Sexuality in Greek and Roman Society

and Literature: A Sourcebook 2nd

Edition Marguerite Johnson
Visit to download the full and correct content document:
https://ebookmass.com/product/sexuality-in-greek-and-roman-society-and-literature-a
-sourcebook-2nd-edition-marguerite-johnson/
 SEXUALITY IN GREEK AND ROMAN
SOCIETY AND LITERATURE

This second edition includes an updated review of sexuality in Greece and Rome,
an expanded bibliography and numerous new passages with original translations.
This book provides readers with detailed information, notes and the original
translated passages on the fascinating and multi-­faceted theme of ancient sexuality.
The sources range from the era of Homer and Hesiod through to the Graeco-­
Roman world of the Fourth Century ce and explore the diversity of approaches to
sexuality and sexual expression, as well as how these issues relate to the rest of
ancient society and culture.
Sexuality in Greek and Roman Society and Literature is an invaluable resource
to students and academics alike, providing a detailed series of chapters on all
major facets of sexuality in ancient Greece and Rome. It will particularly appeal
to those interested in sexuality and gender in antiquity, as well as ancient literature
and social studies.

Marguerite Johnson is Professor of Classics at The University of Newcastle,

Australia. She specialises in histories of sexualities and gender, and Classical
Reception Studies.
 ROUTLEDGE SOURCEBOOKS FOR THE
ANCIENT WORLD

Recent titles include:

POMPEII AND HERCULANEUM

A Sourcebook, 2nd edition
Alison E. Cooley and M.G.L. Cooley

ANCIENT ROME
SOCIAL AND HISTORICAL DOCUMENTS FROM THE EARLY
REPUBLIC TO THE DEATH OF AUGUSTUS, 2ND EDITION
Matthew Dillon and Lynda Garland

PAGANS AND CHRISTIANS IN LATE ANTIQUITY

A SOURCEBOOK, 2ND EDITION
A.D. Lee

GREEK AND ROMAN TECHNOLOGY

A SOURCEBOOK OF TRANSLATED GREEK AND ROMAN TEXTS,
2ND EDITION
Andrew N. Sherwood, Milorad Nikolic, John W. Humphrey, and John P. Oleson

ITALY BEFORE ROME

A SOURCEBOOK
Katherine McDonald

SEXUALITY IN GREEK AND ROMAN SOCIETY AND LITERATURE

A SOURCEBOOK, 2ND EDITION
Marguerite Johnson

For a full list of titles in this series, please visit www.routledge.com/Routledge-­

Sourcebooks-­for-­the-­Ancient-­World/book-­series/RSAW
SEXUALITY IN GREEK
AND ROMAN SOCIETY
AND LITERATURE
A Sourcebook
Second edition

Marguerite Johnson
Second edition published 2022
by Routledge
2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon, OX14 4RN
and by Routledge
605 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10158
Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa
business
© 2022 Marguerite Johnson
The right of Marguerite Johnson to be identified as author of this work
has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright,
Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or
utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now
known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in
any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing
from the publishers.
Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or
registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation
without intent to infringe.
First edition published by Routledge 2004
British Library Cataloguing-­in-­Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Library of Congress Cataloging-­in-­Publication Data
Names: Johnson, Marguerite, 1965 – author.
Title: Sexuality in Greek and Roman society and literature: a sourcebook /
Marguerite Johnson.
Description: Second edition. | New York, NY: Routledge Taylor & Francis
Ltd, 2022. | Series: Routledge sourcebooks for the ancient world |
Revised edition of Sexuality in Greek and Roman society and literature,
2005. | Includes bibliographical references and index.
Identifiers: LCCN 2021036153 (print) | LCCN 2021036154 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Classical literature – History and criticism. | Sex in
literature. | Sex customs – Greece – History – To 500. |
Sex – Greece – History – To 500. | Sex customs in literature. | Sex
customs – Rome. | Sex – Rome.
Classification: LCC PA3014.S47 J64 2022 (print) | LCC PA3014.S47
(ebook) | DDC 880/.09 – dc22
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021036153
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021036154
ISBN: 978-­1-­138-­20040-­1 (hbk)
ISBN: 978-­1-­138-­20041-­8 (pbk)
ISBN: 978-­1-­003-­24204-­8 (ebk)
DOI: 10.4324/9781003242048
Typeset in Times New Roman
by Apex CoVantage, LLC
To the seventh child of the seventh child, and the girls from the Hunter
Valley coalfields.
 CONTENTS

Index of passagesix
List of figuresxix
Prefacexx
Note to the second editionxxii
Acknowledgements from the first editionxxiv
List of abbreviationsxxv

Introduction: a socio-­sexual background to Greece

and Rome 1

I The divine sphere 23

II Beauty 56

III Marriage 89

IV Sexual labour 135

V Same-­sex attraction 166

VI Sex aids, didactic literature and handbooks 202

VII Sex and violence 227

VIII Anxiety and repulsion 251

IX Taboos, alterity and marginal activities 271

vii
 C ontents

X Celebrity sex 316

A final word 353

Glossary of authors, inscriptions and papyri 355

Glossary of terms 362
Alphabetical index of authors, inscriptions and papyri 370
Bibliography 376
Index410

viii
 I N D E X O F PA S S A G E S

I THE DIVINE SPHERE

Setting the scene
1 Homer Iliad Book 14 extracts Deception of Zeus
2 Ovid Metamorphoses 6.103–28 Divine lusts
Aphrodite and Venus
3 Hesiod Theogony 188–206 Birth of Aphrodite
4 Sappho Poem 1 Hymn to Aphrodite
5 Theognidea 1386–89 Powerful Aphrodite
6 Euripides Hippolytus 1–50 Pitiless Aphrodite
7 Nossis Greek Anthology 5.170 Sweet love
8 Lucretius On the Nature of Things Book 1 Invocation of Venus
extracts
9 Tibullus Elegy 1.2.15–32 Helpful Venus
Eros and Amor
10 Hesiod Theogony 116–22 Birth of Eros
11 Alcman Fragment 59a The impact of Eros
12 Sappho Fragment 130 The impact of Eros
13 Ibycus Fragment 287 The impact of Eros
14 Anacreon Fragment 413 The impact of Eros
15 Catullus Poem 85 The torture of loving
16 Propertius Elegy 2.12 Depiction of Amor
Cult activities
17 Sappho Fragment 2 Aphrodite
18 Euripides Bacchae 677–703 Maenads
19 Livy Book 39.10.1–9 The Bacchanalian cult
20 Ovid Fasti 4.133–60 Fortuna Virilis and Venus
Verticordia
21 Plutarch Roman Questions (268d–e) Bona Dea
22 Lucian On the Syrian Goddess 50–1 The Galli

ix
 I N D E X O F PA S S A G E S

II BEAUTY
The creation of women
23 Hesiod Works and Days 59–89 Pandora
Natural beauty
24 Sappho Fragment 16.1–20 Beauty defined
25 Philodemus Greek Anthology 5.132 Beauty inspires desire
26 Ovid Amores 1.5 Corinna
27 Apuleius Metamorphoses 4.28.1–4 Psyche
28 Rufinus Greek Anthology 5.15 Melite
29 Rufinus Greek Anthology 5.60 A girl bathing
Youth and beauty
30 Homer Odyssey 6.149–63 Nausicaa
31 Sappho Fragment 132.1–2 Flowerlike Cleis
32 Martial Epigram 5.37 Erotion
33 Straton Greek Anthology 12.5 Preferences
Age and beauty
34 Mimnermus Poem 5 Youth is fleeting, old age
looms
35 Sappho Fragment 58 On old age
36 Philodemus Greek Anthology 5.13 Charito
37 Rufinus Greek Anthology 5.48 An ageing beauty
Male beauty
38 Tyrtaeus Fragments 10.1–2, 27–30 Bravery
39 Aristophanes Clouds 1010–19 Sexy good looks
40 Apuleius Metamorphoses 5.22.4–7 The beauty of Cupid
41 Straton Greek Anthology 12.192 Unadorned beauty
42 Statius Silvae 4.2.38–44 Beauty and power
43 Juvenal Satire 6.103–12 A gladiator’s charms
The powerful effects of beauty
44 Homer Iliad 3.154–60 Reaction to Helen
45 Sappho Fragment 31.1–16 The sight of the beloved
46 Catullus Poem 51 The sight of Lesbia
Beyond the physical
47 Sappho Fragment 50 Beauty and goodness
48 Pseudo- Erotic Essay 30 The ideal erōmenos
Demosthenes
61
49 Anonymous Greek Anthology 12.96 Good Pyrrhus
50 Catullus Poem 86 Quintia and Lesbia
compared
Beauty contests
51 Euripides Trojan Women 924–44 The judgement of
Paris

x
 I N D E X O F PA S S A G E S

52 Rufinus Greek Anthology 5.35 The back view

53 Rufinus Greek Anthology 5.36 The front view
54 Athenaeus 565f–566a Male contests
55 Athenaeus 609e–610b More competitions

