Aristophanes: The Complete Plays

by Aristophanes

  FIRST SERVANT: Get on with you. It’s the savory smell what’s pulling

  ’im in.

  TRYGAEUS: Pretend we haven’t seen him.

  FIRST SERVANT: Right.

  [HIEROCLES enters.]

  HIEROCLES: Ah, a sacrifice I perceive. To which god, pray tell?

  TRYGAEUS: Don’t answer. Keep on roasting, and hands off the loin.

  HIEROCLES: So you do not deign to say to whom you sacrifice?

  TRYGAEUS: The rump’s doing real nice.

  FIRST SERVANT: So it is, sweet Peace.

  HIEROCLES: Commence to carve, I say, and hand me a prime cut.

  TRYGAEUS: It’s got to be roasted first.

  HIEROCLES: I see morsels there already done.

  TRYGAEUS: Pushy, aren’t you—whoever you are!

  [to FIRST SERVANT]

  Start slicing. . . . Where’s the table? . . . Bring on the wine.

  HIEROCLES: As to the tongue, make sure that you’re precise

  when you incise.

  TRYGAEUS: As if we didn’t know! . . . Tell you what. . . .

  HIEROCLES: What?

  TRYGAEUS: Mind your own business and shut up.

  We’re sacrificing to Peace.

  HIEROCLES: You poor, pathetic mortal flunkies!

  TRYGAEUS: Speak for yourself.

  HIEROCLES: You unevolved who have no idea of heavenly designs:

  you’ve gone and struck a pact with flabbergasted monkeys.

  TRYGAEUS: Ha ha ha!

  HIEROCLES: What’s so funny?

  TRYGAEUS: “Flabbergasted monkeys”—I like that.

  HIEROCLES: Frightened doves trusting in a vixen’s cubs:

  uncanny hearts investing in canny designs.

  TRYGAEUS: You total fraud!

  I hope your rump gets toasted like the roast.

  HIEROCLES: If the heavenly nymphs

  have not led Bacis446 to stray abroad,

  nor nymphs Bacis, nor Bacis mortals . . .

  TRYGAEUS: Belt up and get stuffed with your Bacisizing!

  HIEROCLES: It was not yet ordained that Peace be unchained

  until first . . .

  TRYGAEUS: We sprinkle seasoning onto these pieces.

  HIEROCLES: For the blessed gods had not yet seen fit to cease

  the din of war till wolf lay down in bed with lamb.

  TRYGAEUS: Zonk head, how could wolf ever lie down in bed with

  lamb?

  HIEROCLES:

  Does not the frightened beetle fart in the flight of its zoom?

  Does not the flustered goldfinch produce blind young?

  Even so, the time has not yet come

  for peace to be proclaimed.

  TRYGAEUS: So what do we do instead? Never stop from waging

  war?

  Draw lots to see which side is going to be more . . . maimed?

  When all the time we could rule over Greece together

  and a decent peace be framed.

  HIEROCLES: Never shall you tutor the crab to walk in a straight

  line.

  TRYGAEUS: Never shall you again in the Council Chamber dine, nor go on spouting nonsense all the time.

  HIEROCLES: Never shall you succeed in smoothing the hedgehog’s

  spines.

  TRYGAEUS: Or ever stop bamboozling the Athenian mind.

  HIEROCLES: Pray, what oracle sanctions you to roast thighs for the

  gods?

  TRYGAEUS: We got it out of Homer—who d’you think? “When they had dispersed the hateful cloud of war, They welcomed Peace again and set up her shrine With a victim sacrificed. And when the thighs were burned And the sweetbreads devoured, from their cups they poured Libations, and I led the toast. But to the seer No gleaming cup was offered.”

  HIEROCLES: That does nothing for me. It was not said by the Sibyl.447

  TRYGAEUS: Then what about this, said by Homer the sage,

  and, by God, so true! “Outcast, outclassed, without heart,

  is the man who wants war for his people.”

  HIEROCLES: [eyeing the roast lamb] Take care that a kite doesn’t distract you and charge.

