by Aristophanes
the dastard mettle of their keenness,
their sense of justice—
their very glance as hot as mustard.
[The CHORUS attacks as HATECLEON and XANTHIAS emerge carrying a smoke pot and sticks.]
HATECLEON: Hey, boy, Xanthias,
beat off these wasps, boy, from the house.
XANTHIAS: Exactly what I’m doing. You smoke them out.
HATECLEON: Shoo! Shoo! Off to the crows with you!
Your stick, boy, let loose—lay about.
XANTHIAS: Blow Aeschines306 at them. Blast them with hot air.
[The CHORUS retreats.]
HATECLEON: I knew we would fend them off at last.
LOVECLEON: You wouldn’t have won with such ease
if they’d been chewing on a ditty of Philocles.307
CHORUS: Isn’t it now patently clear
How tyranny creeps up near
And gets us from behind?
And you, you noisome nauseating nuisance,
Deprive us of our long-established legal puissance,
With no justification
Of any kind
But by compulsion.
HATECLEON: Might I suggest that we deal in dialogue and discussion
without all this shouting and concussion?
CHORUS: What? Discussion with you,
you antidemocratic monarchymonger,
crony of Brassidas,308 you fringed and curly-bearded creature!
HATECLEON: My God, I’d be better off to forget about my father,
instead of this never-ending day-by-day palaver:
an ocean of disorder its chief feature.
LEADER: Why, you’re not yet past the rue and parsley,‡
and there’s a ten-gallon worth of words to come.
Your discomfort at this moment is quite minimal
and need not cause excitement.
But wait till you hear yourself branded as a criminal
at the indictment.
HATECLEON: In heaven’s name, stop badgering me! Or has it been decided that we play at flaying and being flayed the livelong day?
CHORUS: No, I won’t stop,
so long as there’s a puff of breath still in me—
not against a man who’s plotting tyranny.
HATECLEON: Tyranny and conspiracy? There you go again
the moment one gives an opinion the slightest airing.
It’s been a good fifty years since I’ve even heard the word,
but now it’s commoner than pickled herring.
Just listen to the way it crops up in the marketplace.
If someone buys perch and not anchovy,
the anchovy seller in the next stall pipes up: “What a disgrace!
See him? He buys fish like a tyrant.”
And if he asks for an onion to pep up his sardines,
“See that?” says the offended lady selling greens.
“He wants an onion because he wants to be a tyrant.
He thinks Athens has to humor him—how errant!”
XANTHIAS: Yesterday afternoon when I went to my tart’s place
and said, “Ride me,” she snapped back:
“So you think you’re that tyrant horsey Hippias!”309
HATECLEON: Exactly! That’s what people like to hear
and what’s been applied to me.
Just because I want my father
to curb his morning-haunting-courtroom-pleading and his
suit-pursuing-nuisance-hunger,310
and live a gentlemanly life like Morychus,‡
I’m called a conspiratorial tyrantmonger.
LOVECLEON: Quite right, too! Not for bird milk would I undo the way of life you want to alter; and as for skate and eel, I’d much rather sit down to a meal of lawsuit stew.
HATECLEON: Of course you would: that’s your peculiar passion,
but if you’ll just shut your mouth and open your mind
you’ll find the total nonsense of this fashion.
LOVECLEON: Judging, nonsense?
HATECLEON: And this as well:
you have no idea what a laughingstock you are
to the people to whom you crawl,
no inkling you’re a slavish heel.
LOVECLEON: Slave? The very thought!
I am master of the lot.
HATECLEON: Not you. You’re just a lackey who thinks he’s boss.
Tell me, Papa,
out of all that’s on offer from Greece,
what’s your share?
LOVECLEON: A lot, and I want these here to referee between us.
HATECLEON: I agree.
The rest of you can let him free.
[The SERVANTS who had kept LOVECLEON from bolting go back into the house.]
LOVECLEON: Then give me a sword.
If I’m worsted in words with you
I’m going to fall on a sword.
HATECLEON: Tell me without hesitation
what you intend to do
if you don’t accept the arbitration?
LOVECLEON: I’ll never take another sip
of undiluted chartered premium spirit . . . of the law.
CHORUS: So let’s see what our man will do.
He’ll have to be smart and, what’s more,
New. . . . Come cheer him on.
HATECLEON: Bring my notebook right now on the double,
And we’ll see what is this fellow’s mettle:
If that’s what you’re telling him to settle.
CHORUS: To master the stripling in debate:
That’s the deal.
You can see it’s going to be a fight
And that everything’s at stake. If the youngster—let’s hope not—Comes out on top. . . .
HATECLEON: I’m keeping the score—to make quite sure.
