And should they worsen, why, who laughs, forgets.
In no case, venture boy-experiments!
Old wine’s the wine: new poetry drinks raw:
Two plays a season is your pledge, beside;
So, give us ‘Wasps’ again, grown hornets now!’“
Then he changed.
“Do you so detect in me —
Brow-bald, chin-bearded, me, curved cheek, carved lip,
Or where soul sits and reigns in either eye —
What suits the — stigma, I say, — style say you,
Of ‘Wine-less-poet’? Bravest of buffoons,
Less blunt than Telekleides, less obscene
Than Murtilos, Hermippos: quite a match
In elegance for Eupolis himself,
Yet pungent as Kratinos at his best?
Graced with traditional immunity
Ever since, much about my grandsire’s time,
Some funny village-man in Megara,
Lout-lord and clown-king, used a privilege,
As due religious drinking-bouts came round,
To daub his phyz, — no, that was afterward, —
He merely mounted cart with mates of choice
And traversed country, taking house by house,
At night, — because of danger in the freak, —
Then hollaed ‘Skin-flint starves his labourers!
Clench-fist stows figs away, cheats government!
Such an one likes to kiss his neighbour’s wife,
And beat his own; while such another . . . Boh!’
Soon came the broad day, circumstantial tale,
Dancing and verse, and there’s our Comedy,
There’s Mullos, there’s Euetes, there’s the stock
I shall be proud to graft my powers upon!
Protected? Punished quite as certainly
When Archons pleased to lay down each his law, —
Your Morucheides-Surakosios sort, —
Each season, ‘No more naming citizens,
Only abuse the vice, the vicious spare!
Observe, henceforth no Areopagite
Demean his rank by writing Comedy!’
(They one and all could write the ‘Clouds’ of course.)
‘Needs must we nick expenditure, allow
Comedy half a choros, supper — none,
Times being hard, while applicants increase
For, what costs cash, the Tragic Trilogy.’
Lofty Tragedians! How they lounge aloof
Each with his Triad, three plays to my one,
Not counting the contemptuous fourth, the frank
Concession to mere mortal levity,
Satyric pittance tossed our beggar-world!
Your proud Euripides from first to last
Doled out some five such, never deigned us more!
And these — what curds and whey for marrowy wine!
That same Alkestis you so rave about
Passed muster with him for a Satyr-play,
The prig! — why trifle time with toys and skits
When he could stuff four ragbags sausage-wise
With sophistry, with bookish odds and ends,
Sokrates, meteors, moonshine, ‘Life’s not Life,’
‘The tongue swore, but unsworn the mind remains,’
And fifty such concoctions, crab-tree-fruit
Digested while, head low and heels in heaven,
He lay, let Comics laugh — for privilege!
Looked puzzled on, or pityingly off,
But never dreamed of paying gibe by jeer,
Buffet by blow: plenty of proverb-pokes
At vice and folly, wicked kings, mad mobs!
No sign of wincing at my Comic lash,
No protest against infamous abuse,
Malignant censure, — nought to prove I scourged
With tougher thong than leek-and-onion-plait!
If ever he glanced gloom, aggrieved at all,
The aggriever must be — Aischulos perhaps:
Or Sophokles he’d take exception to.
— Do you detect in me — in me, I ask,
The man like to accept this measurement
Of faculty, contentedly sit classed
Mere Comic Poet — since I wrote ‘The Birds’?”
I thought there might lurk truth in jest’s disguise.
“Thanks!” he resumed, so quick to construe smile!
“I answered — in my mind — these gapers thus:
Since old wine’s ripe and new verse raw, you judge —
What if I vary vintage-mode and mix
Blossom with must, give nosegay to the brew,
Fining, refining, gently, surely, till
The educated taste turns unawares
From customary dregs to draught divine?
Then answered — with my lips: More ‘Wasps’ you want?
Come next year and I give you ‘Grasshoppers’!
And ‘Grasshoppers’ I gave them, — last month’s play.
They formed the Choros. Alkibiades,
No longer Triphales but Trilophos,
(Whom I called Darling-of-the-Summertime,
Born to be nothing else but beautiful
And brave, to eat, drink, love his life away)
Persuades the Tettix (our Autochthon-brood,
That sip the dew and sing on olive-branch
Above the ant-and-emmet populace)
To summon all who meadow, hill and dale
Inhabit — bee, wasp, woodlouse, dragonfly —
To band themselves against red nipper-nose
Stagbeetle, huge Taügetan (you guess —
Sparté) Athenai needs must battle with,
Because her sons are grown effeminate
To that degree — so morbifies their flesh
The poison-drama of Euripides,
Morals and music — there’s no antidote
Occurs save warfare which inspirits blood,
And brings us back perchance the blessed time
When (Choros takes up tale) our commonalty
Firm in primæval virtue, antique faith,
Ere earwig-sophist plagued or pismire-sage,
Cockered no noddle up with A, b, g,
Book-learning, logic-chopping, and the moon,
But just employed their brains on ‘ Ruppapai ,
Row, boys, munch barley-bread, and take your ease —
Mindful, however, of the tier beneath!’
