The other woman, the one who wanted to smooth out her flax, started up as well.
“Those awful owls with their dismal hooting! I can’t get a wink of rest, and I’m just dying of insomnia!”
The flute imitated the hooting of the owls.
“You wicked women, have done with your tricks!” cried Lysistrata, losing patience. “You want your husbands, that’s plain enough. But don’t you think they want you just as badly? They are spending dreadful nights, oh! I know that well enough. But hold out, my dears, hold out! A little more patience, and . . . ”
The women leaned toward her, their interest piqued.
“Why?”
Lysistrata had held back this plot twist as a last resort, but the situation was already fairly dire, she needed to go all in.
“Because there’s an oracle who promises us success, if only we remain united. Here it is,” she declared, pulling out a shard of pottery covered with graffiti.
“Tell us what’s written there!” the women cried, recovering their spirits.
“Silence!”
Lysistrata lifted the shard to see better, and then began reciting the archaic and mysterious text in a grim and hollow voice—it is well known that if an oracle spoke in everyday language, no one would pay the slightest attention.
“Whenas the swallows, fleeing before the hoopoes, shall have all flocked together in one place, and shall refrain them from all amorous commerce, then will be the end of all the ills of life; yea, and Zeus, who doth thunder in the skies, shall set above what was erst below.”
“What! shall the men be underneath in bed?” a woman interrupted in delight.
Lysistrata shot her an angry glare, then resumed her reading.
“But if dissension do arise among the swallows, and they take wing from the holy temple, it will be said there is never a more wanton bird in all the world, and never so bitterly shall those swallows take it up the ass,” she concluded hastily, accompanied by a thunderous drumroll. The audience loudly snickered.
“Ye gods! the prophecy is clear!” approved the woman who wanted to pound her flax. The one who had pretended to be pregnant threw her arms wide and agreed: the prophecy was clear, and how!
Lysistrata grabbed them by the shoulders and pushed them toward the door.
“So let us take care not to ruin everything. Come, my dears, let’s go back inside. It would be shameful indeed not to obey the oracle.”
And as the women were returning to the Acropolis, the old men and the old women of the chorus filled their time by berating each other and trading punches and kicks. But the audience had no time to relax and enjoy the spectacle, because Lysistrata almost immediately reappeared on the roof of the house and began to rant.
“Help, women, hurry to my side!”
“What is it? Why are you shouting?” the other women asked, leaning over the roof.
“A man! a man! I see him approaching, and he’s mad. No, wait, he’s all afire with the flames of love that Venus has set. Oh! divine Queen of Cyprus and Cythera, I pray you still be propitious to our enterprise!”
“Yes, indeed, we see him; but who is he?” the women shrilled.
“Look, look! do any of you recognize him?”
Myrrhine came out with a mask of amazement, round eyes wide open.
“I do, by Zeus! It’s my husband Cinesias!”
“Well then, it’s your turn. Toss him in the frying pan, flip him once and again, and leave him burning with frustration: kiss him, then stop kissing him, in other words, let him do almost everything to you, but remember your oath!” an excited Lysistrata instructed her.
“Have no fear, I know what to do,” Myrrhine promised.
“Well, I shall stay here to help you cajole the man and set his passions aflame. We’ll fry him to a turn. You lot, out!” Lysistrata ordered the rest of the women.
From a side flight of stairs a man burst in, ran up the steps, and took a stance at the foot of the Acropolis. He had an outsized phallus, painted red all over.
“Oh, alas, poor me, how hard it is, how it spasms: Oh! I am racked on the wheel!”
“Who is this that dares to pass our lines?” Lysistrata confronted him.
“It is I,” the man muttered.
“A man!?”
“So you see!” said the poor fellow, pointing to his phallus.
“Get out from underfoot!”
“And who are you to send me packing?” the man rebelled.
“The sentinel.”
“In the name of the gods, summon me Myrrhine!”
“Yes, wait and see, I’ll call her for you! But just who would you be?”
