Aristophanes and the Carnival of Genres

2 The Failed Programs of Clouds

63 2 Within the arena of almost every utterance an intense interaction and struggle between one’s own and another’s word is being waged, a process within which they oppose or dialogically interanimate each other.—Mikhail Bakhtin The literary dialogism of Dikaiopolis’ prologue in Acharnians offers a variety of interpretative possibilities to Aristophanes’ various audiences. In Clouds, we find the same processes at work. Yet while other literature, particularly tragic poetry, continues to exercise a powerful symbolic role in Clouds—both in the development of the plot and in the articulation of Aristophanes’ aesthetic program—it is not emphasized to the same degree as in Acharnians. In its place is the economic tension that drives the action of the play: the differences between the frugal Strepsiades, a man who has begun to watch his hoarded wealth disappear , and his horse-loving son, whose expensive hobby is encouraged by Strepsiades’ intemperate, aristocratic wife. The primary struggle in this situation should perhaps be between the two social classes involved: relatively wealthy peasants with no social prominence, represented by Strepsiades, and aristocrats whose expectations have not adjusted to their diminished wealth (see Dover 1968. xxix–xxx and Konstan 1995). Indeed, although the pompous self-assertion of the aristocratic class is mocked in the play, this conflict is elided into one that is less explosive, the clash between generations. Here Aristophanes follows a familiar path, most notably the course of his own Banqueters, a play described in the Clouds parabasis as about ı s≈frvn te x» katapúgvn, “the moderate (boy) and the dissolute (one)” (529).1 At The Failed Programs of Clouds 64 Aristophanes and the Carnival of Genres the same time, the play differs markedly from Banqueters in its focus on rhetorical education and the prominence given to Socrates, whether he is understood as a generic Sophist or as an historical figure.2 Central to the play is the contest between rival educational philosophies , represented by ı kre¤ttvn lÒgow, literally “the stronger argument ,” and ı ¥ttvn lÒgow, “the weaker argument.” I shall follow the practice of Kenneth Dover (1968.lvii–lviii), by referring to them simply as “Right” and “Wrong,” thus avoiding wordiness in a translation that will appear frequently. The reason for the contest is to decide which of the logoi will undertake to educate Pheidippides in the art of rhetoric. The decision is never really in doubt, however, as Strepsiades is seeking a way to avoid repaying his creditors from the very beginning of the play (98–99), and he restates his intention in his final instructions to Socrates that Pheidippides should learn both arguments, unless that proves impossible , in which case he should at least learn Wrong (882–85). Such a bias on the part of Strepsiades, together with the evident antinomian orientation of the phrontisterion (95–99), would appear to doom Right’s cause in advance. Nevertheless, the debate is decided along other lines and with more far-reaching consequences, as Wrong not only persuades Strepsiades to entrust Pheidippides to himself, but also forces his opponent to capitulate and come over to his side. The scenes following the agon detail the consequences of this victory for Strepsiades and his family. The chorus of Clouds, who had previously been represented as the paradigm of the rhetorical with their infinite mutability (340–55), metamorphose into defenders of the old theodicy , reconfigured, they hope, to justify their place within it.3 Although officially impartial in the agon, they approve of the beating that Strepsiades receives at the hands of his amoral son, trained by Wrong (1454–61), and explicitly support Strepsiades’ decision to set fire to the phrontisterion of Socrates, the great perverter of traditional values (1508–09). I will argue that the evident one-sidedness of the agon is brought about by the differing rhetorical styles of Right and Wrong. Right, able to sound only a single note about the superiority of the past, is unable to meet the objections of Wrong, who is able both to exploit the implications of Right’s argument and, when it suits him, to contest it altogether. In their different approaches, the two arguments illustrate well Bakhtin’s distinction between monologism and dialogism. Right is locked into a monological view of language exemplified by his fondness for moral absolutes and ex cathedra pronouncements, while Wrong’s consciousness of the dialogic workings of language leaves him plenty of room for outmaneuvering...