upon its side.[+] Much shouting, merriment,
and a little wagering ensues. While most of the company prefer the
cottabus, two, who profess to be experts, call for a gaming board and
soon are deep in the “game of towns”—very like to latter-day
“checkers,” played with a board divided into numerous squares. Each
contestant has thirty colored stones, and the effort is to surround
your opponent’s stones and capture them. Some of the company, however,
regard this as too profound, and after trying their skill at the
cottabus betake themselves to the never failing chances of dice. Yet
these games are never suffered (in refined dinner parties) to banish
the conversation. That after all is the center, although it is not
good form to talk over learnedly of statecraft, military tactics, or
philosophy. If such are discussed, it must be with playful abandon,
and a disclaimer of being serious; and even very grave and gray men
remember Anacreon’s preference for the praise of “the glorious gifts of
the Muses and of Aphrodite” rather than solid discussions of “conquest
and war.”
[+] This was the simplest form of the _cottabus_ game; there were
numerous elaborations, but our accounts of them are by no means clear.
168. Going Home from the Feast: Midnight Revellers.—At length the oil
lamps have begun to burn dim. The tired slaves are yawning. Their
masters, despite Prodicus’s intentions of having a very proper
symposium, have all drunk enough to get unstable and silly. Eunapius
gives the signal. All rise, and join in the final libation to Hermes.
“Shoes and himation, boy,” each says to his slave, and with thanks to
their host they all fare homeward.
Such will be the ending to an extremely decorous feast. With gay young
bloods present, however, it might have degenerated into an orgy; the
flute girl (or several of them) would have contributed over much to the
“freedom”; and when the last deep crater had been emptied, the whole
company would have rushed madly into the street, and gone whirling away
through the darkness,—harps and flutes sounding, boisterous songs
pealing, red torches tossing. Revellers in this mood would be ready
for anything. Perhaps they would end in some low tavern at the Peiræus
to sleep off their liquor; perhaps their leader would find some other
Symposium in progress, and after loud knockings, force his way into the
house, even as did the mad Alcibiades, who (once more to recall Plato)
thrust his way into Agathon’s feast, staggering, leaning on a flute
girl, and shouting, “Where’s Agathon!” Such an inroad would be of
course the signal for more and ever more hard drinking. The wild
invaders might make themselves completely at home, and dictate all the
proceedings: the end would be even as at Agathon’s banquet, where
everybody but Socrates became completely drunken, and lay prone on the
couches or the floor. One hopes that the honest Prodicus has no such
climax to his symposium.
…At length the streets grow quiet. Citizens sober or drunken are now
asleep: only the vigilant Scythian archers patrol the ways till the
cocks proclaim the first gray of dawn.