THE WOMEN’S FESTIVAL.--THE ECCLESIAZUSÆ.
The ‘Thesmophoriazusæ,’ as this piece is called in the Greek, is a
comedy in which, as in the ‘Lysistrata,’ the fair sex play the chief
part, although its whole point lies in a satire (though scarcely so
severe as that in ‘The Frogs’) upon Euripides, whom our author was never
tired of holding up to ridicule. The secret history of this literary
quarrel we shall never know; if indeed there was really any quarrel
which could have a history, and if the unceasing jests which
Aristophanes dealt out in this and other comedies against his brother
dramatist were not mainly prompted by the fact that his tragedies were
highly popular, universally known and quoted, and therefore an excellent
subject for the caricature and parody which were the essence of this
style of comedy. It has been remarked that the conservative principles
of the comic author are supposed to have been scandalised by the
new-fashioned ideas of the tragedian: but the shafts of his ridicule are
directed much more frequently against the plots and versification of
Euripides’s plays than against his philosophy.[50]
The ‘Thesmophoria,’ or great feast of Ceres and Proserpine, from which
this comedy takes its name, was exclusively a women’s festival, and none
of the other sex were allowed to be present at its celebration.
Euripides had the reputation among his contemporaries of being a
woman-hater, and he had undoubtedly said bitter things of them in many
of his tragedies.[51] But to those who remember his characters of
Iphigenia, and Theonöe, and the incomparable Alcestis, the reproach may
well seem much too general. However, in this comedy the women of Athens
are supposed to have resolved upon his condign punishment; and at this
next festival they are to sit in solemn conclave, to determine the mode
in which it is to be carried out. Euripides has heard of it, and is in
great dismay. He goes, in the opening scene, accompanied by his
father-in-law Mnesilochus, to his friend and fellow-dramatist Agathon,
to beg him to go to the festival disguised in woman’s clothes, and there
plead his cause for him. He would do it himself, but that he is so well
known, and has such a huge rough beard, while Agathon is really very
lady-like in appearance. In fact, he is used to the thing; for he always
wears female attire when he has to write the female parts in his
tragedies--it assists the imagination: as Richardson is said not to have
felt equal to the composition of a letter to one of his
lady-correspondents unless he sat down in full dress. Agathon contents
himself, by way of reply, with asking his petitioner whether he ever
wrote this line in a certain tragedy, in which a son requests his father
to be so good as to suffer death in his stead--
Thou lovest thy life,--why not thy father too?
And when Euripides cannot deny the quotation from his ‘Alcestis,’ his
friend recommends him not to expect other people to run risks to get
_him_ out of trouble.
Upon this, Mnesilochus takes pity upon his son-in-law, and consents to
undertake the necessary disguise, though it will require very close
shaving--an operation which Euripides immediately sets to work to
perform upon the stage, while Agathon supplies him with the necessary
garments. Euripides promises that, should his advocate get into any
difficulties, he will do his best to extricate him by some of those
subtle devices for which his tragedies are so celebrated. He offers to
pledge himself by an oath to this effect; but Mnesilochus begs it may be
a mental oath only--reminding him of that unfortunate line of his which
we have already found Bacchus quoting against him in ‘The Frogs’--
It was my tongue that swore, and not my mind.
The scene is changed to the temple of Ceres, where the women hold
solemn debate upon the crimes of the poet. He has vilely slandered the
sex, and made them objects of ridicule and suspicion. One of their
number puts in a claim of special damages against him; she had
maintained herself and “five small children” by making wreaths for the
temples, until this Euripides began to teach people that “there were no
gods,” and so ruined her trade. The disguised Mnesilochus rises to
defend his relative. But the apology which the author puts into his
mouth is conceived in the bitterest spirit of satire. He shows that the
tragedian, far from having slandered the ladies, has really dealt with
them most leniently. True, he has said some severe things of them, but
nothing to what he _might_ have said. And he proceeds to relate some
very scurrilous anecdotes, to show that the sex is really much worse
than the poet has represented it. He is repeatedly interrupted, in spite
of his protests in behalf of that freedom of speech which is the
admitted right of every Athenian woman. How was it, asks one of the
audience, that Euripides never once took the good Penelope as the
subject of a tragedy, when he was always so ready to paint characters
like Helen and Phædra? Mnesilochus answers that it was because there are
no wives like Penelope nowadays, but plenty of wives like Phædra.
