The Acharnians | Page 8

airs, call 'Phallics,' full of obscenity and suggestive 'double
entendres.'
WIFE OF DICAEOPOLIS Daughter, set down the basket and let us
begin the sacrifice.
DAUGHTER OF DICAEOPOLIS Mother, hand me the ladle, that I
may spread the sauce on the cake.
DICAEOPOLIS It is well! Oh, mighty Bacchus, it is with joy that,
freed from military duty, I and all mine perform this solemn rite and
offer thee this sacrifice; grant that I may keep the rural Dionysia
without hindrance and that this truce of thirty years may be propitious
for me.
WIFE OF DICAEOPOLIS Come, my child, carry the basket gracefully
and with a grave, demure face. Happy he, who shall be your possessor
and embrace you so firmly at dawn,[1] that you belch wind like a
weasel. Go forward, and have a care they don't snatch your jewels in
the crowd.
f[1] The most propitious moment for Love's gambols, observes the
scholiast.
DICAEOPOLIS Xanthias, walk behind the basket-bearer and hold the
phallus well erect; I will follow, singing the Phallic hymn; thou, wife,
look on from the top of the terrace.[1] Forward! Oh, Phales,[2]
companion of the orgies of Bacchus, night reveller, god of adultery,
friend of young men, these past six[3] years I have not been able to
invoke thee. With what joy I return to my farmstead, thanks to the truce
I have concluded, freed from cares, from fighting and from
Lamachuses![4] How much sweeter, oh Phales, oh, Phales, is it to
surprise Thratta, the pretty woodmaid, Strymodorus' slave, stealing
wood from Mount Phelleus, to catch her under the arms, to throw her
on the ground and possess her, Oh, Phales, Phales! If thou wilt drink
and bemuse thyself with me, we shall to-morrow consume some good
dish in honour of the peace, and I will hang up my buckler over the

smoking hearth.
f[1] Married women did not join in the processions. f[2] The god of
generation, worshipped in the form of a phallus. f[3] A remark which
fixes the date of the production of 'The Acharnians,' viz. the sixth year
of the Peloponnesian War, 426 B.C. f[4] Lamachus was an Athenian
general, who figures later in this comedy.
CHORUS It is he, he himself. Stone him, stone him, stone him, strike
the wretch. All, all of you, pelt him, pelt him!
DICAEOPOLIS What is this? By Heracles, you will smash my pot.[1]
f[1] At the rural Dionysia a pot of kitchen vegetables was borne in the
procession along with other emblems.
CHORUS It is you that we are stoning, you miserable scoundrel.
DICAEOPOLIS And for what sin, Acharnian Elders, tell me that!
CHORUS You ask that, you impudent rascal, traitor to your country;
you alone amongst us all have concluded a truce, and you dare to look
us in the face!
DICAEOPOLIS But you do not know WHY I have treated for peace.
Listen!
CHORUS Listen to you? No, no, you are about to die, we will
annihilate you with our stones.
DICAEOPOLIS But first of all, listen. Stop, my friends.
CHORUS I will hear nothing; do not address me; I hate you more than
I do Cleon,[1] whom one day I shall flay to make sandals for the
Knights. Listen to your long speeches, after you have treated with the
Laconians? No, I will punish you.
f[1] Cleon the Demagogue was a currier originally by trade. He was the
sworn foe and particular detestation of the Knights or aristocratic party
generally.
DICAEOPOLIS Friends, leave the Laconians out of debate and
consider only whether I have not done well to conclude my truce.
CHORUS Done well! when you have treated with a people who know
neither gods, nor truth, nor faith.
DICAEOPOLIS We attribute too much to the Laconians; as for myself,
I know that they are not the cause of all our troubles.
CHORUS Oh, indeed, rascal! You dare to use such language to me and
then expect me to spare you!
DICAEOPOLIS No, no, they are not the cause of all our troubles, and I

who address you claim to be able to prove that they have much to
complain of in us.
CHORUS This passes endurance; my heart bounds with fury. Thus you
dare to defend our enemies.
DICAEOPOLIS Were my head on the block I would uphold what I say
and rely on the approval of the people.
CHORUS Comrades, let us hurl our stones and dye this fellow purple.
DICAEOPOLIS What black fire-brand has inflamed your heart! You
will not hear me? You really will not, Acharnians?
CHORUS No, a thousand times, no.
DICAEOPOLIS This is a hateful injustice.
CHORUS May I die, if I listen.
DICAEOPOLIS Nay, nay! have mercy, have mercy, Acharnians.
CHORUS You shall die.
DICAEOPOLIS Well, blood for blood! I will kill your dearest friend. I
have