“Her husband, Cinesias, son of Screuon.”
The audience, hardly surprising to say, snickered. It didn’t even bother Aristophanes anymore. If you want to be a playwright, you have to develop a thick skin as far as the audience’s tastes are concerned.
“Why, my dear man, hello!” Lysistrata crowed in delight. “Your name is well known to us, you’re famous here. Your wife always has you in her mouth! If she eats an egg or an apple, she always says ‘to Cinesias’s health.’”
“Oh, by the gods!” the poor man squirmed.
“Why, yes indeed,” Lysistrata confirmed. “And if we fall to talking of men, quickly your wife declares that all the others are garbage in comparison with Cinesias.”
“Then please hasten to call her to see me!”
“Why? Will you give me something for my trouble?”
“Oh yes, by the gods, anything you wish! I have this here,” suggested Cinesias, jumping in place and pointing to the phallus, “everything I have I’ll give to you!”
Lysistrata vanished from the roof and, a second later, she reappeared at the door. She circled Cinesias, carefully examining the phallus, palpating, knocking with her knuckles on the head, which echoed with the wood of which it was made; she leaned down and pressed her ear against it to listen, winked knowingly at the spectators, paced around it for a little while longer, then made up her mind.
“All right, hold on, I’ll go inside and call her for you.”
“Go in haste!” Cinesias implored. “There’s no more joy in life for me since she left home. I return home with my heart in my feet, everything seems drab and empty, I no longer take any pleasure in my meals. It’s always, unfailingly hard!”
From inside the house came the voice of Myrrhine.
“I love him, oh! I love him; but he won’t let himself be loved by me. No! don’t bother calling me for him!”
Cinesias leapt in place and twisted his hands in dismay. At last Lysistrata reappeared on the roof, dragging behind her Myrrhine, decked out with a most ferocious mask. At the sight of her, Cinesias fell shamelessly to his knees.
“Oh, little Myrrhine, my sweetheart, why are you acting this way? Come down to me quick!”
“I won’t come!”
“But it’s me who’s calling you, won’t you come, Myrrhine?”
“You have no need of me, don’t call me.”
Cinesias started in surprise.
“I have no need of you? Why, I’m on my deathbed!”
“I’m leaving then,” Myrrhine said brusquely; and she turned away with great dignity. But Cinesias had a secret weapon. He gestured, and a slave came galloping up with a rag doll.
“No, come, come, at least listen to the child! And you, come on, don’t you call your mommy? Mommy, Mommy, Mommy! What do you say to that, eh? Doesn’t the child break your heart? It hasn’t been washed or nursed for a whole week!”
“Certainly it breaks my heart: but its father couldn’t care less!”
“Come down, blessed woman, for the child’s sake!”
Myrrhine pretended to hesitate.
“What a thing it is to be a mother! I’ll come down then, how can I resist?”
Cinesias cautiously got to his feet, as if afraid that his prey might slip through his fingers. He forgot the child on the ground.
“To me she even seems years younger, she’s another woman, sweeter than ever!” the husband confided to the delighted audience. “Even if she plays hard to get and acts sullen: in fact, you know, that is exactly what makes me throb with desire!”
Myrrhine threw open the door and came out. She’d changed her mask: now she was smiling coquettishly. She ignored the open arms of the walking phallus and bent over with a little shriek to pick up the child.
“My sweet little baby, what a bad bad Papa! Let me kiss you, Mama’s little gumdrop!”
Cinesias objected.
“Shame on you, why are you behaving this way? Don’t listen to the other women, you’re just causing me pain and sorrow for yourself!”
The man reached out his hands, but Myrrhine took a step back.
“Get your hands off me, you brute!”
Cinesias took another step forward and had almost grabbed her, but Myrrhine popped the baby back into his arms. The man looked down at the child and furrowed his brow, then decided to change tactics.
“Everything we have at home, my riches and yours,” he specified sweetly, “you’re going to leave it all to rack and ruin!”
