The Acharnians | Page 7

HAVE you brought me a treaty?
AMPHITHEUS Most certainly, here are three samples to select from,[1] this one is five years old; take it and taste.
f[1] He presents them in the form of wines contained in three separate skins.
DICAEOPOLIS Faugh!
AMPHITHEUS Well?
DICAEOPOLIS It does not please me; it smells of pitch and of the ships they are fitting out.[1]
f[1] Meaning, preparations for war.
AMPHITHEUS Here is another, ten years old; taste it.
DICAEOPOLIS It smells strongly of the delegates, who go around the towns to chide the allies for their slowness.[1]
f[1] Meaning, securing allies for the continuance of the war.
AMPHITHEUS This last is a truce of thirty years, both on sea and land.
DICAEOPOLIS Oh! by Bacchus! what a bouquet! It has the aroma of nectar and ambrosia; this does not say to us, "Provision yourselves for three days." But it lisps the gentle numbers, "Go whither you will."[1] I accept it, ratify it, drink it at one draught and consign the Acharnians to limbo. Freed from the war and its ills, I shall keep the Dionysia[2] in the country.
f[1] When Athens sent forth an army, the soldiers were usually ordered to assemble at some particular spot with provisions for three days. f[2] These feasts were also called the Anthesteria or Lenaea; the Lenaem was a temple to Bacchus, erected outside the city. They took place during the month Anthesterion (February).
AMPHITHEUS And I shall run away, for I'm mortally afraid of the Acharnians.
CHORUS This way all! Let us follow our man; we will demand him of everyone we meet; the public weal makes his seizure imperative. Ho, there! tell me which way the bearer of the truce has gone; he has escaped us, he has disappeared. Curse old age! When I was young, in the days when I followed Phayllus,[1] running with a sack of coals on my back, this wretch would not have eluded my pursuit, let him be as swift as he will; but now my limbs are stiff; old Lacratides[2] feels his legs are weighty and the traitor escapes me. No, no, let us follow him; old Acharnians like ourselves shall not be set at naught by a scoundrel, who has dared, great gods! to conclude a truce, when I wanted the war continued with double fury in order to avenge my ruined lands. No mercy for our foes until I have pierced their hearts like sharp reed, so that they dare never again ravage my vineyards. Come, let us seek the rascal; let us look everywhere, carrying our stones in our hands; let us hunt him from place to place until we trap him; I could never, never tire of the delight of stoning him.
f[1] A celebrated athlete from Croton and a victor at Olympia; he was equally good as a runner and at the 'five exercises.' f[2] He had been Archon at the time of the battle of Marathon.
DICAEOPOLIS Peace! profane men![1]
f[1] A sacred formula, pronounced by the priest before offering the sacrifice.
CHORUS Silence all! Friends, do you hear the sacred formula? Here is he, whom we seek! This way, all! Get out of his way, surely he comes to offer an oblation.
DICAEOPOLIS Peace, profane men! Let the basket-bearer[1] come forward, and thou Xanthias, hold the phallus well upright.[2]
f[1] The maiden who carried the basket filled with fruits at the Dionysia in honour of Bacchus. f[2] The emblem of the fecundity of nature; it consisted of a representation, generally grotesquely exaggerated, of the male genital organs; the phallophori crowned with violets and ivy and their faces shaded with green foliage, sang improvised 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