[In the following essay, Rothfield analyzes Aristophanes's skill in creating dynamic conflict and his practice of keeping his characters consistent in their own personal behaviors.]

Expressed in this simple way, on the face of it, one is bound to ask: why was this plot structure of such great importance to Aristophanes? In which exact aspect lies its value as idea-structure—i.e. an intellectual basis—for each of his comedies? Is it because the military ethos seems to underlie these power struggles whatever their nature? It is illuminating to select a single comedy—and why not Acharnians, Aristophanes' first play to come down to us, and the earliest extant comedy in existence?—to follow the process, in a step by step analysis. Earlier we expressed the antagonist Dikaiopolis' idea in this fashion:

Getting a peace treaty for oneself (with the help of an immortal god) benefits a man more than fighting a war on behalf of a corrupt and dilatory State.

Predicated on this basis, the thrust of the comedy takes the action into war and peace, bringing these opposite forces into a head-on collision (and argument), expressly touching on the economics of Athens' war with Sparta. Out of this, of course, spark innumerable brilliant flashes illuminating the war-peace landscape. Nonetheless, however, almost everything adds up to the light shed on the motives of the two opposing forces in which mockery predominates, exposing what is ludicrous and laughable.

From analysis so far, we have a clue to what to expect. Firstly, of course—with a glance back to … the speculation concerning comedy's debt to tragedy's underdog protagonist—that Dikaiopolis, our comic hero, will be at a great disadvantage vis-a-vis his adversaries. That, in fact, is an enormous understatement. As a solitary lone figure, standing in front of the Assembly wearily waiting for proceedings to begin, this is certainly the first and most immediate impact he makes upon us—and how often do each one of us in life sympathize with his predicament, knowing full well what it is to stand alone facing a heartless bureaucracy? Dikaiopolis is a returned soldier—what we call a footslogger, an ordinary soldier in the ranks, a man who has performed his warlike duty, a farmer, moreover, whose property and livestock have suffered from the ravages of the war. Now, above all else, he desires peace. The title, Acharnians, refers to the villagers of Acharni in the Attic countryside, miners who have endured the brunt of the annual ravages by Spartans (and their allies) during the past six years of warfare. Acharnians—in spite of the damage inflicted upon their properties—see their best interests served in a fierce, unyielding hostility to the Spartans, being convinced that a policy of vigorously prosecuting the war to a successful conclusion, despite how they might suffer, is the only correct strategy. With Dikaiopolis, then, as we have stressed, he is to be understood as the one, standing alone, who is against the many. (In a wider sense, beyond the confines of the play, Dikaiopolis' ideas would have had widespread—but not openly expressed—support from sheep-like citizens who simply lack his courage and audacity in speaking out.) In short, then—to sum up this very essential point, at the risk of going on too long about it!—the clash reduces itself quite simply to the case of a single citizen standing alone, determined by hook or by crook on getting peace in the teeth of those who are waging a fierce war, and intend to continue doing so. Here we quote the lines that stand at the beginning of the plot summary of Act 1 … :

Act 1. An underdog upstart (protagonist) concocts a scheme to take over a bastion of civic authority (antagonists) by disguise-imposture. To do so he needs help.

In the course of a lifetime, and the task of writing forty-odd comedies, Aristophanes must have pondered often on how to ring the changes on an opposing situation as we have outlined it. Never, it can be confidently asserted, did he surpass the beginning of Acharnians for dynamism, for a sense of the electric, for the outright thrill which it generates of anticipating what is to come by what is so brilliantly sketched out in the opening exchanges. Following Dikaiopolis' brief introductory soliloquy, we are plunged into a Deputy's cockpit—a cauldron of bubbling and boiling elements. Tension and passions run high. A lonely man confronts the mighty, indifferent powers of the State. Over the clamor of the Debating Chamber the voice of peace is not to be heard. Crier, Sergeant-at-Arms, Deputies, and Ambassadors, etc., one and all are oblivious to everything but self-interest, and pursuit of individual gain. Trivia is in the forefront. Each one being intent on exploiting the war to suit himself; the good of the State has become what is good—and gainful—to an individual; as likely as not to be a parasite leech-like on the country's back. Amphitheos, an immortal entrusted with the task of getting a peace treaty with Sparta (an ironic imaginary possibility) cannot get the money to finance it when a vote is put to the Assembly. (In other words, if an immortal can't pull it off, what chance has anyone else?) Peremptorily hustled out of the debate, Dikaiopolis protests at his treatment, but in vain. Especially infuriating—and the last straw to Dikaiopolis, pushing him to go it alone—is that an invitation is given to the Persian envoy to attend a banquet. Clearly the man is an impostor and Greeks are being deceived:

DIKAIOPOLIS.
Isn't it enough to drive you to drink?
Here I am, a soldier chilled to the marrow, hanging
Around outside, whilst any bloody foreign bastard
Can get in and say what he wants. Watch it, kid—
I'm fed up to the teeth. Here goes. Amphitheos—
Over here, will you?
AMPHITHEOS.
What is it?
DIKAIOPOLIS.
Take these eight drachmaes and conclude a
Treaty with the Spartans. Just for me and my
Family. Nobody else, see? As for the rest of them—
Go and drown yourselves!
CRIER.
Silence! Bring in Theoros—an embassy
From the Court of Sitalces!
THEOROS.
I'm here.
DIKAIOPOLIS.
Great grief! Another crook!

Breathtakingly lucid and simple; in three or four pages, an exposition outlined: what is at stake, forces on each side, and background to the central situation compellingly dramatized. Everyone is out for themselves—and so is Dikaiopolis, a sharp-witted, guileful character, his audacious (and equally self-centered) position in the comic argument decisively clear-cut. Dikaiopolis is pursuing the selfsame tack as those (only a moment or two before) he has so roundly condemned!—Each party in the War-Peace clash is out for their own interests, Dikaiopolis no less than anyone else. An audience—no matter how much it is impressed by Dikaiopolis' pungent comments, and even perhaps more so, by the justice of his viewpoint—is, nonetheless, in no danger of becoming emotionally involved, … arising out of Henri Bergson's all-important statement regarding the intellectual standpoint of comedy and its way of outlawing emotion. The stage is set, then, for a struggle between advocates of opposing ideas vis-a-vis the War. That they are ill-matched—one against the many (basis of a protagonist-antagonist axis) is crucial to the play's fascination: how can Dikaiopolis possibly succeed, being at such a disadvantage in pursuing his preposterous plan?

In other words, a fantastic hypothesis has been launched—fantastic, of course, for no immortal such as Amphitheos exists who can fetch a treaty for eight drachmaes for any citizen!—the basis of a delightful but (yet no less serious for that) game we are to watch being worked out. With the impending approach of the Chorus of Acharnian miners, the hypothesis jumps forward into its next test—and we lean forwards in our seats in anticipation; what of the miners? How are they going to take this rebellious flag being raised? Surely this cheeky upstart, peace treaty or not, is bound to be stopped dead in his tracks, or not? Just for a moment, however, a pause in the action occurs, whilst the Chorus stands at the side of the stage, champing at the bit, fuming and foaming at the mouth. Dikaiopolis is to make a sacrifice to the god Dionysus, praising the fruits of his treaty, and an end to the fighting:

                                        Onwards, Oh Phales,
Companion dear of Bacchus, night reveller
God of love, friend of the young,
And pretty boys and joyful sacrifice
                                                            I am home again;
Six long years without celebrations
My farm a desolate patch,
I return with a treaty at last
                                                                      Free of care and woes.
Fighting I leave to Lamachos.
Oh Phales, come drink with us,
To-morrow we'll honor the Peace.

This a reminder, then, from the peace side of things, just what it signifies, at the very moment when the Chorus is about to burst forth with a passionate, hostile bombardment against enemies of the State, viz:

You, you impudent rascal, traitor to our cause
Our country and our people. How dare you
Stand there and defy us!