III MARRIAGE
Wives
56 Hesiod Theogony 585–612 Irresistible ‘evils’
57 Hesiod Works and Days 695–705 Choosing a wife
58 Semonides Poem 7 Varieties of wives
59 Cato the Elder On Agriculture 143.1–2 Expectations of a wife
60 Honestus Greek Anthology 5.20 The right age
Marriage songs
61 Sappho Fragments 103b–116 Epithalamia –marriage
hymns
62 Theocritus Idyll 18 Helen and Menelaus
63 Catullus Poem 61 extracts Junia and Manlius
Traditions and customs
64 Euripides Iphigeneia at Aulis extracts Marriage traditions
65 Plutarch Advice to the Bride and Groom Marriage customs
138b
66 Athenaeus 602d–e A Spartan custom
Pre-marital anxiety
67 Antiphanes Greek Anthology 9.245 The tragedy of Petale
68 Seneca the Controversies 1.2.22 The bride
Elder
69 Martial Epigram 11.78 The groom
Conjugal sex
70 Aristophanes Lysistrata extracts A sexy sex strike
71 Martial Epigram 11.71 Leda’s frustration
72 Martial Epigram 11.104 A husband’s demands
Happy marriages
73 Homer Iliad 6.482–93 Hector and Andromache
74 Theognis 1225–26 A good wife
75 Plutarch Life of Pompey extracts Pompey and his wives
76 Martial Epigram 10.38 To Calenus, on Sulpicia
The pain of separation
77 EG 44.2–3 Epitaph for Chaerestrate
78 CIL I2 1211 Epitaph for Claudia
79 ILS 7472 Funerary stele of Aurelius
and his wife Aurelia
Philematium

xi
 I N D E X O F PA S S A G E S

80 Ovid Tristia 1.6 extracts To his wife from exile

81 Pliny Epistle 7.5 To his third wife
Documents relating to marriage: the Oxyrhynchus Papyri
82 POxy 524 and 927 Wedding invitations
83 POxy 267 Agreement of marriage
84 POxy 266 Divorce contract
85 POxy 281 Complaint against a
husband
86 POxy 282 Complaint against a wife

IV SEXUAL LABOUR
The archaic age
87 Archilochus Fragments Pornē
88 Anacreon Fragments Hetaira
The multi-faceted hetaira
89 Apollodorus Against Neaera extracts 59.18–19: Training little
[Ps-Dem. 59] girls
59.30: Used goods
Females and their clients
90 Plutarch Life of Pericles 24.3–7 Aspasia
91 Plautus Pseudolus extracts A comic pimp
92 Gallus Greek Anthology 5.49 Lyde’s services
93 Nicarchus Greek Anthology 11.328 The body of the female
worker
94 Horace Satire 1.2.28–36 Endorsement from Cato
95 Martial Epigram 9.32 The ideal girl
96 Athenaeus 568a–d Maid-to-order
97 Athenaeus 569a–d Brothel life
The ageing woman
98 Martial Epigram 10.75 Galla
99 Athenaeus 570b–d Lais
Sacred sex
100 Strabo Geography 6.2.6 At Eryx
101 Strabo Geography 8.6.20 At Corinth
Pompeian graffiti: females
102 CIL IV 794; 1830; 9847 Advice and observations
103 CIL IV 2273; 4185; 10004 Praise and abuse
104 CIL IV 7089; 2310b; 5048; 5372; Advertisements
1751
Males and their clients
105 Aeschines Against Timarchus 21 The law

xii
 I N D E X O F PA S S A G E S

106 Plautus Pseudolus 767–88 A pimp’s slave-boy

107 Martial Epigram 4.28 Chloe and her toy-boy
108 Petronius Satyricon 126 Encolpius for sale
109 POxy 3070 Proposition by mail
Pompeian graffiti: males
110 CIL IV 1825a; 1882; 2048; 2319b; Sexual acts with men
5408
111 CIL IV 8940 Sexual acts with women

V SAME-SEX ATTRACTION
Origins
112 Plato Symposium 189d–192b Same-sex attraction
113 Pseudo- Problems 879a–880a Causes of male passivity
Aristotle
114 Phaedrus Fables 4.16 A Titanic error
115 Athenaeus 602f–603a Origins of pederasty
Males compared to females
116 Ovid Ars Amatoria 2.683–84 Love of boys is unequal
117 Plutarch Dialogue on Love 751a–b Love of boys is genuine
118 Straton Greek Anthology 12.7 Girls and boys
119 Pseudo-Lucian Erotes 25–8 Women and boys
120 Achilles Tatius Leucippe and Cleitophon 2.35–8 the merits of boy-love
Male beauty and eroticism
121 Straton Greek Anthology 12.4 Ideal ages for boys
122 Catullus Poem 48 Kissing Juventius
Same-sex love in militaristic societies
123 Aelian Miscellany Book 3 extracts Pederasty at Sparta
124 Athenaeus 561e–f Love honoured
Women in love
125 Sappho Fragments 49, 94, 96 Love and friendship
126 Erinna Distaff 13–55 Baucis
127 CIL IV.5296 Entreaty to a girl
Magical women
128 PGM 32.1–19 Herais entreats Sarapias
129 SM 1.42 Side A extract Sophia entreats Gorgonia
Representations of women
130 Anacreon Fragment 358 Girl gazes on . . . girl
131 Asclepiades Greek Anthology 5.207 Two women of Samos
132 Martial Epigram 7.67 Philaenis the tribad
133 Lucian Fifth Dialogue of the Hetairai Clonarium and Leaena

xiii
 I N D E X O F PA S S A G E S

Celtic practices
134 Aristotle Politics 1269b Celts and Spartans
135 Diodorus 5.32.7 Celtic sexual practices
Siculus
136 Athenaeus 603a Celtic preferences

VI SEX AIDS, DIDACTIC LITERATURE AND HANDBOOKS

Sex aids
137 Aristophanes Lysistrata 107–9 Dildos
138 Herodas Mime 6 extracts Girl talk
139 Propertius Elegies 2.6.27–34 Visual erotica
140 Suetonius Life of Horace Extract Reflections
Sex manuals
141 POxy 2891 Philaenis’ erotic handbook
142 Athenaeus 220e–f Writers of erotic handbooks
143 Priapea 3 Elephantis
144 Martial Epigram 12.43 The wanton verses of
Sabellus
145 Martial Epigram 12.95 A girl to hand
146 Martial Epigram 10.35 Sulpicia – erotica for the
respectable
Sex and science
147 Lucretius On the Nature of Things 4.1101– Lust – never enough
20
148 Lucretius On the Nature of Things 4.1153– Lust is blind
76
Grooming and the natural look
149 Propertius Elegies 1.2.1–8 Talent needs no
adornment
150 Ovid Treatments for the Female Face Importance of cultus
extracts
The art of love
151 Ovid Ars Amatoria 1.35–8 The task
152 Ovid Ars Amatoria Book 1 extracts The hunt
153 Ovid Ars Amatoria Book 1 extracts Flatter her
154 Ovid Ars Amatoria 1.753–4 Trust no one
155 Ovid Ars Amatoria 2.657–66 Don’t mention her flaws
156 Ovid Ars Amatoria Book 3 extracts Tips for the unfortunate
157 Ovid Ars Amatoria 3.769–808 Best positions for sex
Cures for love
158 Ovid Remedia Amoris extracts Healing the disease

xiv
 I N D E X O F PA S S A G E S

VII SEX AND VIOLENCE

Rape in myth and legend
159 Alcaeus Fragment 298.4–24 Times of war – Ajax and
Cassandra
160 Ovid Metamorphoses Book 6 extracts Tereus and Philomela
Adultery, rape and the law
161 Plutarch Life of Solon 23.1–2 Solon on adultery and
rape
162 Lysias 1 On the Murder of Eratosthenes Rape and seduction in
32–3 Athenian law
163 Demosthenes Against Aristocrates 53 Athenian law on adultery
23
164 Valerius Nine Books of Memorable Deeds Lucretia and early
Maximus and Sayings 6.1.1 responses to rape
165 Horace Satire 1.2.37–46 Punishments for adultery
Rape as punishment
166 Aristophanes Acharnians 271–6 Punishment of a slave-
girl
167 Priapea 13 and 28 Punitive rape
168 Catullus Poem 56 Master punishes a slave-
boy
Rape in war
169 Herodotus The Histories 8.33.1 Death by gang rape
170 Xenophon Anabasis 4.1.13–4 Male and female captives
171 Tacitus Histories 3.33 Rape and the sack of
Cremona
172 Tacitus Annals 14.31 Rape and expansion of
empire
173 Pausanias 10.22.3–4 The Galatians in Aetolia
174 Athenaeus 522d–e Mass rape at Carbina
Turning ‘no’ into ‘yes’
175 Archilochus Fragment 196a An ‘erotic’ encounter
176 Ovid Ars Amatoria 1.663–80 Girls like it rough
Sexual violence as sport and spectacle
177 Aristophanes Peace 894–904 Sporting metaphors for
rough sex
178 Martial On the Spectacles 5 Pasiphae and the bull