His audience are naturally astonished and indignant at this unexpected
attack from one of their own number. Who is this audacious woman, this
traitress to her sex? No one knows her, of course: and it is whispered
that there is a man among them in disguise. There is a terrible uproar
in the meeting, and the intruder, after a sharp cross-examination by a
shrewish dame, is soon detected. To save himself from the vengeance of
the exasperated women, he flies for refuge to the altar, snatching a
baby from one of their number, and (like Dicæopolis in ‘The
Acharnians’)[52] threatens to kill it at once unless they let him go.
But the women who have no babies display a good deal of indifference to
his threats, and vow they will burn him, then and there, whatever
happens to the unfortunate hostage. Mnesilochus proceeds to strip it,
when, lo! it turns out to be nothing more or less than a wine-skin in
baby’s clothes. He will cut its throat, nevertheless. The foster-mother
is almost as much distressed as if it were a real child.
_Woman._ Hold, I beseech you! Never be so cruel!
Do what you will with me, but spare my darling.
_Mnes._ I know you love it--it’s a woman’s weakness--
But, none the less, its blood must flow to-day.
_Wom._ O my poor child!--Bring us a bowl, dear Mania!
If it must die, do let us catch its blood.
_Mnes._ Well--hold it under. I’ll oblige you. (_Slits
the wine-skin, and drinks off the contents._) There!
And here’s the skin of the victim--for the priestess.
Mnesilochus is detained in custody until the constables can be sent for.
In this strait he naturally looks to Euripides, on whose account he has
got into trouble, to come and help him according to promise. And from
this point the whole action of the piece becomes the broadest burlesque
upon the tragedies of that author, which only an Athenian audience, to
whom every scene and almost every line was familiar, could fully
appreciate. Indeed no comedy of Aristophanes illustrates so strongly
what the character of this audience was, and how, with all their love
for coarseness and buffoonery, the poet saw in the masses who filled
that vast amphitheatre a literary “public” the like of which was never
seen before or since.
How then is the prisoner to communicate his situation to Euripides? He
will do what that poet makes his own “Palamedes” do in the
tragedy--write a message containing his sad story upon the oars, and
throw them out. But there are no oars likely to be found in the temple.
He substitutes some little images of the gods, which are at hand, and
throws them off the stage--a double blow at the alleged profanity of the
tragedian and at his far-fetched devices.
The interval is filled up by a song from the Chorus of Women, the first
part of which is light and playful enough, and so thoroughly modern in
its tone that it does not lose much in a free translation:--
They’re always abusing the women,
As a terrible plague to men:
They say we’re the root of all evil,
And repeat it again and again;
Of war, and quarrels, and bloodshed,
All mischief, be what it may:
And pray, then, why do you marry us,
If we’re all the plagues you say?
And why do you take such care of us,
And keep us so safe at home,
And are never easy a moment,
If ever we chance to roam?
When you ought to be thanking heaven
That your Plague is out of the way--
You all keep fussing and fretting--
“Where _is_ my Plague to-day?”
If a Plague peeps out of the window,
Up go the eyes of the men;
If she hides, then they all keep staring
Until she looks out again.
But Euripides, supposed (with a good deal of theatrical licence) to have
been summoned by the message so oddly despatched, does not appear to his
rescue. “It must be because he is so ashamed of his Palamedes,” says
Mnesilochus--“I’ll try some device from another of his tragedies--I’ll
be Helen, that’s his last--I’ve got the woman’s dress on, all ready.”
And he proceeds to quote, from the tragedy of that name, her invocation
to her husband Menelaus to come to her aid. This second appeal is
successful; the poet enters, dressed in that character; and a long
dialogue takes place between the two, partly in quotation and partly in
parody of the words of the play,--to the considerable mystification of
the assembled women. But it is in vain that the representative of
Menelaus tries to take his Helen “back with him to Sparta.” The police
arrive, and Mnesilochus is put in the stocks. And there he remains,
though various devices from other tragedies, which give occasion for
abundant parody, are tried to rescue him: forming a scene which,
supposing again that the peculiar style of well-known actors was
cleverly imitated, must lose nearly all its humour when read instead of
being heard and seen. But the Athenian police show themselves as
insensible to theatrical appeals and poetic quotations as their London
representatives would probably be. At last Euripides offers terms of
peace to the offended ladies: he will never abuse them in future, if
they will only let his friend off now. They agree, so far as they are
concerned; but the prisoner is now in the hands of the law, and
Euripides must deal with the law’s representatives for his release. It
is effected by the commonplace expedient of bribing the constable on
duty; and so the burlesque ends,--somewhat feebly, according to our
modern requirements.