Patrician elders, serious citizens, and enraged veterans of Marathon, the Chorus represents the inflexible, one-tracked, narrow-vision outlook of the pro-War party—a majority ethos. At this point, we get an amusing instance of how nimble-footed comedians have got to be—and also comedy's captivating style; another intriguing instance of its pursuit of opposites, to which we gave the following brief description:

Others are appealed to join in or help. Usually they do so.

Earlier, just a moment or two before, in fact, Dikaiopolis attacked the Deputies (and others) as a veteran soldier, outraged at corrupt and inept slackers, dilatory in the War effort. Here, in the face of a violently pro-war Chorus, Dikaiopolis reverses himself, arguing for the anti-war position, swinging around to an opposite standpoint. No longer attacking, he is on the defensive, justifying his own conduct (and thus attempting to sway others to his cause). Impeded by rheumatism and old age, miners are in a fighting mood, with pockets full of stones, threatening violence and murder. Such is their passion, legitimate self-interest gets swept aside in torrential prejudice; the Chorus recognizes no other point of view but its own, unwilling to allow anyone else even to be heard. Thus, in their exaggerated posture, they become ludicrous—the comedy is safe from being tipped into drama or melodrama. Here they are, in full flow of vitriolic spleen:

Listen to you? To what? You will die!
Annihilated—We shall kill most
Infamous of traitors!
Ask us to listen to you?
Do not dare address us—
We hate you more than we do Cleon
Whom one day we shall skin alive.
What? Listen to a long harangue
After you've bargained with Sparta?
Never! No! You shall be punished!

No-one wants to hear a word uttered on behalf of peace. When Dikaiopolis suggests that the Spartans might have reasonable grounds for fighting Athens, the Chorus becomes almost apoplectic. How is Dikaiopolis to get them to listen to his arguments? Stylistically, we see Aristophanes abandoning realism (as he did earlier by having a peace treaty obtained by means of an immortal god). Dikaiopolis leaves the stage for a moment or two; then he returns brandishing a sword in one hand, and a coal scuttle in the other—symbols, nothing else, but for the audience, introducing the fantastic element is a hilarious diversion, keeping the plot firmly on a comic axis, and, so far as the idea-argument is concerned, the point is driven home:

DIKAIOPOLIS.
Look here—what I've got. A coal-scuttle,
All yours. Let's see if you've any love for it.
CHORUS.
Dear god, it's our life's blood, he's got
There! Stop, stop! Spare it—whatever you are
Going to do, don't do it! In heaven's name, don't!
DIKAIOPOLIS.
Why shouldn't I? Look, it's for the
Deep end. Its life is over, see?
CHORUS.
No, no, don't! How can you kill our beloved
Scuttle? Faithful comrade of our lifelong days?
DIKAIOPOLIS.
Ahah. Now you wish to listen to me,
Do you?
CHORUS.
Yes, yes. Speak if you must. Say what you
Will. Say you love Spartans, but spare my scuttle.
Never shall we forsake it for anything on earth.
DIKAIOPOLIS.
First, then, drop those stones.
CHORUS.
We've done what you say. And you put
Down that sword as well.

Euphoric notions of patriotism, honor, glory, and so on, vanish. At rock bottom, then, every man's motivation derives from his bread-and-butter standpoint. Clamor made on behalf of the State, and the cause it is fighting, is essentially a defense of one's own economic interests. Earlier we saw why the parasitic branch of the State pursued the War—ambassadors, deputies, envoys, and the like; now we see why others support it. To sum up, duty to the State is not disinterested.

To argue the Spartan case—the next phase in plot—is a logical follow up in this newfound position. If it can be shown that Spartans, too, are justifiably defending their own economic interests, then, by the same token, Dikaiopolis' peace treaty is logically in order; ought to be allowed to stand unchallenged and without interference. It also follows, as a corollary, that if everyone fights in defense of threatened economic interests, to cease fighting on the same grounds may be just as reasonable—another argument in favor of Dikaiopolis' peace treaty. The key element here, however, is the notion—seldom bruted about in Athens, we can be sure—of Spartans having justifiable grounds for invading Athens in the first place. Arguing the Spartan case is, in effect, then, not only aimed at cutting the ground from under the feet of the Chorus, but (of course) aimed at the audience; part of a wider context in Aristophanes' purpose of casting a serious doubt on Athens' case for pursuing the War; its high-minded claim to be acting on the purest, most moral, and patriotic of aims.