VIII ANXIETY AND REPULSION

Impotence
179 Philodemus Greek Anthology 11.30 Partial impotence
180 Ovid Amores 3.7 Equipment failure

xv
 I N D E X O F PA S S A G E S

181 Petronius Satyricon 138 Treatment for impotence

The repellent woman
182 Lucilius Fragment 1182 Menstrual defilement
183 Horace Epode 12.1–20 Old whore
184 Martial Epigram 3.93 Vetustilla
185 Rufinus Greek Anthology 5.76 Ravages of old age
186 Priapea Vergilian Appendix 83.26–37 A filthy old woman
Odours
187 Catullus Poem 97 Aemilius smells at both
ends
188 Nicarchus Greek Anthology 11.241 Theodorus stinks
189 Lucillius Greek Anthology 11.239 Telesilla’s classically foul
breath
190 Martial Epigram 6.93 Thais stinks
Contamination and staining
191 Aristophanes Knights 1284–7 Ariphrades’ tastes
192 Aristophanes Wasps 1280–3 Ariphrades’ talent
193 CIL IV.1391 A liquid diet
194 CIL IV.1516 Female muck
195 Martial Epigram 9.69 Unforeseen consequences
Passivity and effeminacy
196 Anonymous Greek Anthology 11.272 The kinaidos
197 Catullus Poem 80 Tell-tale signs of fellatio
198 Martial Epigram 11.61 Nanneius’ tongue
199 Juvenal Satire 2.65–83 Haute couture in the
courts

IX TABOOS, ALTERITY AND MARGINAL ACTIVITIES

Setting the scene
200 Artemidorus On Dreams Book 1 extracts Unnatural acts
Unholy unions/incest
201 Sophocles Oedipus Rex extracts Oedipus and Jocasta
202 Catullus Poem 90 Gellius
203 Parthenius Erotic Misfortunes 31 Incestuous desire and
necrophilia
204 Ovid Metamorphoses Book 9 extracts Byblis and her brother
Sadomasochism
205 Hipponax Fragment 92 A sound thrashing
Cross-dressing and transgenderism
206 Euripides Bacchae extracts Pentheus’ cross-dressing

xvi
 I N D E X O F PA S S A G E S

207 Aristophanes Women at the Thesmophoria Agathon’s cross-dressing

130–45
208 Seneca the Epistles 122.7 Cross-dressing is
Younger unnatural
209 Juvenal Satire 2.115–42 Male brides
210 Ausonius Epigram 76 Fluid forms
Autoeroticism
211 Martial Epigram 9.41 Autoeroticism and
infertility
212 Martial Epigram 11.22 Masturbation of a partner
Paraphilia
213 Seneca the Natural Questions 1.16 Katoptronophilia
Younger
214 Pseudo-Lucian Erotes 15–16 extracts Agalmatophilia
Scopophilia
215 Petronius Satyricon 26 An onlooker
216 Petronius Satyricon 140 An education in vice
Interspecies sex and desire
217 Herodotus The Histories 2.46.4 The Mendesian cult of the
ram god
218 Ovid Ars Amatoria 1.289–326 Pasiphae and the bull
219 Hyginus Fables 40.1–2 Pasiphae and the bull
220 Martial Epigram 1.83 Manneia’s puppy
221 Juvenal Satire 6.327–34 An arse for an ass
222 Apuleius Metamorphoses 10.19–22 Lust for an ass
223 Antoninus Metamorphoses 21 Extract Polyphonte and the bear
Liberalis
224 Athenaeus 606b–c Animals in love with
humans

X CELEBRITY SEX
Semiramis
225 Justin Epitome 1.2.1–10 A woman in man’s
clothing
226 Orosius Seven Books of History Against A savage queen
the Pagans 1.4.4–8
Classical greece
227 Athenaeus 533d; 576c–d Themistocles’ lady
chariot
228 Plutarch Life of Alcibiades 16.1–2 Alcibiades: a man
without restraint

xvii
 I N D E X O F PA S S A G E S

Macedonian kings
229 Quintus History of Alexander 6.5.22–3 Alexander and Bagoas
Curtius
Rufus
230 Quintus History of Alexander 10.1.25–7 Bagoas and Orxines
Curtius
Rufus
231 Plutarch Life of Demetrius 24.1 ‘Brother’ of Athena
232 Plutarch Life of Demetrius 14.3 A busy sex life
233 Athenaeus 577c; 479a Two ditties for Demetrius
Republican Rome
234 Sallust War with Catiline 5.1–5; 14.3–15 Catiline’s depravity
235 Cicero Speech Against Catiline 2.22–4 An ‘army’ of perverts
236 Sallust War with Catiline 24.3–25.5 Sempronia
237 Catullus Poem 57 Caesar and his bête noir
238 Suetonius Life of Caesar 49.1–4 Caesar and Nicomedes
239 Suetonius Life of Caesar 52.1; 52.3 Caesar’s relations with
foreign queens
240 Cicero Second Philippic 18.44–5 Antony, the male whore
241 Horace Epode 9.11–20; 27–32 The shame and defeat of
Antony
242 Horace Ode 1.37 The fall of Cleopatra
Imperial Rome
243 Tacitus Annals 6.51.5–6 The phases in the life of
Tiberius
244 Tacitus Annals 6.1–5 The lusts of Tiberius
245 Suetonius Life of Tiberius extracts The pleasure dome
246 Suetonius Life of Caligula extracts Brother and sisters
247 Suetonius Life of Nero 28 Sporus
248 Suetonius Life of Nero 29 Nero the groom (and the
bride!)
249 Tacitus Annals 14.2.1–3 Nero and Agrippina

A FINAL WORD
250 Lucretius On the Nature of Things 4.1278– Long-lasting love
87

xviii
 FIGURES

1.1 Cupid with bow against travertine wall; Roman copy of a Greek
original by Lysippus. Capitoline Museum. 46
3.1 Wedding scene, red-­figure loutrophoros, c. 400 bce.
Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. 90
3.2 Bride with attendants, terracotta lebes gamikos, attributed
to the Washing Painter, c. 430–420 bce. Metropolitan
Museum of Art, New York. 91
3.3 Marble sarcophagus lid with reclining couple. Roman Severan
period, c. 220 ce. Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. 125
4.1 Symposium scene, red-­figure kylix, Byrgos Painter, c. 490–480
bce. Museo Archeologico Nazionale. 146
4.2 Symposium scene, red-­figure kylix, Byrgos Painter, c. 490–480
bce. Museo Archeologico Nazionale. 146
4.3 Symposium scene with musician playing aulos (double flute),
red-­figure drinking cup, Colmar Painter, c. 490 bce, Athens.
Louvre Museum. 147
5.1 Male with youth. The Warren Cup, c. 30 bce–30 ce. The British
Museum.177
5.2 Male with youth (and onlooker). The Warren Cup, c. 30 bce–30
ce. The British Museum. 178

xix
 P R E FA C E

The focuses of this sourcebook are the sexual practices, mores, ideals and realities
of the ancient Greeks and Romans. The most abundant and informative sources
are to be found in literature and these provide the majority of the selections.
Inscriptions, especially graffiti, and some visual material are also included. Each
source has been chosen on the basis of its capacity to contribute to the diversity
of approaches to matters of sexuality and sexual expression and to illustrate the
integral relationships between these issues and key components of ancient society
and culture. The selections range from the era of Homer and Hesiod through to the
Graeco-­Roman world of the Second Century ce. This timeframe, from the poetic
output of the early Greek world through to an era still relatively free of Christian
influence, establishes socio-­historical parameters within which to work. Within
each segment, an effort has been made to establish a sense of authorial chronol-
ogy in the development of literary and societal attitudes towards any given aspect
of sexuality.
Each chapter begins with a short introduction. The sources are dealt with the-
matically and chronologically under appropriate sub-­headings and commentar-
ies are provided on individual passages. The chapter introductions set the scene
for the treatment of respective themes, literary and personal insights, as well as
cultural and historical considerations. In view of the overlapping nature of the
subject matter, there is a significant amount of cross-­referencing between and
within chapters. The pieces chosen within each chapter reflect a process that aims
to ensure that, given the breadth of the topic in general, the major elements of
ancient sexuality are introduced. The substantial scholarship available on many
of the areas treated in this book provides a valuable adjunct to the sources and
interpretative material contained herein.