“I don’t give a damn,” Myrrhine retorted coldly.
“But what about your weaving, which the hens are pecking apart in the courtyard?”
“I care not, by the gods.”
“And after all the goddess isn’t happy if we let all this time go by without doing it. Don’t you want to come home?”
“I’m not coming home until you sign this truce and be done with the war.”
“All right, if the assembly so decides, we’ll do this too!”
“All right, if the assembly so decides, I’ll come home with you. But for now, I’ve sworn I won’t!” Myrrhine parroted him.
Cinesias was baffled and confused.
“Come on, sweetheart, lie down a little while here with me.”
“No! . . . But that doesn’t mean I don’t love you, you know,” Myrrhine gurgled.
“You say you love me? But then why won’t you lie down here, my sweet Myrrhine?”
“You fool, in front of the child?”
Only then did Cinesias notice that he still had the child in his arms.
“Boy! Youngster!” he started calling loudly. The slave from before came trotting up, and the husband handed him the rag doll unceremoniously. “Go on, take it home! There, you see,” he went on to his wife, “the baby is out from underfoot. Now will you lie down?”
“Miserable wretch, and where do you want to do it?” Myrrhine replied, scandalized.
“The grotto of the god Pan would serve the purpose.”
“Then how can I purify myself before returning to the Acropolis?”
“Easily done: you can wash at the sacred fount.”
“But I swore an oath, I can hardly break it, you monster!”
“Let the punishment fall on me: don’t waste time worrying about your oath!” Cinesias begged her.
Myrrhine sucked on one of her fingers, sending the audience into conniptions. She shook her head two or three times, hesitantly; then she leaned against her husband and planted a kiss on his cheek. Cinesias’s hands were already starting to wander, but Myrrhine took a step back.
“Wait, I’ll go get a cot,” she suggested.
“Why bother? There’s plenty of room here on the ground.”
“By Apollo!” Myrrhine refused. “You may be no better than you are, but I won’t let you lie in the dirt.”
While Myrrhine was disappearing into the Acropolis, Cinesias turned complacently to the audience.
“This woman loves me, there’s no mistaking the fact!”
“Go, Cinesias, show her who you are!” someone encouraged him from the audience.
A little time went by in silence. Cinesias was growing impatient, he swung his phallus back and forth, he idly looked around. There was no one in sight. Cautiously, he lifted his leg, and emitted a suspect sound. The audience laughed.
At last Myrrhine reappeared, pulling behind her an enormous bedstead.
“Here, you get comfortable and lie down, and I’ll take off my clothes,” she suggested, coyly. “Why, dash it, I forgot to bring the mattress!”
“What mattress! I don’t want it!”
“But you can’t think of doing it on the netting! How shameful!”
“Come, my love, now kiss me.”
“There!”
The two of them kissed at some length, as long as the masks would allow them. The audience stamped its feet and whistled shrilly. Then Myrrhine broke away and disappeared again.
“Curse it to hell! At least come back soon this time!”
This time, her absence was even more prolonged. Cinesias looked at the cot, then the door, and then the audience. He farted softly another time or two. The audience laughed.
Myrrhine reappeared, dragging the mattress behind her.
“Here we go! Lie down and I’ll take off my clothes. Hold on, though, just look, you don’t have a pillow!”
“I DON’T NEED ONE!” shouted Cinesias.
“But I do!”
Left alone once again, Cinesias sat sadly contemplating his phallus.
“This péos really doesn’t like being led around by the nose,” he grumbled.
A fair amount of time went by, and Myrrhine still hadn’t returned. In the audience, a few people started calling to her.
“Hey! Come back out! Have you forgotten about him? Another little while and his péos is going to explode!”
Cinesias nodded vigorously.
As the gods would have it, Myrrhine came back with a pillow.
“Get up, stand up! Now, let’s see, have I gotten everything?”
“Everything and then some! Now come here, my little jewel.”
