THE FROGS.
The point of the satire in this comedy is chiefly critical, and directed
against the tragedian Euripides, upon whom Aristophanes is never weary
of showering his ridicule. There must have been something more in this
than the mere desire to raise a laugh by a burlesque of a popular
tragedian, or the satisfaction of a purely literary dislike. It is
probable, as has been suggested, that our conservative and aristocratic
author looked upon Euripides as a dangerous innovator in philosophy as
well as in literature; one of the “new school” at Athens, whom he was so
fond of contrasting with the “men of Marathon.”
Bacchus, the patron of the drama, has become disgusted with its present
state. He finds worse writers now in possession of the stage than
Euripides; and he has resolved upon undertaking a journey to Tartarus,
to bring him back to earth again. He would prefer Sophocles; but to get
away from the dominions of Pluto requires a good deal of scheming and
stratagem: and Sophocles is such a good easy man that he is probably
contented where he is, while the other is such a clever, contriving
fellow, that he will be sure to find some plan for his own escape.
Remembering the success of Hercules on a similar expedition to the lower
regions, Bacchus has determined to adopt the club and the lion’s skin,
in order to be taken for that hero. Followed by his slave Xanthias--who
comes in riding upon an ass (a kind of classical Sancho Panza), and
carrying his master’s luggage--he calls upon Hercules on his way, in
order to gather from him some information as to his route,--which is the
best road to take, what there is worth seeing there, and especially what
inns he can recommend, where the beds are reasonably clean, and free
from those disagreeable bedfellows with which the Athenians of old seem
to have been quite as well acquainted as any modern Londoner.
Hercules laughs to himself at the figure which his brother deity cuts in
a costume so unsuited to his habits and character, and answers him in a
tone of banter. Bacchus wants to know the shortest and most convenient
road to the regions of the dead.
“_Her._ “Well,--which shall I tell ye first, now? Let me see--
There’s a good convenient road by the Rope and Noose--
The Hanging Road.
_Bac._ No, that’s too close and stifling.
_Her._ Then there’s an easy, fair, well-beaten track,
As you go by the Pestle and Mortar.
_Bac._ What, the Hemlock?
_Her._ To be sure.
_Bac._ That’s much too cold,--it will never do.
They tell me it strikes a chill to the legs and feet.
_Her._ Should you like a speedy, rapid, downhill road?
_Bac._ Indeed I should, for I’m a sorry traveller.
_Her._ Go to the Keramicus, then.
_Bac._ What then?
_Her._ Get up to the very top of the tower--
_Bac._ What then?
_Her._ Stand there and watch when the Race of the Torch begins;
And mind, when you hear the people cry ‘Start, start!’
Then start at once with ’em.
_Bac._ Me? Start? Where from?
_Her._ From the top of the tower to the bottom.
_Bac._ No, not I.
It’s enough to dash my brains out! I’ll not go
Such a road upon any account.”--(F.)
Bacchus gets the needful information at last, and sets out on his
journey--not without some remonstrance from his slave as to the weight
of the luggage he has to carry. Surely, Xanthias says, there must be
some dead people going that way on their own account, in a conveyance,
who would carry it for a trifle? His master gives him leave to make such
an arrangement if he can--and as a bier is borne across the stage,
Xanthias stops it, and tries to make a bargain with the occupant. The
dead man asks eighteenpence; Xanthias offers him a shilling; the other
replies that he “would rather come to life again,” and bids his bearers
“move on.”
There must have been some kind of change of scene, to enable the
travellers to arrive at the passage of the Styx, where Charon’s
ferry-boat is in waiting. He plies his trade exactly after the fashion
of a modern omnibus-conductor. “Any one for Lethe, Tænarus, the Dogs,
or No-man’s-Land?” “You’re sure you’re going straight to Hell?” asks the
cautious traveller. “Certainly--to oblige you.” So Bacchus steps into
the boat, begging Charon to be very careful, for it seems very small and
crank, as Hercules had warned him. But Charon carries no
slaves--Xanthias must run round and meet them on the other side. The god
takes his place at the oar, at the ferryman’s bidding (but in very
awkward “form,” as a modern oarsman would term it), to work his passage
across: and an invisible Chorus of Frogs, who give their name to the
piece--the “Swans of the Marsh,” as Charon calls them--chant their
discordant music, in which, nevertheless, occur some very graceful
lines, to the time of the stroke. It must be remembered that the oldest
temple of Bacchus--the Lenæan--was known as that “In the Marsh,” and it
was there that the festival, was held at which this piece was brought
forward.