How to use the sourcebook

The intention is to provide documents that illustrate specific aspects of sexual life
in Greece and Rome. In addition to the passages, the introductory material and
the notes are designed to augment the reader’s understanding of a given topic.

xx
 P reface

The bibliographical references in most of the notes are to direct readers to under-
take independent research.
For effective results, readers should keep the following in mind when using the
sourcebook:

• The historical and social environment that provides the context for a particu-
lar passage.
• The author’s cultural heritage, style and tone.
• The genre within which the author is working.
• The author’s use of certain words or phrases and the need for an awareness
of the importance of terminology. The Glossary of authors and the Glossary
of Greek and Roman terms are, therefore, an integral part of the book (while
proper names in Greek are usually Latinised – Neaera rather than Neaira –
Greek technical terms – hetaira rather than hetaera – are not).
• Areas of cultural similarity and difference in relation to the attitudes, mores
and practices of the Greeks and Romans.
• The use made of mythology: the extent to which stories, myths and fables are
informative in regard to the sexual attitudes of the ancients.
• The relevance of academic material available to stimulate interpretations of
a given author and passage and the importance of the divergence of scholarly
opinion.

There is a focus on the use of Greek and Latin words throughout this source-
book, particularly in the notes, which is intended to provide an understanding
of concepts that cannot be fully appreciated within the context of a translation.
For easy reference of repeat words, see the Glossary of terms at the end of the
sourcebook.

xxi
 N O T E TO T H E S E C O N D E D I T I O N

I am grateful for the continued interest in Sexuality in Greek and Roman Soci-
ety and Literature: A Sourcebook and thankful to Amy Davis-­Poynter and Eliza-
beth Risch from Routledge for their support during the production of this second
edition. Thank you to Michael Ewans for support and scholarly advice during
the writing of the second edition. Thank you to Lindsay Watson for advice on
the Introduction. Thank you to Leah O’Hearn for reading the manuscript with a
close eye. And thank you as always to my partner, Leni, and our children, Jack
and Kate.
The second edition has a revised Introduction that addresses the substantial
increase in scholarly analysis of ancient sexuality both in respect of individual
writers and specific themes. This increase is reflected in the new Bibliography,
which is over twice the number of pages of the original one. The scholarly envi-
ronment of additions, new research and new insights are discussed at the end of
the Introduction.
The second edition also has two new chapters, IX: Taboos, alterity and mar-
ginal activities, and X: Celebrity sex. The original eight chapters have been edited
throughout and the original translations have been revised. Some additional
source material has also been added to the original chapters. The original Chapter
VIII has been moved and is now Chapter VI in order to signpost the distinction
between its content and the more extreme (or, in many instances, less socially
normative) content of the chapters that follow. This chapter, as with Chapter IV,
has been renamed in order to better reflect the content of the former and to better
align the material with more appropriate terminology in the case of the latter.
The notes to each passage and the Bibliography have been extensively aug-
mented owing to the growth in research on the topic since the publication of the
first edition. Introductions to sections and passages have also been developed to
better contextualise the ancient source material (sometimes resulting in introduc-
tions exceeding the length of passage per se).
The selection of sources to illustrate chapters and sub-­sections is a some-
what subjective process. Often a source in one chapter could have been placed
in another. This should not be regarded as a problem, however, but rather as an
example of the multi-­faceted content of many of the sources. Ideally, readers will

xxii
 N ote to the second edition

question some choices and advocate for the addition of others as part of an active
reading process.
The Abbreviation list has also been edited where appropriate to indicate com-
mon English titles for ancient works. This is to assist readers without Greek and
Latin. The Abbreviation list is based on the 4th edition of the Oxford Classical
Dictionary (OCD).
Finally, readers familiar with the first edition may detect some changes in the
illustrations. Where new images have been used, they are comparable to the origi-
nal images they have replaced.

xxiii
 ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS FROM
THE FIRST EDITION

We offer our sincerest thanks to our former colleague, Dr Rhona Beare,† for her
lively and invaluable advice and insights especially in the realm of Greek poetry.
Professor Harold Tarrant of The University of Newcastle offered much assistance,
in particular his discussions of Greek literature and philosophy. Thanks also must
go to Professor Brian Bosworth† and Associate Professor John Penwill† for their
constructive comments on the Introduction. Colleagues from The University of
Newcastle provided invaluable assistance with teaching relief and their constant
encouragement; special note should be made of the research assistance provided
by Kay Hayes and proofreading by Letitia Waller. Without the tangible and gen-
erous support of the (then) Department of Classics and the Schools of Liberal
Arts and Humanities at this university, we could not have completed the project.
Finally, an immense debt is owed to our students, who have proved a deep well
of inspiration. From these delightful teaching experiences, this book was born.

xxiv
 A B B R E V I AT I O N S

General
adj. adjective
adv. adverb
Anon., anon. Anonymous, anonymous
approx. approximately
c. circa
Cent., cent. Century, century
cf. compare
Ch., ch. Chapter, chapter
comp. comparative
Cos., cos. Consul, consul
d. death
dim. diminutive
et al. et alia (and others)
fem. feminine
ff. following pages
fl. flourished
Fr., Frr. Fragment, Fragments
lit. literally
masc. masculine
ms., mss. manuscript, manuscripts
n. endnote or footnote
neut. neuter
part. participle
pl. plural
Pref. Preface
Ps. Pseudo
sing. singular
superl. superlative
§ references to individually numbered passages

xxv
 A bbreviations

Collections
AP Anthologia Palatina = Greek Anthology. Palatine Anthology,
W. R. Paton (ed), (Cambridge, Mass., 1916–1918).
CIL Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum: Consilio et Auctoritate
Academiae Litterarum Regiae Borussicae Editum, (Berlin,
1863–1974).
EG Epigrammata Graeca = Greek Epigrams. Epigrammata Graeca,
Vol. 1, G. Kaibel (ed), (Berlin, 1878).
ILS Inscriptiones Latinae Selectae, 3 vols., H. Dessau (ed), (Berlin,
1892–1916).
L&S C. T. Lewis and C. S. Short (eds), A Latin Dictionary (Oxford,
1879).
LSJ H. G. Liddell and R. Scott (eds), A Greek – English Lexicon, 9th
ed. (Oxford, 1940).
OLD P. G. W. Glare (ed), The Oxford Latin Dictionary (Oxford, 1982).
ORF Oratorum Romanorum Fragmenta = Fragments of Roman
Orators. Oratorum Romanorum fragmenta liberae rei
publicae, 2nd ed., E. Malcovati (ed), (Turin, 1955).
PGM Papyri Graecae Magicae = The Greek Magical Papyri. The
Greek Magical Papyri in Translation, Including the Demotic
Spells, H. D. Betz (ed), (Chicago, 1986).
POxy The Oxyrhynchus Papyri, B. P. Grenfell and A. S. Hunt (eds),
The Oxyrhynchus Papyri, Part II (London, 1899); Part III
(London, 1903); Part VI (London, 1908); H. G. Ioannidou (ed),
Part LIX (London, 1992); E. Lobel (ed), Part XXXIX (London,
1972); P. J. Parsons (ed), Part XLII (London, 1974).
SM Supplementum Magicum = Supplement to the Magical Papyri.
Supplementum Magicum, Vol. 1, R. W. Daniel and F.
Maltomini (eds), (Opladen, 1990).