THE ECCLESIAZUSÆ.
“The Female Parliament,” as the name of this comedy may be freely
rendered, was not produced until nineteen years after the play last
noticed, but may be classed with it as being also in great measure
levelled against the sex. It is a broad but very amusing satire upon
those ideal republics, founded upon communistic principles, of which
Plato’s well-known treatise is the best example. His ‘Republic’ had been
written, and probably delivered in the form of oral lectures at Athens,
only two or three years before, and had no doubt excited a considerable
sensation. But many of its most startling principles had long ago been
ventilated in the Schools; and their authorship has been commonly
attributed, as was also the art of “making the worse cause appear the
better,” with very much besides of the sophistical teaching of the day,
to Protagoras of Abdera.
The women have determined, under the leadership of a clever lady named
Praxagora, to reform the constitution of Athens. For this purpose they
will dress like men--beards included--and occupy the seats in the Pnyx,
so as to be able to command a majority of votes in the next public
Assembly, the parliament of Athens. Praxagora is strongly of opinion,
with the modern Mrs Poyser, that on the point of speaking, at all
events, the women have great natural advantages over the men; that “when
they have anything to say, they can mostly find words to say it in.”
They hold a midnight meeting for the purpose of rehearsing their
intended speeches, and getting accustomed to their new clothes. Two or
three of the most ambitious orators unfortunately break down at the very
outset, much to their leader’s disgust, by addressing the Assembly as
“ladies,” and swearing female oaths, and using many other
unparliamentary expressions quite unbefitting their masculine attire.
Praxagora herself, however, makes a speech which is very generally
admired. She complains of the mismanagement hitherto of public affairs,
and asserts that the only hope of salvation for the state is to put the
government into the hands of the women; arguing, like Lysistrata in the
other comedy, that those who have so long managed the domestic
establishment successfully are best fitted to undertake the same duties
on a larger scale. The women, too, are shown by their advocate to be
highly conservative, and therefore safe guardians of the public
interests:--
They roast and boil after the good old fashion,
They keep the holidays that were kept of old,
They make their cheesecakes by the old receipts,
They keep a private bottle, like their mothers,
They plague their husbands--as they always did.
Even in the management of a campaign, they will be found more prudent
and more competent than the men:--
Being mothers, they’ll be chary of the blood
Of their own sons, our soldiers; being mothers,
They will take care their children do not starve
When they’re on service; and, for ways and means,
Trust us, there’s nothing cleverer than a woman.
And as for diplomacy, they’ll be hard indeed
To cheat--they know too many tricks themselves.
Her speech is unanimously applauded; she is elected lady-president on
the spot, by public acclamation, and the Chorus of ladies march off
towards the Pnyx to secure their places, like the old gentleman in ‘The
Wasps,’ ready for daybreak.
In the next scene, two of the husbands enter in great perplexity, one
wrapped in his wife’s dressing-gown, and the other with only his
under-garment on, and without his shoes. They both want to go to the
Assembly, but cannot find their clothes. While they are wondering what
in the world their wives can have done with them, and what is become of
the ladies themselves, a third neighbour, Chremes, comes in. He has
been to the Assembly; but even he was too late to get the threepence
which was allowed out of the public treasury to all who took their seat
in good time, and which all Athenian citizens, if we may trust their
satirist, were so ludicrously eager to secure. The place was quite full
already, and of strange faces too. And a handsome fair-faced youth
(Praxagora in disguise, we are to understand) had got up, and amid the
loud cheers of those unknown voters had proposed and carried a
resolution, that the government of the state should be placed in the
hands of a committee of ladies,--an experiment which had found favour
also with others, chiefly because it was “the only change which had not
as yet been tried at Athens.” His two neighbours are somewhat confounded
at his news, but congratulate themselves on the fact that the wives will
now, at all events, have to see to the maintenance of the children, and
that “the gods sometimes bring good out of evil.”