The chant of the Frogs dies away in the distance, and the scene changes
to the other side of the infernal lake, where Xanthias was to await the
arrival of his master. It does not seem likely that any means could have
been adopted for darkening a stage which was nearly five hundred feet
broad, and open to the sky: but it is plain that much of the humour of
the following scene depends upon its being supposed to take place more
or less in the dark. Probably the darkness was conventional, and only by
grace of the audience--as indeed must be the case to some extent even in
a modern theatre.
[_Enter Bacchus, on one side of the stage._]
_B._ Hoy! Xanthias!--Where’s Xanthias?--I say, Xanthias!
[_Enter Xanthias, on the other side._]
_X._ Hallo!
_B._ Come here, sir,--quick!
_X._ Here I am, master!
_B._ What kind of a place is it, out yonder?
_X._ Dirt and darkness.
_B._ Did you see any of those perjurers and assassins
He told us of?
_X._ Aye,--lots. (_Looking round at the audience._)
I see ’em now--don’t you?
_B._ (_looking round_). To be sure I do, by Neptune! now I see ’em!--
What shall we do?
_X._ Go forward, I should say;
This is the place where lie those evil beasts--
The monsters that he talked of.
_B._ Oh! confound him!
He was romancing--trying to frighten me,
Knowing how bold I was--jealous, that’s the fact:
Never was such a braggart as that Hercules!
I only wish I _could_ fall in with something--
Some brave adventure, worthy of my visit.
_X._ Stop!--there!--by Jove, I heard a roar out yonder!
_B._ (_nervously_). Where, where?
_X._ Behind us.
_B._ (_pushing himself in front of Xanthias_). Go behind, sir, will you?
_X._ No--it’s in front.
_B._ (_getting behind Xanthias again_). Why don’t you go in front, then?
_X._ Great Jupiter! I see an awful beast!
_B._ What like?
_X._ Oh--horrible! like everything!
Now it’s a bull--and now a stag--and now
A beautiful woman!
_B._ (_jumping from behind X., and pushing him back_).
Where?--Let me go first!
_X._ It’s not a woman now--it’s a great dog!
_B._ (_in great terror, getting behind X. again_).
Oh!--it’s the Empusa![47]
_X._ (_getting frightened_). It’s got eyes like fire,
And its face all of a blaze!
_B._ And one brass leg?
_X._ Lawk-a-mercy, yes!--and a cloven foot on the other
--It has indeed!
_B._ (_looking round in terror_). “Where can I get to--tell me?
_X._ “Where can I go? (_runs into a corner._)
_B._ (_makes as if he would run into the arms of the Priest
of Bacchus, who had a seat of honour in the front
row._)
Good priest, protect me!--take me home to supper![48]
_X._ (_from his corner_). We’re lost--we’re lost!
O Hercules, dear master!
_B._ (_in a frightened whisper_). Don’t call me by
that name, you fool--don’t, don’t!
_X._ Well,--Bacchus, must I say?
_B._ No-o!--that’s worse still!
_X._ (_to something in the distance_). Avaunt, there!
go thy ways! (_Joyfully._) Here, master! here!
_B._ What is it?
_X._ Hurrah! take heart! we’ve had the greatest luck--
We can say now, in our great poet’s words,--
“After a storm there comes a calm.”--It’s gone!
_B._ Upon your oath?
_X._ Upon my oath.
_B._ You swear it?
_X._ I swear it.
_B._ Swear again.
_X._ I swear--by Jupiter.
But now the sound of flutes is heard in the distance, and with music and
torches, a festive procession enters the orchestra. A parody of the
great Eleusinian mysteries (for even these were lawful game to the
comedy-writer) introduces the true Chorus of this play, consisting of
the ‘Initiated,’ who chant an ode, half serious half burlesque, in
honour of Bacchus and Ceres. They direct the travellers to the gates of
Pluto’s palace, which are close at hand. Bacchus eyes the awful portal
for some time before he ventures to lift the knocker, and is very
anxious to announce himself in the most polite fashion. “How do people
knock at doors in these parts, I wonder?”
“_Æac._ (_from within, with the voice of a royal and
infernal porter_). Who’s there?
_Bac._ (_with a forced voice_). ’Tis I,--the valiant Hercules.
_Æac._ (_coming out_). Thou brutal, abominable, detestable,
Vile, villanous, infamous, nefarious scoundrel!
How durst thou, villain as thou wert, to seize
Our watchdog Cerberus, whom I kept and tended,
Hurrying him off half-strangled in your grasp?