Ah, golden epoch! while the nobler sort
(Such needs must study, no contesting that!)
Wore no long curls but used to crop their hair,
Gathered the tunic well about the ham,
Remembering ‘t was soft sand they used for seat
At school-time, while — mark this — the lesson long,
No learner ever dared to cross his legs!
Then, if you bade him take the myrtle-bough
And sing for supper — ’t was some grave romaunt
How man of Mitulené, wondrous wise,
Jumped into hedge, by mortals quickset called,
And there, anticipating Oidipous,
Scratched out his eyes and scratched them in again.
None of your Phaidras, Augés, Kanakés,
To mincing music, turn, trill, tweedle-trash,
Whence comes that Marathon is obsolete!
Next, my Antistrophé was — praise of Peace:
Ah, could our people know what Peace implies!
Home to the farm and furrow! Grub one’s vine,
Romp with one’s Thratta, pretty serving-girl,
When wifie’s busy bathing! Eat and drink,
And drink and eat, what else is good in life?
Slice hare, toss pancake, gaily gurgle down
The Thasian grape in celebration due
Of Bacchos! Welcome, dear domestic rite,
When wife and sons and daughters, Thratta too,
Pour peasoup as we chant delectably
In Bacchos reels, his tunic at his heels!
Enough, you comprehend, — I do at least!
Then, — be but patient, — the Parabasis!
Pray! For in that I also pushed reform.
None of the self-laudation, vulgar brag,
Vainglorious rivals cultivate so much!
No! If some merest word in Art’s defence
Justice demanded of me, — never fear!
Claim was preferred, but dignifiedly.
A cricket asked a locust (winged, you know)
What he had seen most rare in foreign parts?
‘I have flown far,’ chirped he, ‘North, East, South, West,
And nowhere heard of poet worth a fig
If matched with Bald-head here, Aigina’s boast,
Who in this play bids rivalry despair
Past, present, and to come, so marvellous
His Tragic, Comic, Lyric excellence!
Whereof the fit reward were (not to speak
Of dinner every day at public cost
I’ the Prutaneion) supper with yourselves,
My Public, best dish offered bravest bard!’
No more! no sort of sin against good taste!
Then, satire, — Oh, a plain necessity!
But I won’t tell you: for — could I dispense
With one more gird at old Ariphrades?
How scorpion-like he feeds on human flesh —
Ever finds out some novel infamy
Unutterable, inconceivable,
Which all the greater need was to describe
Minutely, each tail-twist at ink-shed time . . .
Now, what’s your gesture caused by? What you loathe,
Don’t I loathe doubly, else why take such pains
To tell it you? But keep your prejudice!
My audience justified you! Housebreakers!
This pattern-purity was played and failed
Last Rural Dionusia — failed! for why?
Ameipsias followed with the genuine stuff.
He had been mindful to engage the Four —
Karkinos and his dwarf-crab-family —
Father and sons, they whirled like spinning-tops,
Choros gigantically poked his fun,
The boys’ frank laugh relaxed the seniors’ brow,
The skies re-echoed victory’s acclaim,
Ameipsias gained his due, I got my dose
Of wisdom for the future. Purity?
No more of that next month, Athenai mine!
Contrive new cut of robe who will, — I patch
The old exomis, add no purple sleeve!
The Thesmophoriazousai, smartened up
With certain plaits, shall please, I promise you!
“Yes, I took up the play that failed last year,
And re-arranged things; threw adroitly in, —
No Parachoregema, — men to match
My women there already; and when these
(I had a hit at Aristullos here,
His plan how womankind should rule the roast)
Drove men to plough — ’A-field, ye cribbed of cape!’
Men showed themselves exempt from service straight
Stupendously, till all the boys cried ‘Brave!’
Then for the elders, I bethought me too,
Improved upon Mnesilochos’ release
From the old bowman, board and binding-strap:
I made his son-in-law Euripides
Engage to put both shrewish wives away —
‘Gravity’ one, the other ‘Sophist-lore’ —
And mate with the Bald Bard’s hetairai twain —
‘Goodhumour’ and ‘Indulgence’: on they tripped,
Murrhiné, Akalanthis, — ’beautiful
Their whole belongings’ — crowd joined choros there!
And while the Toxotes wound up his part
By shower of nuts and sweetmeats on the mob,
The woman-choros celebrated New
Kalligeneia, the frank last-day rite.
Brief, I was chairéd and caressed and crowned
And the whole theatre broke out a-roar,
Echoed my admonition — choros-cap —
Rivals of mine, your hands to your faces!
Summon no more the Muses, the Graces,
Since here by my side they have chosen their places!