  TRYGAEUS: [to FIRST SERVANT]

  Watch out for that, boy. It’s a sweetbread threat.

  Pour the libation and bring on the sweetbreads.

  HIEROCLES: If that’s what you’re doing I’ll just help myself.

  TRYGAEUS: Pour, boy, pour!

  [FIRST SERVANT pours some drops of wine on the ground and then fills TRYGAEUS’ goblet.]

  HIEROCLES: Pour some for me, and pass the sweetbreads please.

  TRYGAEUS:

  No, for the blessed gods have not seen fit to cease

  the din of war until . . . we’ve had a good swill.

  [to HIEROCLES] Scram!

  My Lady Peace, abide with us long.

  HIEROCLES: May I have the tongue?

  TRYGAEUS: No, and remove yours.

  Boy, pour away, pour . . . and have some of these.

  [He hands FIRST SERVANT some sweetbreads and they eat and drink.]

  HIEROCLES: Is nobody going to give me any?

  TRYGAEUS: No, not until

  the wolf goes to bed with the lamb.

  HIEROCLES: Oh please!

  TRYGAEUS: You’re wasting your time,

  for never shall you succeed

  in smoothing the hedgehog’s spines.

  Hey, spectators,

  come and share some sweetbreads with us.

  HIEROCLES: [kneeling with outstretched arms] What about me?

  TRYGAEUS: Go and eat your Sibyl.

  HIEROCLES: [rising indignantly]

  I swear by Mother Earth, that is most uncivil.

  You’re not going to eat all that by yourselves,

  I’m grabbing some—it’s up for grabs.

  TRYGAEUS: Batter him, boy. Batter this Bacis!

  [TRYGAEUS and FIRST SERVANT round on him.]

  HIEROCLES: [to audience] You witness this?

  TRYGAEUS: I do, and I see a glutton and a crook.

  Boy, let him have it with the stick.

  FIRST SERVANT: Sir, you do the beating

  while I peel off the sheepskins he got by cheating.

  Off with the sheepskins, you sacrificing sham!

  TRYGAEUS: Do you hear?

  [HIEROCLES sheds the sheepskins he is wearing and runs.]

  TRYGAEUS: There goes the craven raven

  back where he came from—Oreus.

  Fly to Elymnium448 as fast as you can

  and well away from us.

  STROPHE

  CHORUS:

  Wonderful! Wonderful!

  Finished with helmets and

  Onions and cheese

  Battles are done with

  But bending the elbow

  With friends by a fire

  Sparking the logs that

  Were uprooted last summer

  So tinderly dry now;

  Toasting the chickpeas;

  Roasting the acorns;

  Kissing the Thracian

  Au pair while the wife

  Is having her bath:

  That is the life.

  LEADER:

  Yes, there’s nothing more pleasing than grain in the ground

  And a god sprinkling his rain and a neighbor saying:

  “Party Man, how shall we spend the day?

  Drinking no doubt, because heaven is happy.”

  So get the beans mixed with barley sizzling,

  And bring out some figs, and have Syra call

  Manes449 in from the fields. Today’s no day

  To spend in pruning. The ground is all a mush.

  We’ll have those two finches and the thrush,450

  And there ought to be some cream and four

  Fillets of hare, unless last night the cat

  Went off with them. What a racket there was in there!

  What a thrashing about!

  Anyway, boy, fix

  Three of the fillets for us

 
; And one for my father.

  And go to Aeschines451 and get him to give you six

  Twigs of myrtle452 heavy with berries. And since

  It’s on your way, shout to Charinades‡

  To join us for drinks.

  The god is looking after the crops today.

  ANTISTROPHE

  CHORUS:

  Oh, as the cicadas

  Are chirping away

  I’ll happily amble

  To look at my vines

  (Naturally early ones,

  Lemnian vines),

  And see if my figs

  Are swelling and big.

  I’ll guzzle and guzzle.

  This season is great.

  With mortar and pestle

  I’ll pummel some thyme

  To flavor a cordial. . . .

  By midsummer (late)

  I’m putting on weight.