But now, be sure, we have you safe and fast,
Miscreant and villain! Thee the Stygian cliffs
With stern adamantine durance, and the rocks
Of inaccessible Acheron, red with gore,
Environ and beleaguer, and the watch
And swift pursuit of the hideous hounds of hell,
And the horrible Hydra with her hundred heads,
“Whose furious ravening fangs shall rend and tear thee.”--(F.)
Before the terrible porter has ended his threats, Bacchus has dropped to
the ground from sheer terror. “Hallo!” says Xanthias, “what’s the
matter?” “I’ve had an accident,” says his master, recovering himself
when he sees that Æacus is gone. But finding that the _rôle_ of Hercules
has so many unforeseen responsibilities, he begs Xanthias to change
dresses and characters,--to relieve him of the club and lion’s skin,
while he takes his turn with the bundles. No sooner has the change been
effected, than a waiting-woman of Queen Proserpine makes her
appearance--she has been sent to invite Hercules to supper. She
addresses herself, of course, to Xanthias:--
“Dear Hercules! so you’re come at last! come in!
For the goddess, as soon as she heard of it, set to work
Baking peck-loaves, and frying stacks of pancakes,
And making messes of frumenty: there’s an ox,
Besides, she has roasted whole, with a relishing stuffing.”--(F.)
There is the best of wine, besides, awaiting him--and such lovely
singers and dancers!
Xanthias, after some modest refusals, allows himself to be persuaded,
and prepares to follow his fair guide, bidding his master look after the
luggage. But Bacchus prefers on this occasion to play the part of
Hercules himself, and insists on each resuming their original
characters,--the slave warning him that he may come to rue it yet. The
warning soon comes true. Before he can get to the palace, he is seized
upon by a brace of infernal landladies, at whose establishments
Hercules, on his previous visit, has left some little bills unpaid.
“Hallo!” says one lady, “here’s the fellow that ate me up sixteen
loaves!” “And me a score of fried cutlets at three-halfpence apiece,”
says the other, “And all my garlic!” “And my pickled fish, and the new
cream-cheeses, which he swallowed rush-baskets and all! and then, when I
asked for payment, he only grinned and roared at me like a bull, and
threatened me with his sword.” “Just like him!” says Xanthias. After
abusing poor Bacchus, and shaking their fists in his face, they go off
to fetch some of the infernal lawyers; and Bacchus once more begs
Xanthias to stand his friend, and play Hercules again,--he shall really
be Hercules for the future,--the part suits him infinitely better. The
slave consents, and again they change dresses, when Æacus comes in with
the Plutonian police. He points out to them the representative of
Hercules--“Handcuff me this fellow that stole the dog!” But Xanthias is
not easily handcuffed; he stands on his defence; protests that “he
wishes he may die if he was ever that way before;”--he “never touched a
hair of the dog’s tail.” If Æacus won’t believe him, there stands his
slave--he may take and torture him, after the usual fashion, and see
whether he can extract any evidence of guilt. This seems so fair a
proposal that Æacus at once agrees to it.
“_Æac._ (_to Bac._) Come, you--put down your bundles, and make ready.
And mind--let me hear no lies.
_Bac._ I’ll tell you what--
I’d advise people not to torture me;
I give you notice--I’m a deity;
So mind now--you’ll have nobody to blame
But your own self.
_Æac._ What’s that you’re saying there?
_Bac._ Why, that I’m Bacchus, Jupiter’s own son;
That fellow there’s a slave (_pointing to Xanthias_).
_Æac._ (_to Xanthias_). Do you hear?
_Xan._ I hear him:
A reason the more to give him a good beating;
If he’s immortal, he need never mind it.”--(F.)
Æacus proceeds to test their divinity, by administering a lash to each
of them in turn; but they endure the ordeal so successfully, that at
last he gives it up in despair.
“By the Holy Goddess, I’m completely puzzled!
I must take you before Proserpine and Pluto--
Being gods themselves, they’re likeliest to know.
_Bac._ Why, that’s a lucky thought!--I only wish
It had happened to occur before you beat us.”--(F.)
There is an interval of choral song, with a political bearing, during
which we are to suppose that Bacchus is being entertained at the
infernal court, while Xanthias improves his acquaintance with Æacus in
the servants’ hall, or whatever might be the equivalent in Pluto’s
establishment. The conversation between the two is highly confidential.