Ancient authors and works

Ach. Tat. Achilles Tatius
Ael. Aelian
Misc: Miscellany
NA: Natura Animalium (The Nature of Animals)
Aeschin. Aeschines
Tim: Against Timarchus
Alc. Alcaeus
Alcm. Alcman
Anacr. Anacreon
Anton. Lib. Antoninus Liberalis
M: Metamorphoses
Apollod. Apollodorus (of Acharnae)
Ps-Dem. 59 [Neaer: Against Neaera]

xxvi
 A B B R E V I AT I O N S

Apollod. Epit: Epitome

Lib: Library
App. Appian
B Civ: Bella civilia (Civil War)
A.R. Apollonius of Rhodes
Argon: Argonautica
Apul. Apuleius
M: Metamorphoses
Archil. Archilochus
Ar. Aristophanes
Ach: Acharnians
Cl: Clouds
Ec: Ecclesiazusae (Assembly Women)
Kn: Knights
Lys: Lysistrata
Thes: Thesmophoriazusae (Women at the Thesmophoria)
Arist. Aristotle
Pol: Politics
Prob: Problems (Ps-Arist.)
Rh: Rhetoric
Artem. Artemidorus
Asclep. Asclepiades
Ath. Athenaeus
Cass. Dio Cassius Dio
Cato the Elder Agr: On Agriculture
Catull. Catullus
Cic. Cicero
Ad Att: Epistulae ad Atticum (Letters to Atticus)
Cael: In Defence of Caelius
Cat: Against Catiline
De Fin: De finibus bonorum et malorum (On the Ends of Good
and Evil)
Har. Resp: De haruspicum responso (On the Response of the
Soothsayers)
Leg: De legibus (On the Laws)
Phil: Philippics
Rep: On the Republic
CT Theodocian Code
Curt. Quintus Curtius Rufus
Cyran. Cyranides
Dem. Demosthenes
Diod. Sic. Diodorus Siculus
Dig. Digest
Din. Dinarchus
Dion. Hal. Dionysius of Halicarnassus
Ant. Rom: Antiquitates Romanae

xxvii
 A B B R E V I AT I O N S

E. Euripides
Ba: Bacchae
Hipp: Hippolytus
Iph. Aul: Iphigeneia at Aulis
Phoen: Phoenician Women
Tr: Troades (Trojan Women)
Herod. Herodas
Hdt. Herodotus
Hes. Hesiod
Th: Theogony
WD: Works and Days
HH Homeric Hymns
Homer Il: Iliad
Od: Odyssey
Hor. Horace
E: Epodes
O: Odes
Sat: Satires
Hyg. Hyginus
F: Fables
Ibyc. Ibycus
Just. Justin
Epit: Epitome (of Trogus)
Juv. Juvenal
Sat: Satires
Liv. Livy
Per: Periochae
Luc. Lucian
Philops: Philopseudes (Lover of Lies)
Er: Erotes (Ps-Luc.)
Syr.D: De Syria dea (On the Syrian Goddess)
Lucil. Lucilius
Lucill. Lucillius
Lucr. Lucretius
Lys. Lysias
1: On the Murder of Eratosthenes
12: Against Eratosthenes
Mart. Martial
De Spec: de Spectaculis (On the Spectacles)
Ep: Epigrams
Max. Tyr. Maximus of Tyre
Mimn. Mimnermus
Nic. Nicarchus
Oros. Orosius
Hist: Seven Books of History Against the Pagans

xxviii
 A B B R E V I AT I O N S

Ov. Ovid
AA: Ars Amatoria (The Art of Love)
Am: Amores
Fast: Fasti
Med. Fac: Medicamina Faciei Femineae (Treatments for the
Female Face)
Met: Metamorphoses
Pont: Epistulae ex Ponto (Letters from Pontus)
Rem Am: Remedia Amoris (Cures for Love)
Tr: Tristia
Parth. Parthenius
Paus. Pausanias
Petr. Petronius
Sat: Satyricon
Phaedrus Fab: Fables
Phld. Philodemus
Pl. Plato
Lg: Leges (Laws)
Parm: Parmenides
Ph: Phaedrus
Symp: Symposium
Plaut. Plautus
Ps: Pseudolus
Plb. Polybius
Plin. Pliny the Elder
NH: Natural History
Plin. Pliny the Younger
Ep: Epistles
Plut. Plutarch
Alc: Life of Alcibiades
Amat: Amatorius (Dialogue on Love)
Ant: Life of Antonius
Caes: Life of Caesar
Cat. Ma: Life of Cato the Elder
Cic: Life of Cicero
Dem: Life of Demetrius
De mul. vir: De mulierum virtutibus (On the Virtues of Women)
Lyc: Life of Lycurgus
Mor: Moralia
Pel: Life of Pelopidas
Per: Life of Pericles
Pomp: Life of Pompey
Quaest. Rom: Quaestiones Romanae (Roman Questions)
Sol: Life of Solon
Them: Life of Themistocles
Thes: Life of Theseus
Prop. Propertius

xxix
 A B B R E V I AT I O N S

Ps-Luc. Pseudo-Lucian
Er: Erotes
Quint. Quintilian
Rufin. Rufinus
Sall. Sallust
Cat: War with Catiline
Jug: Jugurthine War
Sapph. Sappho
Semon. Semonides
Sen. Seneca
Con: Controversies
Sen. Seneca the Younger
Ep: Epistles
QNat: Natural Questions
Sol. Solon
Soph. Sophocles
El: Electra
OT: Oedipus Tyrannus (Oedipus Rex)
Str. Strabo
Geog: Geography
Strat. Straton
Suet. Suetonius
Caes: Life of Julius Caesar
Cal: Life of Caligula
Hor: Life of Horace
Nero: Life of Nero
Tib: Life of Tiberius
Tac. Tacitus
Ann: Annals
Hist: Histories
Theoc. Theocritus
Id: Idylls
Thgn. Theognis and Theognidea
Thuc. Thucydides
Tib. Tibullus
Tyrt. Tyrtaeus
Val. Max. Valerius Maximus
Varr. Varro
RR: De res rusticate (On Agriculture)
Verg. Vergil
Aen: Aeneid
Ecl: Eclogues
Geor: Georgics

xxx
 A bbreviations

X. Xenophon
An: Anabasis
HG: Historia Graeca (Hellenica)
Hier: Hiero
Lac: Constitution of the Lacedaemonians
Mem: Memorabilia
Oec: Oeconomicus
S: Symposium

xxxi
 INTRODUCTION
A socio-­sexual background to Greece and Rome

Greece
The ancient Greeks participated in a variety of sexual practices. To them, erōs
was a primal force that permeated all life in the cosmos, from gods to mortals, to
the animal world. They found the topics of love and lust in their varying forms
suitable for discussion and inquiry in works that ranged from epic to drama, from
love poetry to philosophical discourse. In devoting so much attention to erōs these
writers provided detailed information about their attitudes towards sexuality and
its importance within their respective communities.
While it is true that some artwork and literature taken in isolation can give the
impression that the Greeks lived in an uninhibited sexual environment, there were
strict social and ethical codes in operation, with variations depending on histori-
cal context and the mores of the individual community or polis.1 An important
consideration about the cultural traditions and representations of sexuality in the
ancient world is that, with very rare exceptions, they are conveyed to us by the
thoughts and viewpoints of elite men.
From Homer onwards, the primary focus of Greek literature is the world of the
male. A man was expected to be successful, to contribute to the life of his commu-
nity and to protect his household and all its dependents. Only men could be active
citizens, only men could provide leadership within, and protection of, the com-
munity. In regard to sexuality, being a man was equated with taking the active part
in any relationship. While marital fidelity was essential for the female and ideally
expected of the male, examples taken from source materials consistently highlight
the sexual freedom of men. From the world of religion and mythology, Zeus and
Odysseus could and did take lovers at will, while in the real world a married man
could seek commercial sexual liaisons.2 The hiring of a hetaira3 was acceptable
for the satisfaction of the male’s need for sexual gratification as well as compan-
ionship and even intellectual discourse. Apollodorus (Ps-­Dem. 59.122)4 writes:
‘We have companions [hetairai] for delectation, courtesans [pallakai] to see to
our daily sexual needs, and wives [gynaikes] to bear legitimate offspring and to be
faithful protectors of the households.’ As Skinner 2013 observes: ‘Although this
claim is tendentious, since it implies that each function is exclusive of the other