Enter disguise-imposture into Acharnians in a most entertaining fashion. Getting in his usual swipes whenever possible against his bête noire, Euripides, Aristophanes has Dikaiopolis go to the tragic playwright's home to borrow a beggar's clothes from his theatrical wardrobe, in order to argue the Spartan case—a real dig at Euripides' much criticized use of low characters in his works—and pointing at the real risks he is taking in daring to speak in defense of the enemy Sparta at the height of a war with them:

I have to treat the Chorus to a long speech.
If I don't put it across it'll be all up with me.
I need these beggarly rags—as it were
‘Be what I am but not appear to be so.’
The audience will twig, for sure, but I'll
Fool the Chorus with a clever speech.
That I dare speak out what is
Beneficial for the State, can happen in a comedy,
Believe it or not!

(‘Be what I am and not appear to be so’ is a take-off of Euripides' much mocked way of occasionally expressing himself in a double-and-pretentious sense that, for the ordinary man, sounded plain and outright silly.) As we see, Aristophanes is going to extreme lengths to emphasize to the spectator by every possible means that he is attending a comedy. Even so, the theatricality in this scene—even when compared with other instances of a similar nature—is most striking. Can one hazard a guess as to the reason? General reasons for the introduction of theatricality have already been analyzed; in essence, that the spectator shed his emotional responses and be free to follow the bare bones of an argument without getting involved either way. But the particular point at issue here—i.e. Spartans and the War—is so tricky and Aristophanes' own personal danger is so acute, that it forces him to stop at nothing, allowing us to go behind the scenes, as it were, using every device (including anything that could be filched from tragedy), to get his argument across. Much fun is made of Euripides in this scene; but actually the real target of ridicule is tragedy itself, in which it is implied, tricks of the theatrical trade play a most prominent role. And that is what is most needed in Dikaiopolis' defence!

In this next phase of plot, in our basic Act 1 summary the essence of it was expressed as follows:

Making a pretence of being other than what he is (and they are), under cover of guileful argument, the bastion is seized, or infiltrated, and the defenders overthrown.

Clad in rags belonging to Telephos, borrowed, as we have said, from Euripides' theatrical wardrobe (Telephos being one of the tragic playwright's most garrulous of characters), Dikaiopolis puts the Spartan case for the War. Packed to the rim with an audience obsessed with its fighting a despised enemy, this was surely one of the most remarkable events in all theater history; all the more so because Dikaiopolis places the blame squarely on Pericles (the Athenian war leader) for unfairly penalizing Megarians in their trading practices—this very questionable decision was a crucial event in initiating the War, because it led to Sparta coming to the aid of its Megara ally. Diakiaopolis emphasizes that the victimization that Megara traders endured as a result of Pericles' action was inspired by Athenian envy and greed, and carried out by malicious informers. How, asks Dikaiopolis, rhetorically, could Sparta avoid being drawn into War after Pericles' unfair action?

          I'll come straight to the point. Don't make
Any mistake—I loathe Spartans like you do.
But why ignore the cause of our misfortunes?
We began it with Megara, confiscating their
Market produce for no good reason. Because
          They retaliated, seized some whores in revenge,
          All Greece was set ablaze!

Dikaiopolis' peroration splits the Chorus into two factions; one admits to the truth of his arguments; the other continues fiercely to denounce him (once again Aristophanes using opposites to emphasize the ludicrous in a dispute). But Dikaiopolis has successfully made his point and outmanoeuvred his opponents. Fuming and impotent, they shout for the warrior-general Lamachos to come to their assistance. Haughty and arrogant, Lamachos arrives on the scene, denouncing—what he thinks is a mere beggar-like figure—for his unpatriotic role, etc., etc. Dikaiopolis is not a bit put out by him, giving Lamachos as good as he gets, contemptuously accusing the officer of sloth, parasitic, and all manner of unsoldierly conduct. Particularly galling to Lamachos is the cutting derision for having a sinecure job at base; not to be compared with Dikaiopolis' own record as a fighting soldier at the front. Setting out a new order of battle, so to speak, Act 1 of the play concludes with both men locked in a spirited duel of future intentions:

LAMACHOS.
In freedom's name, can such a barrage of
Exaggeration be tolerated?
DIKAIOPOLIS.
You can, for sure—you're well paid.
But what about me?
LAMACHOS.
I propose we Athenians battle on—on land,
At sea—everywhere, and crush the enemy!
DIKAIOPOLIS.
And I, in freedom's name, proclaim
To the Peloponnesians, Megarians, and Boeotians
That all who wish to trade with me at my market
Shall do so. But Lamachos? Not for any money!

In our plot summary of Act 2, the beginning phase was expressed in this way:

The protagonist assumes the mantle of leader. A new idea operates. Things inside the bastion are turned upside down.

Now for the new idea. If we think of a hypothesis as a means of projecting an idea into a supposed future made visible, or tangible, then Act 2 of an Aristophanes' comedy becomes that hypothetical future made just so. What has been so vigorously debated and resisted—the rights and wrongs of Dikaiopolis' treaty—is now an accomplished fact (albeit an imaginary one). Upstart Dikaiopolis has succeeded—top dog, with a free hand to implement his peace treaty. What will he do? How will he cope in the new circumstances? And what of dislodged pillars of society?—army, informers, miners, etc.? What will their response be? This Act 2 of an Aristophanes' comedy is usually described by scholars—using the ancient Attic term—as the episodia: a series of loosely connected scenes in various meters. It is a description, true enough in a sense, but it can be misleading. Nothing is loosely connected either here or anywhere else in Aristophanes. If a comedy is looked upon as a hypothesis, in which Act 1 is to be thought of as a debate about the present with reference to the past, the Act 2, by the same token, is to be thought of as a debate about a hypothetical future with reference to the present. Present realities are to be faced from the start of an Aristophanes comedy until its finish. Hence, Dikaiopolis has won his treaty; his dream has come true. Nonetheless, he has Athenians' contemporary conduct to deal with: events springing out of warfare, and the sufferings imposed on Athenian enemies.

Setting up his stall in the market-place, throwing his weight around, doing as he pleases, Dikaiopolis begins by repealing laws and ordinances discriminating against enemy aliens:

Here we go. This is my market-stall.
As I said, all Peloponnesians, Megarians
Boeotians, are free to do business with me,
But not with Lamachos. See these whips?
They're clerks in charge. Informers—be warned!
Keep away!

DISGUISE-IMPOSTURE AND ANTAGONISTS

A whip is the symbol of authority. Authority is to be enforced over opponents—upstarts, in fact (ironically, until he won his battle, the very thing that Dikaiopolis was himself!). Setting up a treaty pillar, he proclaims the new order. Although a revolutionary himself, Dikaiopolis intends to stand no nonsense from others; but his newfound right to trade with citizens of Megara and Boeotia is far from being plain sailing. Gratitude does not figure largely in the conduct of starving and ruined farmers bent on getting the best deal in trading they can squeeze out of others. If Acharnians had to cope with Dikaiopolis' wiles, now he is exposed to the wiles of others. First is a Megarian farmer who arrives with two half-starved children, victims of the War's hardships. Aristophanes does not lose sight of his main theme for a single moment. Yet how, he might have pondered, to portray the cruel effects of Athenian policy, but at the same time keep in mind comedy's purpose of amusing an Athenian audience?

DIKAIOPOLIS.
Who're you? A Megarian?
MEGARIAN.
Coming to market, yes. It's here, hu?
DIKAIOPOLIS.
How's life with you poor guys?
MEGARIAN.
You've said it—poor. Hungry we all are …
DIAKIOPOLIS.
Make merry then with music. Helps a lot.
What else is news?
MEGARIAN.
What's new? We're for the scrap heap. Our
Leaders are arranging that we die—
As quickly as possible.
DIKAIOPOLIS.
Die? Quickly is best way out of all one's
Troubles.