“Your master seems quite the gentleman,” says Æacus. “Oh! quite,” says
Xanthias”--he does nothing but game and drink.” They find that life
“below stairs” is very much the same in Tartarus as it is in the upper
regions; and both agree that what they enjoy most is listening at the
door, and discussing their masters’ secrets with their own friends
afterwards. While the two retainers are engaged in this interesting
conversation, a noise outside attracts the new-comer’s attention. “Oh,”
says Æacus, “it’s only Æschylus and Euripides quarrelling. There’s a
tremendous rivalry going on just now among these dead people.” He
explains to his guest that special rank and precedence, with a seat at
the royal table, is accorded in the Shades to the artist or professor
who stands first in his own line. Æschylus had held the chair of tragedy
until Euripides appeared below: but now this latter has made a party in
his own favour--“chiefly of rogues and vagabonds”--and has laid claim to
the chair. Æschylus has his friends among the respectable men; but
respectable men are as scarce in the Shades--“as they are in this
present company,” observes Æacus, with a wave of his hand towards the
audience.[49] So Pluto (who appears a very affable and good-humoured
monarch) has determined that there shall be a public trial and
discussion of their respective merits. Sophocles has put in no claim on
his own behalf. The tribute which his brother dramatist here pays him is
very graceful: “The first moment that he came, he went up straight to
Æschylus and saluted him, and kissed his cheek, and took his hand quite
kindly, and Æschylus edged a little from his seat, to give him room.”
But--if Euripides is elected against Æschylus, Sophocles will challenge
his right. The difficulty is to find competent judges, Æschylus has
declined to leave the decision to the Athenians--he has no confidence in
their honesty or their taste. [A bold stroke of personal satire, we
might think, from a candidate for the dramatic crown of the festival, as
against those whose verdict he was awaiting; the author was perhaps
still smarting (as Brunck suggests) from the reception his “Clouds” had
met with: but he knew his public--it was just the thing an Athenian
audience would enjoy.] It had been already proposed to get Bacchus, as
the great patron of the drama, to sit as judge in this controversy, so
that his present visit has been most opportune; and whichever of the
rival poets he places first, Pluto promises to allow his guest to take
back to earth with him.
The contest between the rival dramatists takes place upon the stage, in
full court, with Bacchus presiding, and the Chorus encouraging the
competitors. It is extended to some length, but must have been full of
interest to a play-loving audience, thoroughly familiar with the
tragedies of both authors. Some of the points we can even now quite
appreciate. Æschylus, in the hands of Aristophanes, does not spare his
competitor.
“A wretch that has corrupted everything--
Our music with his melodies from Crete,
Our morals with incestuous tragedies.
* * * * *
I wish the place of trial had been elsewhere--
I stand at disadvantage here.
_Bac._ As how?
_Æs._ Because my poems live on earth above,
And his died with him, and descended here,
And are at hand as ready witnesses.”--(F.)
Euripides retorts upon his rival the use of “breakneck words, which it
is not easy to find the meaning of”--a charge which some modern
schoolboys would be quite ready to support. The two poets proceed, at
the request of the arbitrator, each to recite passages from their
tragedies for the other to criticise: and if we suppose, as we have
every right to do, that the voice and gestures of some well-known
popular tragedian were cleverly mimicked at the same time, we should
then have an entertainment of a very similar kind to that which Foote
and Matthews, and in later days Robson, afforded to an English audience
by their remarkable imitations.
After various trials of skill, a huge pair of scales is produced, and
the verses of each candidate are weighed, as a test of their comparative
value. Still Bacchus cannot decide. At last he puts to each a political
question--perhaps _the_ question of the day--which has formed the
subject of pointed allusion more than once in the course of the play.
Alcibiades, long the popular favourite, has recently been banished, and
is now living privately in Thrace;--shall he be recalled? Both answer
enigmatically; but the advice of the elder poet plainly tends to the
policy of recall, which was no doubt the prevailing inclination of the
Athenians. In vain does Euripides remind Bacchus that he had come there
purposely to bring him back, and had pledged his word to do so. The god
quotes against him a well-known verse from his own tragedy of
‘Hippolytus,’ with the sophistry of which his critics were never tired
of taunting him--
It was my _tongue_ that swore.
And Æschylus, crowned by his decision as the First of Tragedians, is led
off in triumphal procession in the suite of the god of the drama, with
Pluto’s hearty approbation. He leaves his chair in the Shades to
Sophocles,--with strict injunctions to keep Euripides out of it.
This very lively comedy, the humour of which is still so intelligible,
seems to have supplied the original idea for those modern burlesques
upon the Olympian and Tartarian deities which were at one time so
popular. For some reason it was not brought out in the author’s own
name; but it gained the first prize, and was acted a second time,
probably in the same year--an honour, strange to say, very unusual at
Athens.