DOI: 10.4324/9781003242048-1 1
 I ntroduction

two, it indicates that men did form exclusive, lasting unions with women who
were not brides conferred by contractual arrangement with their kyrios [guard-
ian]’ (119). Furthermore, this social reality explains why many of the ancient
sources deal with sexual activity, lust, and love between a male and an individual
involved in commercial sex rather than between a husband and wife. The major
deterrent to seduction of girls or adultery with women was the risk of reprisal
from an aggrieved male party. Male same-­sex relations have generated contro-
versy (among ancient as well as modern writers), but there is universal agreement
concerning the opprobrium incurred as a result of sexual relations between two
adult males. Rape is occasionally alluded to in non-­bellicose circumstances, and
in literature, there are frequent representations of the vulnerable girl who becomes
the target of rape or attempted rape. The unprotected girl was regularly regarded
as fair game, and in mores and legislation, the primary response to rape was pre-
sented in terms of the damage to the husband, father or guardian.
Women in Greece from the Archaic age (c. 800–480 bce) through to the Clas-
sical age (c. 480–323 bce)5 could not participate directly in politics and rarely
owned land or controlled inheritance.6 Marriages among the aristocracy were
usually arranged to ensure that familial, political and economic ties were main-
tained and promoted. The main functions of married women were to be dutiful
wives, bearers of legitimate heirs and effective managers of households (cf. X.
Oec. 7–10, cf. Pomeroy 1995). Such a clear definition of the female’s role was not
restricted to the aristocracy. Even though the sources largely reflect the lifestyles
and values of the upper class, Hesiod (Th. 603–12), for example, makes it clear
that a wife was a necessity for the production of male offspring within lower
socio-­economic groups and warns would-­be bachelors that they will face old age
without a son to care for them and inherit their property. Not surprisingly, there-
fore, in a society that placed such importance on legitimacy, women’s lives were
restricted in regard to what they could and could not do outside the oikos. One
example of the social and political importance of legitimacy is the issue of citizen-
ship in Periclean Athens. Likewise, in Sparta, the rigid three-­tiered social system
meant that the proven legitimacy of Spartiate children was of paramount impor-
tance to the survival of the culture. Similarly, contact with men other than one’s
husband or immediate kin was limited to the greatest extent possible.7 The care
a husband took in ensuring his wife’s good behaviour reflected the basic premise
that women needed to be supervised as much as possible. But this is not to argue
that women lived unhappy, entirely secluded lives. The ancient sources, while
specifying what women were not permitted to do in Athens, also indicate a range
of permitted activities. These activities included the daily tasks of women from
the lower socio-­economic groups meeting to draw water from public wells, which
could have augmented social discourse (but also sexual harassment). Women also
participated in religious rites as well as familial activities such as weddings and
funeral processions. Furthermore, as Foxhall notes: ‘Men faded out of politics
when they were no longer militarily active, but women’s influence over their
younger kin increased as they grew older’ (125).

2
 I ntroduction

The sexual dichotomy that stressed a woman’s need to be chaste and maternal8
while a husband could have sex with a variety of partners is not to suggest that all
Greek marriages were devoid of love and desire. Homer’s depictions of Hector
and Andromache and Odysseus and Penelope illustrate intense and loving rela-
tionships within marriage, albeit the Archaic epic tradition regularly presents ide-
alised marriages.9 The wedding hymns of Sappho, with their images of the beauty
and desirability of the bride and groom, while reflecting a similar romanticism,
also indicate the importance of desire within wedlock. It is necessary, however,
to note the impact of cultural, social and generic issues on such representations.
While it was socially acceptable in Archaic and Classical Greece to depict
sexual congress with sex labourers in works of art and literature, this was not the
case when it came to the respectable relationship between husband and wife.10 For
the ancient Greeks marriage represented duty to one’s oikos principally through
the provision of heirs. This in turn ensured that the family unit served the needs
of the polis in the provision of citizens, soldiers, politicians and religious lead-
ers. It should be pointed out, however, that in some non-­personal literature there
is evidence of sexual attraction within marriage: the Lysistrata, for example, is
structured primarily around the theme of conjugal desire, but the conventions of
the comic, with emphasis on irony and parody, must be considered.11
The Greeks recognised a clear division between one’s private sex life and one’s
duties to the oikos and polis. One of the standard views of the state of being in
love or desiring someone, denoted by the term erōs, was the possible danger of
its destabilising consequences.12 An obvious example of this is the story of the
Trojan War. The attraction Paris had for Helen, inspired by the goddess Aphro-
dite, led to the abduction of another man’s wife and a ten-­year siege in which
thousands of men died. Greek literature depicts the forces of erōs as frighten-
ing, socially destructive and physically, emotionally and mentally debilitating (cf.
Faraone 1999: 43–69). In this sense, the separation of the wife and children from
the sexual activities of the slave-­quarters, the brothels and the male drinking par-
ties or symposia13 ensured that the oikos and its dependents were protected from
the potentially damaging forces of uninhibited sexual expression. The fear that
a woman, if left unsupervised, would fall victim to the powers of erōs is further
reason to maintain this social and familial system. Here, etymology is insightful;
for example a Greek word for ‘wife’, damar is from the verb damazō, denot-
ing the act of ‘breaking in’ to wifely duties; to ‘subdue’ or ‘tame’ a supposedly
biologically-­determined tendency on the female’s part to indulge in sexual excess
(cf. Carson 1990). In contrast, men were able to enjoy a variety of sexual activi-
ties within a range of culturally ordained environments and with socially specified
partners, but women were regarded as more wanton. Aristophanes’ comedies pro-
vide images of the sex-­addicted female,14 while the myth of Tiresias gives an aeti-
ological justification for the belief that women enjoyed sex far more than men.15
As a result of expansion during and after the foundation of Alexander’s empire,
families sometimes experienced dislocation and the polis began to change in com-
position and structure.16 In view of the social changes of this age, it has been

3
 I ntroduction

argued that in comparison to the women of the Archaic and Classical eras, those
from the Hellenistic era (323–30 bce) enjoyed more freedom in the areas of poli-
tics, law, property and sexuality (cf. Theoc. Id. 15, and Herod. 6 and 7).17 How-
ever, one should be wary of interpreting such advancements as indicative of a
widespread change in attitude towards women and a movement away from the
negative stereotypes that dominated the literature of the Classical age.
Male same-­sex relationships were widespread in antiquity. There is an abun-
dance of evidence taken from sources as diverse as Late Archaic and Early Clas-
sical poetry, Attic comedy, Plato, Aeschines’ oratory and the Greek Anthology.18
These sources depict a variety of attitudes and approaches towards the theme,
ranging from intensely personal admissions to comic mockery, to philosophical
examination.
Relationships between males were structured around socially ordained behav-
ioural patterns. Of key importance were the related issues of age and the sexual
dynamics of the active and passive partner. These relationships usually occurred
between an older youth or mature citizen and a pais19 between 12 and 17. The
older male assumed the active role, designated by the term erastēs or lover, while
the pais was passive and was called the erōmenos or beloved.20 Such a relation-
ship is referred to as paiderastia, and the customs and laws associated with this
varied throughout the Greek world.21 The sexual boundaries and etiquette asso-
ciated with the active and passive partner also applied to male–female relation-
ships as is widely attested in artwork, with the male dominant and the female
subordinate (for extreme scenarios in symposia scenes, cf. Figures 4.1 and 4.2).
This does not mean, however, that the pais was necessarily regarded as a female
substitute in terms of sexual activity. What was important was the maintenance of
the active and passive roles. The Greeks made sure to depict, particularly in their
artwork, the social differentiation between a pais – as potential citizen – and an
inferior object of sexual gratification. Because of his future role in the polis, the
pais is depicted with respect in art.22 In Athenian red-­figure pottery, for example,
there are no conclusive examples of the erōmenos as the recipient of anal or oral
penetration,23 for such demeaning roles are reserved in artwork and literature for
commercial providers of sex, and slaves.24
Erotic relations between males were part of the educational process in many
Greek societies, including Sparta25 and Athens. Idealised depictions from Athens,
literary and artistic, portray a careful courtship, in which the pais proved himself
appropriately chaste and somewhat cautious before the relationship progressed
along spiritual and intellectual lines. In such an idealised context, the erastēs
would then proceed to instructing the youth in matters ranging from philosophy
to the citizen’s role in serving the state. The relationship between erastēs and
erōmenos may thus be interpreted as part of the process of transforming a boy into
a man. Although the relationship could sometimes entail a physical dimension,
when the pais became a man, that side of the bond was expected to end, while
the emotional attachment, ideally speaking, endured.26 Following marriage, if he
chose, he could continue to pursue and love young men.

4
 I ntroduction

There is a paucity of source material about same-­sex relations between females.