And so we all flocked merrily to feast,
I, my choragos, choros, actors, mutes
And flutes aforesaid, friends in crowd, no fear,
At the Priest’s supper; and hilarity
Grew none the less that, early in the piece,
Ran a report, from row to row close-packed,
Of messenger’s arrival at the Port
With weighty tidings, ‘Of Lusandros’ flight,’
Opined one; ‘That Euboia penitent
Sends the Confederation fifty ships,’
Preferred another; while ‘The Great King’s Eye
Has brought a present for Elaphion here,
That rarest peacock Kompolakuthes!’
Such was the supposition of a third.
‘No matter what the news,’ friend Strattis laughed,
‘It won’t be worse for waiting: while each click
Of the klepsudra sets a shaking grave
Resentment in our shark’s-head, boiled and spoiled
By this time: dished in Sphettian vinegar,
Silphion and honey, served with cocks’-brain-sauce!
So, swift to supper, Poet! No mistake,
This play; nor, like the unflavoured “Grasshoppers,”
Salt without thyme! Right merrily we supped,
Till — something happened.
“Out it shall, at last!
“Mirth drew to ending, for the cup was crowned
To the Triumphant! ‘Kleonclapper erst,
Now, Plier of a scourge Euripides
Fairly turns tail from, flying Attiké
For Makedonia’s rocks and frosts and bears,
Where, furry grown, he growls to match the squeak
Of girl-voiced, crocus-vested Agathon!
Ha ha, he he!’ When suddenly a knock —
Sharp, solitary, cold, authoritative.
“‘ Babaiax ! Sokrates a-passing by,
A-peering in for Aristullos’ sake,
To put a question touching Comic Law?’
“No! Enters an old pale-swathed majesty,
Makes slow mute passage through two ranks as mute,
(Strattis stood up with all the rest, the sneak!)
Grey brow still bent on ground, upraised at length
When, our Priest reached, full-front the vision paused.
“‘Priest!’ — the deep tone succeeded the fixed gaze —
Thou carest that thy god have spectacle
Decent and seemly; wherefore I announce
That, since Euripides is dead to-day,
My Choros, at the Greater Feast, next month,
Shall, clothed in black, appear ungarlanded!’
“Then the grey brow sank low, and Sophokles
Re-swathed him, sweeping doorward: mutely passed
‘Twixt rows as mute, to mingle possibly
With certain gods who convoy age to port;
And night resumed him.
“When our stupor broke,
Chirpings took courage, and grew audible.
‘Dead — so one speaks now of Euripides!
Ungarlanded dance Choros, did he say?
I guess the reason: in extreme old age
No doubt such have the gods for visitants.
Why did he dedicate to Herakles
An altar else, but that the god, turned Judge,
Told him in dream who took the crown of gold?
He who restored Akropolis the theft,
Himself may feel perhaps a timely twinge
At thought of certain other crowns he filched
From — who now visits Herakles the Judge.
&n
bsp; Instance “Medeia”! that play yielded palm
To Sophokles; and he again — to whom?
Euphorion! Why? Ask Herakles the Judge!’
‘Ungarlanded, just means — economy!
Suppress robes, chaplets, everything suppress
Except the poet’s present! An old tale
Put capitally by Trugaios — eh?
— News from the world of transformation strange!
How Sophokles is grown Simonides,
And, — aged, rotten, — all the same, for greed
Would venture on a hurdle out to sea! —
So jokes Philonides. Kallistratos
Retorts — Mistake! Instead of stinginess,
The fact is, in extreme decrepitude,
He has discarded poet and turned priest,
Priest of Half-Hero Alkon: visited
In his own house too by Asklepios’ self,
So he avers. Meanwhile, his own estate
Lies fallow; Iophon’s the manager, —
Nay, touches up a play, brings out the same,
Asserts true sonship. See to what you sink
After your dozen-dozen prodigies!
Looking so old — Euripides seems young,
Born ten years later.’
‘Just his tricky style!
Since, stealing first away, he wins first word
Out of good-natured rival Sophokles,
Procures himself no bad panegyric.
Had fate willed otherwise, himself were taxed
To pay survivor’s-tribute, — harder squeezed
From anybody beaten first to last,
Than one who, steadily a conqueror,
Finds that his magnanimity is tasked
To merely make pretence and — beat itself!’
“So chirped the feasters though suppressedly.
“But I — what else do you suppose? — had pierced
Quite through friends’ outside-straining, foes’ mockpraise,
And reached conviction hearted under all.
Death’s rapid line had closed a life’s account,
And cut off, left unalterably clear
The summed-up value of Euripides.
Well, it might be the Thasian! Certainly
There sang suggestive music in my ears;
And, through — what sophists style — the wall of sense
My eyes pierced: death seemed life and life seemed death,
Envisaged that way, now, which I, before,
Conceived was just a moonstruck mood. Quite plain
There re-insisted, — ay, each prim stiff phrase
Of each old play, my still-new laughing-stock,
Had meaning, well worth poet’s pains to state,
Should life prove half true life’s term, — death, the rest.
As for the other question, late so large
Now all at once so little, — he or I,
Which better comprehended playwright craft, —
There, too, old admonition took fresh point.
Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series Page 178