LOVECLEON: And if he beats me in debate
What’s your decision then?
CHORUS: Then it’s all over for us old men.
They’ll jeer at us oldies all over town,
Calling us ancient olive bearers:311
Mere courtroom husks.
LEADER: I call you all to set the precedent
For the whole realm.
Nurture your stamina, launch your tongue
Into these tasks.
LOVECLEON: Indeed I will, and shall immediately make evident
that the realm of jurisprudence
is not one whit inferior to a king’s.
What in the world is there more fortunate and blessed
than a judge?
What more cosseted or commanding kudos it brings,
however old he be.
For a start, I crawl out of bed for the courthouse
and there men are waiting for me,
every one of them a six-foot stooge.
As I advance,
one of them, with a hand that has picked the public purse,
gives me a caress.
They grovel and whine, pouring out tales of their distress:
“Pity me, Father, please.
Perhaps you, too, once dipped your hand in the till
when you were in charge,
or when you were caterer for soldiers’ rations.”
This from someone who wouldn’t have known I existed
had I not once got him off with cautions.
HATECLEON: Ah, solicitations? . . . Let me make a note of that.
LOVECLEON: So, after being solicited and my anger appeased,
I enter the courts and do nothing, of course,
about any pledge I had proposed,
but simply listen to every sort of alibi.
Is there a single tale of woe that I
haven’t heard in court?
Some whine about how poor they are
and go on and on about their lot
till it almost seems as desperate as mine.
Others spin yarns or tell funny tales from Aesop.312
Others try to make me laugh,
or crack joke
s as a kind of sop to my anger.
If any of this fails to move us
he hauls his kids in by the hand,
boys and girls,
and I have to listen and look kind
while they whimper and grovel in chorus,
and their father, quivering as if I were a god,
begs me, for their good,
not to probe too hard into his livelihood.
“If you enjoy the bleat of the lamb,
please pity the cry of the kid.”313
Indeed!
If I enjoy a bit of pig, I am, that is, ought to
be touched by his crying daughter.
So we muzzle a little our wrath.
Isn’t that the height of power
and mockery of wealth?
HATECLEON: “Mockery of wealth”—let me make a note of that as
well.
Now kindly tell us
what you gain by this supposed hold on Hellas.
LOVECLEON: Well for a start,
when boys are paraded for registration
we get a good look at their dicks.
And if Oeagrus314 stands in the docks
he won’t get off till he gives us a recitation
from Niobe315—his most famous part.
And should a piper earn his
claim, the fee he pays us attorneys
is to dress up in his uniform
and pipe us an envoi as we leave the courtroom.
And if a father on his deathbed
bequeaths to someone his millionairess daughter
we simply tell that will and testament to stand on its head,
same with the pretty little clasps and solemn seals,
and we award that girl
to someone we consider oughter
make it worth our while . . . and all this is done
with no accounting to anyone:
a feat unique in all officialdom.
HATECLEON: That last remark, out of all you’ve said,
is the only thing that I applaud,
and to make free of the heiress’s fortune
is very bad.
LOVECLEON: But there is more.
When Senate and Public
are baffled in an important matter
they vote to hand over the delinquents to the Law.
Meanwhile, Euathlus‡ here and Kolakomenus,§
our hefty, ever so brave buckler chucker,
swear never to undermine the fabric
of any of us but fight for the populace.
No one is to propose a bill in Parliament unless
the proposer proposes a recession
after the very first session.
And Cleon himself, the greatest barker,
is not going to bite us.
Oh no, he’s going to hug us
with one arm and swat flies with the other. . . .
You’ve never done as much for your father.
But Theorus,
who’s no less Mr. Big than Euphemius,316
is there on the spot with brush and bottle
to clean and polish my shoes.
So you see all the perks you’re making me lose
by locking me up and trying to throttle
my every endeavor, which you intended to spoil,
insisting they were nothing less
than slavery and toil and moil.
HATECLEON: Go on, deflate yourself!
You’ll stop waffling, I daresay—in time
and exhibit yourself as an arsehole in its prime
that none of your solemn affidavits will wash away.
LOVECLEON: But the nicest part of the lot,
which I almost forgot,
is when I come home with my pay.
Everyone welcomes me at the door because of the loot.
First my daughter washes my feet
and anoints them and bends down for a kiss,
murmuring: “Dear, dear Papa!”
as she fishes for the three-obol piece
I tried to hide in my cheek.
Next the little wife spoils me and cuddles,
and brings me barley scones and cake,
then sits by my side and wheedles:
“Eat this. Taste that.”