Dry and sardonic, realistic and squeezing the tiniest bit of humor out of scraps of conversation, this was as cheerful a face as Aristophanes could assume in desperate times and the plight of ruined farmers. How indispensable comedy's devices are to playwrights! Disguise-imposture—the traditional comic device employed by protagonists so effectively in an Act 1—now become the technique of antagonists. Having practically nothing to sell—the price of garlic having vanished out of sight together with that of salt, both controlled by Athenians who raided and seized everything worthwhile—the harassed Megarian farmer tries to play a trick on Dikaiopolis. His two hungry little girls are made to tie on trotters, hidden in a bag, and prompted to squeal like little pigs. Aristophanes gets his points across about the horror of War (what he believes Athens does unjustly), with the help of double-entendres, coarse jokes, and by slyly amusing the audience in other ways:

DIKAIOPOLIS.
What's this?
MEGARIAN.
A sow. Can't you see that it's
Sticking out a mile?
DIKAIOPOLIS.
I see what's sticking out—but if it's
A pig, it's a human one.
MEGARIAN.
You must be joking. In good Greek lingo
This is a sow, believe me. Want to hear it squeal?
DIKAIOPOLIS.
Sure.
MEGARIAN.
Come on, little ones. Wee, wee!
(aside). Louder, you little fool, or by Hermes
I'll take you all home.
1ST Girl.
Wee! wee! wee!
MEGARIAN.
Is that a little sow or not?
DIKAIOPOLIS.
Seems like it. Let it grow up and it'll
Be a fine fat bitch.
MEGARIAN.
Like her mother, eh?
DIKAIOPOLIS.
Can't be sacrificed, though.
MEGARIAN.
How so?
DIKAIOPOLIS.
Has no tail. Just like the other one, I see.
MEGARIAN.
Give her time, it'll grow. Born of the same
Father and mother, y'know. Fatten ‘em up, let ‘em grow
Bristles, and they'll be the finest sows to sacrifice—
Even to goddess Aphrodite herself.

In the plot summary of Act 2, the next phase was summarized as follows:

Counter-attack by antagonists. Fortunes fluctuate back and forth.

As Aristophanes makes abundantly clear, Dikaiopolis is an unsentimental Athenian, determined to gain his ends—exploit, get the better, or ignore others if necessary—just as was formerly his own experience at the hands of others. (This is one significant aspect of the reversal of his power position.) He never pays for anything if a scheme or a trick can be used instead; as a virtual ruler of the market-place it is a question of the one who has the most guile who gets the better deal. As a result, each encounter with others—groups we have mentioned: informers directly opposed to him, fiercely intent on exploiting War for their own benefit, or, merely, like the starving farmer whose oxen has been stolen, mutely caught in the middle of the fighting; whatever their standpoint, survival being the name of the game, so to speak, each incident illuminates the main themes of the play: the horrors of War versus the joyous splendors of Peace. A tiny exchange of dialogue shows Dikaiopolis at his most tough and unyielding:

FARMER.
Look you, crying for my lost animals
Has ruined my eyesight. Know who I am? Poor
Dercetes of Phales. If you have an ounce of pity
Anoint my eyes with your Peace-ointment.
DIKAIOPOLIS.
Sorry. I'm not a doctor …
FARMER.
I beg you, sir. If you did it, perhaps
I'd find my oxen.
DIKAIOPOLIS.
Out of the question. Away you go. Go find
Someone else's shoulder to weep on.

In Act 1, we saw high-class parasites at work—ambassadors, envoys and the like. Here in the market-place, we get a vivid glimpse of a lower type parasite: the informer Nikarchos trumping up ludicrous charges of treason against an innocent farmer. Lantern-wicks that he is selling might be stuck on a water-beetle, put in a gutter, and blown by a strong wind into the port, thereby causing Athenian ships to catch fire! When Dikaiopolis gets rid of the informer, stuffing the odious official into a pot, the Chorus expresses its deeply felt disgust:

No-one would ever use that pot again
After that disgusting fellow has been in it!
Farewell, stranger! Take this good-for-nothing
Informer away, and fling the pot
As far out of sight as possible.