  LEADER:

  More weight than you would by standing to attention

  Before a goddamn brigadier with his triple plumes

  And scarlet uniform, dyed, he says, in genuine

  Dye from Sardis, but should there ever come some times

  When he had to fight in such an outfit, he’d turn pale

  And be the first to run, triple plumes and all,

  Leaving me to guard the nets and hold the line.

  Stationed at home his conduct was abominable,

  Fiddling with roll calls, rubbing out and adding names

  Once, twice, thrice: “We’re moving out tomorrow. . . .”

  And there’s some poor devil who hasn’t brought his rations,

  With no inkling he was being posted till he happened

  To glance at the garrison notice board pasted

  On Pandion’s453 statue, and there he sees his name,

  And off he scurries, bewildered and full of sorrow.

  That is how they treat us people from the country,

  Less so people from the city.

  Oh, they’re a worthless lot:

  Cowards throwing their shields away.

  But, God willing, they

  Will account to me one day,

  These lions at home,

  But when it comes to a fight,

  Foxes that sit tight.

  [TRYGAEUS and FIRST SERVANT come out of the house.]

  TRYGAEUS: Yipee! What a crowd is coming to my wedding feast!

  [handing FIRST SERVANT some helmet plumes]

  Here, clean off the table with these;

  They won’t be needed anymore.

  Then bring on the cakes and the thrushes,

  and lashings of dumplings and hare.

  [FIRST SERVANT goes into the house as a SICKLE SELLER arrives bringing wedding presents.]

  SICKLE SELLER: Where, for heaven’s sake, is Trygaeus?

  TRYGAEUS: Stewing thrushes.

  SICKLE SELLER: [recognizing him in his wedding outfit]

  Oh, Trygaeus, my dear fellow,

  You’ve made my day by making peace:

  no one would give a nickel for a sickle until now,

  but today they go for sixty drachmas apiece;

  and this man here gets three drachmas for his farmers’ barrels.

  So help yourself, Trygaeus,

  to as many barrels and sickles as you want—for nothing.

  [holding out wedding presents]

  Accept these wedding gifts as well:

  they’re from our profits and sales.

  TRYGAEUS: Fine! Leave them with me here and go inside for dinner.

  I see an irate helmet maker coming.

  [SICKLE SELLER goes inside as HELMET SELLER, BREASTPLATE SELLER, BUGLE SELLER, SPEAR SELLER, and POTTER arrive with wedding presents.]

  HELMET SELLER: Trygaeus, you’ve finished me—wiped me out. TRYGAEUS: Why so crestfallen, deadhead? What’s it all about?

  HELMET SELLER: You’ve annihilated me—him and this spear maker,

  too:

  destroyed our calling.

  TRYGAEUS: Very well, what do you want for these helmets—this pair?

  HELMET SELLER: What are you offering?

  TRYGAEUS: What am I offering? I’m almost ashamed to say. . . .

  There’s a lot of work in this fastening here.

  How about three quarts of dried figs?

  HELMET SELLER: Done! Go and get the figs.

  [TRYGAEUS goes inside.]

  Well it’s better than nothing, chum.

  [TRYGAEUS reemerges and takes the helmets in his hands.]

  TRYGAEUS: But these are molting. To hell with them.

  Get them off the premises.

  I wouldn’t give a single sodding fig for them.

  BREASTPLATE SELLER: What d’yer say to this well-wrought breastplate?

  Cost price ten minas.

  TRYGAEUS: All right! You won’t lose by that, I promise. . . .

  And it’ll make a good chamber pot.

  BREASTPLATE SELLER: That’s an insult to my work.

  TRYGAEUS: What if I support it with three stones? . . . No?

  BREASTPLATE SELLER: But how will you wipe yourself, you dumb

  cluck?

  TRYGAEUS: Like this: one hand through this hole,

  one hand through that.

  BREASTPLATE SELLER: You mean you’re going to sit

  on a ten-mina breastplate and shit?

  TRYGAEUS: You bet, you damned crook!

  D’you think for a thousand drachmas I’d sell my tail?