Sappho’s poetry is an intense and insightful presentation of love among women,
her lyrics strengthened by the fact that we hear a female voice expressing female
emotions. It has been posited that she was part of a female group or thiasos at
Mytilene on Lesbos.27 As part of such a circle, Sappho is sometimes envisaged as
an educator who taught certain skills relating to married life, religious observance
and literary and musical accomplishment. Indeed, some of Sappho’s songs28
address the young women in the language of an erastēs to an erōmenos. Hence, in
the Second Century ce, Maximus of Tyre (18.9) compares her relationships with
girls to those between Socrates and his paides. There is, however, no conclusive
evidence within the context of her poetry to sustain the theories concerning Sap-
pho’s role either as a member of a thiasos or as a formal educator as one would
identify it in a modern sense.29
In the Classical age, we have few female sources that deal with intense or
erotic love for other females. While Plato presents a positive glimpse of such
female relationships in the Symposium 191e, he seemingly reneges in the Laws
636, where he disapproves of sexual relations between two men as well as two
women.30 Asclepiades in the Third Century bce and Lucian in the Second Cen-
tury ce continue to represent sexual relations between women as something either
abominable or exotic and therefore intriguing, perverted and titillating.31
Finally, by way of background to the issues explored in Chapters III, V and
VII, the importance of legislation on matters pertaining to sex, choice of partners
and related issues need to be addressed.32 As previously noted, the Greeks were
wary of erōs and the possible negative side effects it could unleash, particularly
if its pleasures were over-­indulged. For this reason, certain regulations, often in
line with non-­statutory moral traditions as well as law, were enforced to ensure
that men and women acted with restraint and thereby were productive and helpful
contributors to the wellbeing of the polis.
Greek laws were particularly harsh when it came to moicheia.33 In Classical Ath-
ens (the source of most evidence) a husband could kill an adulterer caught in the act
or, alternatively, he could take him before the appropriate magistrates; if the adul-
terer admitted to the crime, he could be put to death, and if he denied the charge,
he would be subject to a trial.34 The woman involved would be punished through
divorce and debarment from public religious activity.35 The act was regarded by the
Athenians as a crime, not on moral grounds explicitly, but because it was a poten-
tial source of public disorder and violence.36 The importance the Greeks placed on
hubris, the meanings of which range from an outrage in the eyes of gods and men,
to the infliction of shame or humiliation upon an individual, is therefore often con-
nected to laws dealing with rape and adultery.37 In the case of the latter crime, it is
the cuckolded husband who is the victim of hubris. Also, of importance, however,
are the sentiments contained in ‘Xenophon’s comment in the Hiero that the moi-
chos destroys the philia between husband and wife’ (Patterson: 124).38
The legal interest protected by moicheia laws, besides the certainty of paternity,
was family honour (timē), closely linked – as in other ancient and contemporary

5
 I ntroduction

cultures – to the sexual integrity of the women of the group, including hetairai
and pallakai, who were socially and effectively a member of the group, if not
entirely legally. As late as the Fourth Century bce, in the speech written by Lysias
in defence of Euphiletus, accused of having murdered Eratosthenes, lover of his
wife, Euphiletus maintains that he killed the man who ‘committed moicheia on
my wife, corrupted her [diephtheire] and dishonoured me and my children, enter-
ing my house’ (Lys. 12.4). The act of moicheia was still regarded as an offence
against the husband of the adulteress, or, if the woman were unmarried or wid-
owed, the man who had the right to control her sexual life.39 The gravity of this
offence is confirmed by the fact that moicheia – when it was not committed in
circumstances that justified killing the adulterer with impunity (that is to say sur-
prising him in the act inside the oikos) – could be prosecuted with a public action
(graphe moicheias) proposed by any Athenian citizen (Ps-­Arist. Ath. Pol. 59.3),
which could also end with the death penalty. Moreover, the husband who did not
repudiate his wife who was surprised with an adulterer was punished with the loss
of civil and political rights (atimia) (Apollod. [Ps-­Dem. 59.87]), and the adulter-
ess was prohibited from participating in ceremonies of public devotion and, if
she attended, was punished with a penalty chosen by the person who surprised
her (excluding death).40 Needless to say, the importance of moicheia as a key to
understanding the ideology and dynamics of family in Athenian law and society
cannot be overestimated.
It has been argued that rape might not have been regarded as a serious offence
in comparison with adultery: the degree of hubris that the husband of the victim
suffered was not as great as that endured by the man whose wife had allowed
herself to be seduced by an adulterer (cf. Cole and also Harris 1990). Keuls, for
example, argues that the act was ‘committed not for pleasure or procreation, but
in order to enact the principle of domination by means of sex’ (47), and further
that there was ‘an unusual moral and legal tolerance of this offence’ (54).41 How-
ever, rape could fall under the purview of the law of hubris and could also be
punished as per a statute attributed to Solon (Plut. Sol. 23), whereby the guardian
or kyrios of the victim could charge the alleged rapist with assault (see passage
161). On the situation in the post-­Archaic age, Ogden 1997 writes: ‘Rape was
actionable, should one choose, under the “public prosecution for hybris” (graphē
hybreōs), which was similarly an agōn timētos, and so the prosecutor could pro-
pose any penalty he thought he could get away with, including death’ (30). Ogden
cites Dinarchus’ Against Demosthenes 1.23, which references capital punishment
in the case of ‘Themistius of Aphidne, because he committed hubris [hubrizein]
on the Rhodian lyre-­player at the Eleusinian festival’. An important addendum to
the topic is noted by Skinner 2013: ‘Note, however, that this entire set of legal
procedures takes no cognizance of marital rape; the concept did not exist. Indeed,
female consent to sex, within or outside of marriage, was not recognized in law
and did not form the basis for determining a sexual crime’ (168).
To illustrate contrasts in sexual behaviour, underlining an obvious choice is
to consider the case of Sparta. According to Xenophon (Lac. 1.8), it was legal in

6
 I ntroduction

Sparta for a man who decided not to cohabit with his wife but wanted offspring to
choose a woman of good family and high birth and, if permitted by her husband,
to have children by her. Xenophon claims this was instituted by Lycurgus in
Archaic times, and he presents it as surviving as a feature of Spartan practice
in the Classical era. He further notes the importance of the husband’s permission
in such an instance. The complexities of this particular community, with its focus
on military discipline and preparedness, male leadership, and the pressure to bear
children to maintain cultural and social traditions, provide a context in which to
assess wife exchange. The unique circumstance of the Spartans illustrates the per-
ceived differences and overt tensions in the moral and associated cultural systems
of various poleis.
Laws also governed same-­sex male relationships and, as with all other legisla-
tion in Classical Athens, it applied to members of citizen families. Slaves could
not court paides (Aeschin. 1.138–39; Plut. Sol. 1.3); teachers and athletic trainers
could not attempt the seduction of their students (Aeschin. 1.9–12); citizens could
not seduce a pais under the age of 12 without incurring social opprobrium and,
possibly, legal action (Aeschin. 1.15–16);42 freeborn males of all ages who sold
themselves were liable to be subjected to severe penalties.43

Rome
Roman attitudes, customs and institutions relating to matters sexual have many
similarities to those of the Greeks, but there are marked differences. Much Roman
literary source material was generated by the upper class (or their Italian and
provincial counterparts), representing aristocratic and well-­to-­do values and life-
styles, although the voices of the lower classes can still be heard. As in Classical
and Hellenistic Athens, in Rome it is the comic playwright who comes the closest
to capturing the world of ordinary citizens and their families.
The ideals of the matrona (a married woman, usually with children) and the
univira (she who has known only one man, her husband) were held up for Roman
wives to emulate, although, as in Greece, it was often an impossible image to
attain and sustain.44 Women from the aristocratic circles were expected to marry
young, sometimes to an older partner chosen for political, social, financial and
family reasons (cf. Plut. Pomp. 48, 53, 55) and to produce heirs to continue the
family or gens.45 They were expected to remain chaste and behave in a way that
would not draw attention to themselves or bring disrepute to their husbands.46 In
the Early and Middle Republican eras, the power of the husband and father as
head of the household (domus) was total. The pater familias had ultimate author-
ity (patria potestas) that extended to the power of life and death over the entire
household, including his wife, children and slaves. The influential and power-
ful position men had in relation to their wives in the Middle Roman Republic is
illustrated by the words of Cato: ‘If you had apprehended your wife in the act of
adultery [adulterium], with impunity you could take her life without a trial; she,
if you were committing adultery or if you were being adulterated, would not dare

7
 I ntroduction

so much as touch you’ (ORF: Fr. 222M). However, it should be noted that such
extreme familial power on behalf of the pater familias was, in reality, largely a
symbolic power not regularly enacted, but rather restrained by social, familial and
cultural precepts.47
Roman women did have more freedom compared to their counterparts in Clas-
sical Athens. While levels of independence depended on individual households
and their heads, it appears that, among the aristocracy, matronae were allowed to
socialise at mixed gatherings, exert control over their children’s upbringing and,
occasionally, but indirectly, influence politics. This autonomy was particularly
characteristic of the matronae from the Second Century bce onwards and was
essentially a consequence of Rome’s expansion into Greece and the East. With
husbands away on military and diplomatic service for extensive periods, women
from all levels of the citizen classes had to take control of the domus, albeit tem-
porarily in the majority of instances, thereby contributing to the erosion of the life
and death authority of the pater familias.48
During this time, contact with Hellenistic culture had an impact upon Rome’s
social and cultural traditions, affecting the lives of men and women. Wealth poured
into the city and along with it an increase in luxury items, slaves and a general
love of things Greek. As the leading families acquired more wealth through their
involvement in military campaigns, the dowries that went with the women of
these families ensured that they continued to live lives of luxury in their husbands’
homes. They also enjoyed a social and financial independence that in turn ensured
the continuation of a new trend towards quasi-­personal autonomy.49
Instability caused by civil and foreign conflict from 90–30 bce had an impact
on social as well as political and economic life. Many marriages were formed then
broken on the basis of short-­and long-­term political allegiances. There are few
cases cited of enduring marriages among the upper classes in this era. Some of the
distinguished families of previous generations had died out or were in danger of
extinction in this period. Heavy loss of life in aristocratic and equestrian ranks in
the Sullan Civil War (88–82 bce), the aftermath of Caesar crossing the Rubicon
(49–44 bce), and the bloody purges following his assassination (44 bce) and the
Triumviral regime (43–31 bce) had a devastating effect upon the great families. It
is an era in which the names of elite women are mentioned frequently by the writ-
ers. While some are mentioned simply as marriage partners, others are presented
as strong-­minded and liberated women who appear not to have been dictated to by
the will of husbands or guardians.
Poets, as well as legal and historical writers, describe extra-­marital relation-
ships across the class divide.50 In the case of women, this sexual freedom was
not recorded in a positive vein. At the core of Catullus’ poetry is a relationship
between a freeborn male and a freeborn married woman: the poet himself and his
beloved Lesbia. Although still a subject of scholarly controversy, there is evidence
within the corpus (especially Poem 79) that suggests that Lesbia is a sister of the
controversial political figure, Publius Clodius Pulcher. The strongest candidate
of his three sisters is the woman known as Clodia Metelli,51 wife of the Consular,