All of which I adore, and I don’t have to make
overtures to your butler to discover
when he’ll deign to dish up my dinner
(cursing all the time and muttering).
And if he’s slow in kneading my dough
for cookies, I don’t care. I’ve got dough of my own:
a marvelous shield against suffering.
And should you not offer me a glass of wine,
it matters nothing.
I’ve already filled my donkey flask with wine
on the way home.
So I simply tip it up and pour it down.
And as it opens up it blows out a fart
at the cup you own, like a sergeant major.
Am I not as powerful as Zeus?
The courtroom, say, resounds with noise and abuse,
And I hear people exclaim: “By Zeus,
The Judge can stage a
Mighty thunder;”
And if I flash
Like lightning, all the posh and plush
Scream out: “Hush!”
And gasp out a prayer
And pee in their underwear.
I am quite sure, too, that I fill you
With fear. Oh yes, I swear
By Demeter, you fear
Me, but never do I fear you.
CHORUS: And never before have we heard anyone
Expounding the truth with so much acumen.
LOVECLEON: He thought he’d raid my unprotected vines.
Now he knows I’m master of what’s mine.
CHORUS: You covered everything, missing not a thing,
So sure, that I for one
Listened in awe as if I saw
Myself a judge in the islands of the sun.
Hearing you, I was enthralled.
LOVECLEON: Yes, we’ve given him the fidgets. He’s not well,
and today I’ll make him look like someone given hell.
CHORUS: [to HATECLEON]
Now you’ll have to twist and twine
To get unhooked and win your claim.
It’s pretty hard for a callow lad
To appease my wrath when what I’ve heard
Is not in my line.
LEADER: You haven’t a hope of grinding down my rage
unless you’ve something exceptional to say.
So better look for a millstone straight away
with a rugged gage.
HATECLEON: It’s a difficult and tricky business trying to cure
a city with a chronic and long-ingrained disease
well beyond the brain cells of a comic.
Nevertheless,
Son of Cronus and our father, you are—
LOVECLEON: None of that! Don’t pull fathering!
The question was: in what way am I a slave?
If you can’t tell me that straight away
I’ll have to strike you dead:
a sacrifice at which I’ll not be fed.317
HATECLEON: Then listen, Papakins, and wipe away those frowns.
Reckon roughly on your fingers—no need of abacus—
how much comes to us
in revenue from the allied towns.
Then make a separate list of how much we get in fees,
mining rights, harbor rights, imports, and court dues,
markets, rents, and penalties.
The gross income from all this
comes to nearly two thousand talents.
Now calculate what we spend on judges every year—
all six thousand of them—judges galore!—
and you come up with—what’s the balance?—
a measly hundred and fifty talents.
LOVECLEON: So our salaries
don’t even come to a tithe of the revenue?
HATECLEON: Hell, no!
LOVECLEON: Then where does the rest go?
HATECLEON: It goes to that horde of the
“I won’t let down the Athenian people,”
and “I’ll fight for the hoi polloi.”
They are the cartel you choose to rule you, Dad,
and these are the slogans they employ.
They put the squeeze on the allied cities
to cough up fifty talents apiece,
frightening them with: “Pass along the tax,
or I’ll give your city the thundering bloody ax.”
Meanwhile, you make do
with nibbling the rind of your own realm,
till the allies tumble to the sad fact
that you and all your dismantled tribes
are starving on the pittance they get from suits and
claims,
hardly daring to spend a penny.
Naturally they vote you Simpleton of the Year
while they besiege the courts with bribes:
smoked fish, wine, carpets, cheese, honey,
sesame seed, and beer,
cushions, goblets, capes, crowns, necklaces, and tankards,
a pretty haul for health and wealth,
While you,
you who have trekked and trawled,
get not from any
single one of them so much as a bud of garlic for your stew.
LOVECLEON: Not on your life!
I had to send to Eucharides318 for three cloves.
But that’s not the point:
you’re not enlightening me about my slavery.
HATECLEON: Slavery? Not half!
To have all these parasites and their relatives
holding office and given grants,
while you thank high heaven for three miserable obols
earned by sweat and grunts,
rowing, campaigning, besieging.
What’s more,
you’re under orders. It really sticks in my craw
when some bugger like Chaeras’319 son
comes undulating along,
opening up his legs like this,
all dolled up and wiggling his arse,
and orders you to report at some unearthly hour
for courtroom duties, and on the dot,
and anybody responding to this summons late
will not, definitely not,
get his three obols.
He, of course,
as court advocate gets his six however late;
and if there’s a bribe from a plaintiff in the offing,
he splits it with one of his doubles,
almost laughing.
They go at it like a team, a couple
of men sawing: one pushing, the other pulling.