“Now just wait a moment for me to undo my bra. But don’t forget about the truce, don’t play tricks on me!”
“I’d sooner die!”
Myrrhine pulled two swollen breasts out of her chiton, with the nipples clearly visible. Cinesias threw open his arms.
“But you don’t have a blanket!” Myrrhine noted, scandalized.
“By the gods, I don’t need one, I WANT TO FUCK!” shouted Cinesias.
“Don’t worry, we’ll do it soon enough: I’ll be back in a second.”
“Boys, she’s going to kill me, with this blanket of hers!” Cinesias complained. The audience had caught the hint and settled in with pleasure for a good long wait.
“Hey, Cinesias, it’s hard, isn’t it?” shouted one. The man nodded his head, and extended his arms.
This time, though, Myrrhine surprised everyone: she was back almost immediately.
“Get up.”
“But can’t you see that it’s already up!” objected Cinesias.
“Do you want me to smear some ointment on you?” she suggested, all loving and sweet.
“I don’t, by Apollo!”
“Instead you shall, by Aphrodite, whether you want to or not!”
Cinesias sighed.
“To hell with ointment, by all-powerful Zeus!”
Myrrhine’s absence grew more prolonged. From inside the Acropolis came suspicious noises, as if someone were moving furniture and utensils. At last the woman reappeared with a small flagon.
“Hold out your hand. There, smear it on!”
“I don’t like ointment. You know the smell I like best,” said Cinesias, reaching out his hands not toward the jar of ointment, but toward Myrrhine’s sex. This time, though, the woman darted away.
“What a fool! I brought the rose-scented variety.”
“It doesn’t matter;
just leave it, you blessed woman!”
“Don’t say silly things like that!”
Once Myrrhine had disappeared again, the man turned to look at the audience and slammed his fist into his palm.
“I wish the man who invented ointment had died instead!”
Myrrhine reappeared with another vial, decidedly phallic in shape. In the audience, many snickered.
“Here, take this.”
“But I already have one!” her husband retorted, slapping his hand down on his phallus. “Now lie down, you bad girl, and don’t bring me another thing!”
“I’ll do it, I promise. Just wait for me to undo my clothes. But you, my love, must vote for peace.”
“All right, I swear I’ll go vote.” Cinesias sat bolt upright in surprise. “Hey no, no fair, I’m a dead man!” Myrrhine, making a series of rude gestures, was hurrying back to the Acropolis. “She’s ruined me, she’s skinned me alive, and now that woman is simply leaving!”
A passionate burst of music arose from the flautist’s corner, and Cinesias began to sing.
Alack, what is to be done?
Who can I screw
now that the most supreme beauty
has deceived me?
Who will give the little one his pap?
Where is Fox Dog?
Rent me a wet nurse!
As he spoke of the “little one,” Cinesias broadly pointed to his erect phallus. The audience laughed. But a few listened more carefully. “I’ve heard this music somewhere before!”
The chorus of old men, which had lingered in the corner for a while, stepped forward and continued, to the same tune:
Poor miserable wretch, in what terrible misfortune
you languish, deceived to the depths of your soul.
Even I take pity on you, woe betide!
What guts could withstand,
what soul, what balls,
what loins, what ass,
when you have a hard-on
and you can’t fuck first thing in the morning?
The audience was rolling with laughter. They had all recognized the music, after a moment’s hesitation, and word was racing in all directions: that was the tune of Andromeda’s aria, from Euripides’s tragedy of the same name which had been performed the year before at the Dionysia. And the words too were a parody of that aria: “Alas, what am I to do?” and “Miserable me, in hapless misfortune,” and all the rest; except that in Euripides, clearly enough, there were no balls and no asses, and the matter of fucking wasn’t discussed at all. Sophocles, in the front row among the magistrates, after pretending to doze off for a while, was now awake again, and he was snickering. He’d always disliked Euripides: you can imagine, the youngster who competes with you! Now it’s your turn, sonny, see how you like it!
The Athenian Women Page 16