  BREASTPLATE SELLER: Very well, go and get the brass.

  TRYGAEUS: On second thoughts, pal,

  I don’t want it. It’ll produce a rash on my arse.

  [BREASTPLATE SELLER retires disconsolate.]

  BUGLE SELLER: So what about this bugle here?

  Cost me sixty drachmas.

  TRYGAEUS: Pour lead into the funnel,

  then into the mouthpiece stick a pole,

  and you could play cottabus.454

  BUGLE SELLER: You’re laughing at me!

  TRYGAEUS:

  All right, here’s another idea:

  pour in the lead as I said,

  then at one end fix scales with a piece of string

  and you’ve got yourself the very thing

  for weighing figs for your farmworkers.

  HELMET SELLER: [butting in and holding out two helmets]

  O pitiless fate, you have ruined me!

  These once cost me a handful of smackers.

  What’ll I do with them now?

  How find them buyers?

  TRYGAEUS: Go and sell them to the Egyptians.

  They’re perfect for measuring out laxatives.

  BUGLE SELLER: A frigging shame, ain’t it, helmet maker!

  We’re both in the stew.

  TRYGAEUS: I don’t see why. You’re still intact.

  HELMET SELLER: Still intact?

  With all those useless helmets on my hands?

  TRYGAEUS: Know what they lacked? . . . Handles,

  like your two ears. Fix these and you’ll make a profit.

  HELMET SELLER: Come away, Spearman. Let’s quit.

  TRYGAEUS: No, no, I’m on the very point

  of buying his spears.

  SPEAR SELLER: Depends on what he gives.

  TRYGAEUS: Sawn in two they’d do for vine poles:

  Hundred for a drachma.

  SPEAR SELLER: How he jeers—taking us for fools.

  Let’s get out, mate.

  TRYGAEUS: Excellent idea, for here come the boys,

  our visitors’ children, no doubt to piss

  before they rehearse the lays

  they’re going to sing—or so I suppose.

  [FIRST BOY and SECOND BOY arrive as BUGLE SELLER, SPEAR SELLER, HELMET SELLER, and POTTER hurry away.]

  FIRST BOY: [pedantically]

  Let us sing the song of young men of fighting age.

  TRYGAEUS: Stop right there!

  Not wanted a song of bleeding young men of fighting age.

  We’
re at peace, you damned ignorant brat!

  FIRST BOY: [in stolid recitative]455

  “Charging onwards they came to close quarters and smashed

  Shield against shield and boss of buckler ’gainst boss.”

  TRYGAEUS: Enough about shields—shields put me on edge.

  FIRST BOY: “Cheers from the heroes mingled with groans then arose.”

  TRYGAEUS: You’ll be the one that groans if you sing of groans—

  groans with knobs on, by Dionysus, I swear.

  FIRST BOY: Then tell me what you would like me to sing of instead.

  TRYGAEUS: “And so on the flesh of beeves they feasted,” that sort of

  thing.

  “Breakfast was set before them; on many a dainty they fed.”

  FIRST BOY: “Thus did they feast on the flesh of beeves and then unloosed

  from their harness the sweating necks of their steeds.”

  TRYGAEUS: That’s it: “They were sated with fighting and fell to eating.”

  Sing of that: sated with fighting and falling to eating.

  FIRST BOY: “And when they were done they started to pour . . .”

  TRYGAEUS: That’s the stuff!

  FIRST BOY: “. . . down from the turrets and then the unstoppable roar

  of battle began to engulf . . .”

  TRYGAEUS: To hell with you and your battles, contemptible urchin! All you can sing of is war. Whose son are you, anyway?

  FIRST BOY: Me?

  TRYGAEUS: Of course, you!

  FIRST BOY: Son of Lamachus.

  TRYGAEUS: [back to parodying Homer]

  Oh brother!

  Naturally I wondered as I heard you whether

  You were not the offspring of some benighted hero

  Itching for a fight and sorry ever after.

  Off with you, and sing a song of spearmen!

  But where is Cleonymus’s little nipper?