Throughout, the Chorus is obliged to stand and watch the lucky hero. When Dikaiopolis in exchange gets succulent eels and long-forgotten goodies for the household, the envious Chorus breaks out in admiration, overflowing with hatred for War:

You see, good people, how lucky is this man!
Commonsense and wisdom guided him to Peace.
Everything useful and delicious drops at his feet
Without the least effort. Never, never again
Will I invite War to my house. Why, what damage
He does! Chanting bawdy songs, breaking up
The furniture, he's nothing but a sot. He ruins
Everything—makes mischief. Doesn't matter
How kind you are to him. He burns down vines
Tips the wine out of the jars, spills it, the lot.
Look at this fellow. Well-behaved. Succulent
Dishes without number, adorning his dining-room
Table.

SURVIVAL OF THE SHREWD AND REALISTIC

But what is the outcome of the new order of things? In a sense, Aristophanes' comedy could be understood as a warning: where does justice and fair play stand when the State's power is set aside—i.e. when its citizens no longer respect it or obey its injunctions?—and when the law becomes merely what the code that those with property, produce, food, etc., can impose on others by controlling trade?—in other words, the code that Pericles initiated between States when, in his dispute with Sparta, he unfairly excluded Megara and others from trading with Athens. (In a sense, is Dikaiopolis any different from Pericles?) Dikaiopolis is badgered from every side, seldom giving way, rejecting appeals that might jeopardize his good fortune. But his conduct, nonetheless, makes clear that an unfettered pursuit of self-interest in such conditions benefits an aggressive individual more than conduct that is community-orientated. Authority, confronted with this new threat, finds many of its old power methods ineffective. Like the impoverished farmer (who lost his oxen and got scant sympathy), when General Lamachos dispatches a servant to buy thrushes and eels from Dikaiopolis for the forthcoming Feast of Pitchers, likewise he is also rebuffed; told, to go ‘twiddle his plumes at his daily rations’. Others are rebuffed likewise. A newly married man, who tries to barter meat from the wedding-breakfast for a tiny bit of Peace-Ointment, so that he can avoid being called-up for military service, fares no better. However, his wife, whose bridesmaid begs ointment for her intimate and general purposes gets a happier result—having touched Dikaiopolis on a tender spot: his feelings for the opposite sex. But is there not more than a suggestion here of a hark back to comedy's primitive delights in fertility, phallic symbol celebrations, and the like?

DIKAIOPOLIS.
My dear, what is it she'd like?
(whispering). Ah, what a preposterous request!
The bride aches to have her husband's weapon
Kept at home! Okay, let's arrange it for her.
Bring me my treaty. Here—this is for the bride.
A woman is not created to suffer bruises
Of War. How to apply it? Tell the bride
When the soldiers come to take him away,
He's to rub it on where it's most needed.
Slave, enough. Take it away. Hurry with wine!
Fill up the cups to celebrate!

In the Act 2 plot synthesis, the end section was summed up as follows:

A crisis, leading to an unforeseen event. Modus vivendi agreed, ending in compromise and celebrations.

EMPHASIZING THEMES—A DOUBLE-TRACK COMEDY A COMPLEX INHERITANCE

Approaching its climax, Acharnians becomes stylistically unusually complex, following a kind of double-track. Is this perhaps a throwback to earlier influences—deliberately employed, of course—a primitive style of comedy of which we have no record whatsoever? (In using the word primitive I don't mean it was in any way an inferior era in this technical respect; quite the contrary.) In order to bring themes of war and peace into a final clear-cut focus—a kind of summing-up, as it were—the playwright employs opposites in a manner both fanciful and amusing; with just enough of a grip on realism to steady the play on its contemporary axis. General Lamachos and Dikaiopolis, representing respectively war and peace, become involved in competing claims—claims that emphasize in each case how disparate these are. Lamachos, interrupted in the midst of enjoying a feast, to his great dismay and annoyance is summoned back to arms; ordered to collect his troops immediately, and to fight a gang of warring Boeotians. Dikaiopolis, on the other hand, to his intense pleasure, receives an invitation to come to dinner with the priest of Dionysus. The contrast between the situation of the two men could not be more emphatic. A short excerpt from the dialogue shows, in an amusing way, almost operatic in style—as if one were a bass and the other a tenor!—how differently the two men prepare to depart: Lamachos angrily putting on his armor, Dikaiopolis preparing his hamper of food:

LAMACHOS.
Slave, spear off its hook. Bring it here.
DIKAIOPOLIS.
Slave, slave, sausages off the fire. Bring them here.
LAMACHOS.
Hold it firm, slave. Hold it tight.
DIKAIOPOLIS.
Grip it tightly, slave, whilst I get it off the skewer.
LAMACHOS.
Slave, bracings for my shield.
DIKAIOPOLIS.
Slaves, loaves from the oven. And bring bracings
For my stomach.
LAMACHOS.
Now to fix my Gorgon's head.
DIKAIOPOLIS.
And I'll have a slice of cheese-cake.

Just so that the point is not lost by the slower wits in the audience, the Chorus adds its comments:

There go the two of them—
How different are their journeys!
One to mount guard, and freeze in the cold;
Watching with anxiety.
The other to drink and make merry;
Sleep with a beauty who will
Not find it difficult to please him.

Each party's standpoint brings about inevitable—and vividly contrasting—results: Dikaiopolis' talents at drinking wine wins him the prize at the Feast of Pitchers; Lamachos' talents at warfare result in being struck by an enemy stake. Tipsy, Dikaiopolis is friendly to Lamachos, hugging the suffering warrior, but does not comprehend wounded Lamachos' condition. Again, the dialogue makes fanciful use of strong contrasts in what is virtually an ironic operatic duet:

LAMACHOS.
Why do you embrace me?
DIKAIOPOLIS.
Why, then, did you bite me?
LAMACHOS.
‘Twas a cruel assault—I had to pay it back
In good measure, fiercely.
DIKAIOPOLIS.
‘Twas a delicious wine I quaffed just now.
LAMACHOS.
O Paian, god of medicine, come!
DIKAIOPOLIS.
Not his feast day today, my friend. No chance.
LAMACHOS.
Hold up my leg. Careful, it's so tender.
I can barely stand up.
DIKAIOPOLIS.
Hold this thing, my darlings, hold it, do. I need
Two of you to do it properly.

The end-piece sees Lamachos valiantly trying to muster up enough resolution to return to the battlefield. Dikaiopolis abandons the market, and returns to the feast, the Chorus noisily cheering him on, determined to stick to their hero—as long as the sacred wine-skin lasts:

Dear men, I come when you call.
You win—oh yes, you win!
Brave champion, you triumph over all!
The wine-skin is yours, full to the brim.
And we'll sing of you, again and again
So long as you have the sacred wine-skin,
We'll follow you! Victory! Victory!

SUMMING UP

Very significant is how Aristophanes handles Lamachos' wounded departure to the battlefield, whilst Dikaiopolis is living it up. Of a sudden, there is a complete change of standpoint, totally unexpected: a distinctly disturbing impression that gaining a treaty and the use Dikaiopolis has made of it is overshadowed by Lamachos' steadfast—even if misguided—conduct. But it is a characteristic of Aristophanes; to be scrupulously fair in handling his characters. Characters remain true to themselves throughout, serving the argument of the comedy itself, a debate in which no party escapes the obligation to conform to commonsense conduct: to measure up to a notion of balance, of behavior within the norm of good citizenship, of personal and civic decency. Throughout Acharnians, the guiding spirit is concerned to show the threat which these clashes—war and peace and the like—illuminate; and to chastise deviations from a civilized standpoint; in other words, attacking its enemies with every resource in comedy's armour, and, at the same time, defending values and traditions of the democratic State. Clearly then, Aristophanes' comedy is firmly rooted in conduct, and what conduct owes in the first place to character ….