The women return, and get home as quickly as they can to change their
costume, so that the trick by which the passing of this new decree has
been secured may not be detected. Praxagora succeeds in persuading her
husband that she had been sent for in a hurry to attend a sick
neighbour, and only borrowed his coat to put on “because the night was
so cold,” and his strong shoes and staff, in order that any
evil-disposed person might take her for a man as she tramped along, and
so not interfere with her. She at first affects not to have heard of the
reform which has been just carried, but when her husband explains it,
declares it will make Athens a paradise. Then she confesses to him that
she has herself been chosen, in full assembly, “Generalissima of the
state.” She puts the question, however, just as we have all seen it put
by a modern actress,--“Will this house agree to it?” And if Praxagora
was at all attractively got up, we may be sure it was carried by
acclamation in the affirmative. Then, in the first place, there shall be
no more poverty; there shall be community of goods, and so there shall
be no lawsuits, and no gambling, and no informers. Moreover, there shall
be community of wives,--and all the ugly women shall have the first
choice of husbands. So she goes off to her public duties, to see that
these resolutions are carried out forthwith; the good citizen begging
leave to follow close at her side, so that all who see him may say,
“What a fine fellow is our Generalissima’s husband!”
The scene changes to another street in Athens, where the citizens are
bringing out all their property, to be carried into the market-place and
inventoried for the common stock. Citizen A. dances with delight as he
marshals his dilapidated chattels into a mock procession--from the
meal-sieve, which he kisses, it looks so pretty with its powdered hair,
to the iron pot which looks as black “as if Lysimachus” (some well-known
fop of the day, possibly present among the audience) “had been boiling
his hair-dye in it.” This patriot, at least, has not much to lose, and
hopes he may have something to gain, under these female communists. But
his neighbour, who is better off, is in no such hurry. The Athenians, as
he remarks, are always making new laws and abrogating them; what has
been passed to-day very likely will be repealed to-morrow. Besides, it
is a good old national habit to _take_, not to _give_. He will wait a
while before he gives in any inventory of his possessions.
But at this point comes the city-beadle (an appointment now held, of
course, by a lady) with a summons to a banquet provided for all citizens
out of the public funds: and amongst the items in the bill of fare is
one dish whose name is composed of seventy-seven syllables--which
Aristophanes gives us, but which the reader shall be spared. Citizen B.
at once delivers it as his opinion that “every man of proper feeling
should support the constitution to the utmost of his ability,” and
hurries to take his place at the feast. There are some difficulties
caused, very naturally, by the new communistic regulations as to
providing for the old and ugly women, but with these we need not deal.
The piece ends with an invitation, issued by direction of Praxagora
through her lady-chamberlain, to the public generally, spectators
included, to join the national banquet which is to inaugurate the new
order of things. The “tag,” as we should call it in our modern
theatrical slang, spoken from what in a Greek theatre was equivalent to
the footlights in a London one, by the leader of the Chorus of ladies,
neatly requests, on the author’s behalf, the favourable decision of
judges and spectators:--
One little hint to our good critics here
I humbly offer; to the wise among you,
Remember the wise lessons of our play,
And choose me for my wisdom. You, again,
Who love to laugh, think of our merry jests,
And choose me for my wit. And so, an’t please you,
I bid you all to choose me for the crown.
And let not this be counted to my loss--
That ’twas my lot to be presented first:
But judge me by my merits, and your oaths;
And do not take those vile coquettes for tutors,
Who keep their best smiles for their latest suitors.
It is plain from the whole character of this play, as well as from the
‘Lysistrata’ and the ‘Women’s Festival,’ that whatever reason the
Athenian women might have had for complaining of their treatment at the
hands of Euripides, they had little cause to congratulate themselves
upon such an ally as Aristophanes. The whip of the tragic poet was as
balm compared with the scorpions of the satirist. But it must be borne
in mind, in estimating these unsparing jests upon the sex which we find
in his comedies, as well as the coarseness which too often disfigures
them--though it is but a poor apology for either--that it is very
doubtful whether it was the habit for women to attend the dramatic
performances. Their presence was certainly exceptional, and confined
probably under any circumstances to the less public festivals, and to
the exhibitions of tragedy. But women had few acknowledged rights among
the polished Athenians. They laughed to scorn the notion of the ruder
but more chivalric Spartan, who saluted his wife as his “lady,” and
their great philosopher Aristotle reproached the nation who could use
such a term as being no better than “women-servers.” These “women’s
rights” have been a fertile source of jest and satire in all times, our
own included; but there is a wide interval in tone and feeling between
the Athenian poet’s Choruses of women, and the graceful picture, satire
though it be, drawn by the English Laureate, of the
“Six hundred maidens clad in purest white
Before two streams of light from wall to wall.”[53]