8
 I ntroduction

Metellus Celer. This woman was the subject of a virulent attack on her charac-
ter and sexual morality in a speech delivered by Cicero, the Defence of Cae-
lius Rufus, in 56 bce. This oration reveals a world of freethinking, free moving
and independent upper-­class women who took lovers at will and who frequented
pleasure resorts such as Baiae in Campania. In Lesbia we have the representation
of a woman possessing the status of an aristocrat along with the sensuality of a
female object of desire; in Cicero’s Clodia Metelli we have the representation of
aristocratic woman as slut.
Other writers provide further examples of the type. Sallust’s portrait of Sem-
pronia depicts a sexually liberated woman of high birth who ‘had often com-
mitted many crimes of masculine audacity’ (passage 236) and while references
to Julius Caesar’s list of affairs (passage 239) are designed to impugn his repu-
tation, they are further testimony to female sexual freedom (cf. Schulz 2006;
Milnor 2005). But we must remember that these are male views of a perceived
increased female freedom and it is highly unlikely that women such as Clodia,
Sempronia, let alone Fulvia (wife of Clodius Pulcher, then Curio, and later the
Consular and Triumvir, Antony), are representatives of the majority of matronae
at this time.52
Such representations and anecdotes reveal male anxiety at any increased free-
dom for women. This apprehension is persistently depicted in Roman literature
as dangerous and monstrous. The rhetorical style that regularly characterises
accounts of such women reflects the fear or at least partial confusion that existed in
the minds of some men when confronted with an exceptionally powerful woman.
The moral reforms initiated during the Augustan Principate (28/7 bce –14 ce) also
reflect increased trepidation about feminine sexual license as well as concern for
the general movement away from the austere values that typified pre-­Hellenised
Rome. In an attempt to restore the traditions of the past and to promote senatorial
and equestrian eugenics, Augustus initiated moral and marital legislation that, in
part, was designed to affect the private lives of men, women and the family in
general.53 These reforms also had an impact upon the literary expression of unac-
ceptable amor in the form of censorship.54
The most significant legislation in terms of Roman sexuality and its expression
in the Augustan age was the Lex Julia de adulteriis introduced in 18 bce. Under
this law adulterium was a punishable crime, which incorporated stuprum; this
entailed disgrace or defilement in connection with sexual activity.55 The Lex Julia
was not a novel development in Roman moral legislation. The Second Century
bce had witnessed a succession of laws and edicts that attempted to address the
growing moral turpitude overwhelming the Republic, culminating in the legisla-
tion of Sulla in 80 bce. Such legislation, by the very fact that it was imposed from
above, was doomed to failure. The Lex Scantinia, dating from the Republican
age,56 was designed to regulate sexual contact between men. The two main activi-
ties thought to be punishable were: (i) stuprum with a boy57 and/or (ii) adult pas-
sivity.58 Punishment of the active partner in an adult relationship may have also
been part of the legislation.

9
 I ntroduction

These laws clearly forbade certain sexual acts and strictly regulated choice of
partner: a married woman could only have sexual contact with her husband and
an adult male could not ‘have sex with another adult male’ (Richlin 1993a: 571).
Domitian revived the laws around 85 ce, indicative of the fact that they had been
openly unobserved. Even during the reign of Augustus, the laws were flouted, as
evidenced by the activities of his own daughter, Julia. Under the Julio-­Claudians,
sexual activity outside marriage by women of the aristocracy could and did lead to
formal criminal trials at which the offences drew the additional charge of treason
(maiestas). The celebrated trial of Aemilia Lepida in 36 ce involved one of the
most powerful (and disliked) female members of the regime being arraigned on
charges of sexual relations with slaves, based on reports by informers (delatores),
as recorded by Tacitus (Ann. 6.40.4).
Male citizens could visit brothels and have sex with slaves without breaking
either the Lex Julia or the Lex Scantinia. Roman laws on morality only applied to
relations between freeborn men, women and children. Even so, husbands could
seek either immediate sexual relief or a long-­term sexual relationship outside mar-
riage.59 As for a specific legal position on rape, it is important to note that it was
only deemed a crime against a freeborn man or woman (Richlin 1992a: 224). As
with many crimes of a sexual nature, rape in the Republic was considered to be
a violation of natural law (Cic. Leg. 2.10; Rep. 2.46). However, it could also be
treated as a public crime because it was labelled stuprum per vim (fornication
by violence) and therefore counted as vis publica (public violence) and, as such,
under the Lex Julia there were penalties, including capital punishment, for those
who violated another’s chastity (Dig. 48.6.3.4).
There are important differences between the male same-­sex cultures of Greece
and Rome. There was no initiatory or educational aspect in Rome compared to
what existed in some parts of Greece. It was not legal for a Roman citizen to
engage in a relationship with a freeborn youth. Under the Lex Scantinia, it was
most likely illegal for a freeborn male to engage in a relationship or act with
another freeborn male despite his assumption of either the active or passive role.60
What was legally tolerable was the Roman citizen seeking gratification as the
active partner with males involved in commercial sexual activities, slaves (in
brothels, or in the household) or foreign youths.
There is sporadic information about female same-­sex relationships and practice
in Rome and, apart from the scandalous episode of the Bacchanalian crisis of
the 180s bce, there is no close female equivalent of the Greek thiasos. While we
do not possess any eroticism penned by a Roman Sappho, there is inscriptional
evidence that may indicate same-­sex female contact. Male views generally reflect
contempt or voyeuristic interest in this aspect of female sexuality.61

Modern theories and approaches to ancient sexuality

An introductory discussion of the various forms of modern research on ancient
sexuality and interpretative methodology is almost as daunting as outlining

10
 I ntroduction

certain historical and cultural developments in antiquity. It is necessary, however,

not only to better understand the scholarly analyses themselves but also to gain
further insight into specific aspects of Greek and Roman sexuality. Two theoreti-
cal schools of interpretation have been selected on the basis of their incomparable
contribution to the field: feminist and Foucauldian theory.
To define feminist theory can be a difficult task because of its ever-­expanding
sub-­groups. In 1973 a special issue of the journal Arethusa was devoted to
studies of women in Greece and Rome. Pomeroy’s Goddesses, Whores, Wives,
and Slaves, first published in 1975, also motivated feminist scholarship in the
Classics to a significant degree, although the work was not overtly political in
either approach or agenda.62 Others soon followed and continued to elaborate on
Pomeroy’s work by furthering our understanding of women’s lives in antiquity.
The early feminist scholarship of Pomeroy, and also Lefkowitz was augmented
by more candid applications of feminist critique and theories to ancient texts dur-
ing the 1980s and 1990s by scholars including Hallett, Keuls, Skinner, duBois,
Richlin and Loraux.63
Richlin writes of revisionist and activist feminist scholarship. The first con-
tinues to make women in antiquity ‘visible’ in as truthful and rigorous a way as
possible.64 The second utilises information about women and the representation
of them in antiquity to challenge accepted canons of historical belief65 and to
promote such research in the teaching of Classics.66 Both approaches have had
an impact on related fields, most notably Gender Studies, which, in relation to
Classical Studies, examines ‘ways in which the nature of women and men was
imagined, constrained, and to a degree determined in ancient Greek and Roman
culture’ (Konstan 1992: 5).67 The digital age has seen the arrival of scholarly and
accessible internet sites that focus on gender in antiquity: by way of example,
Diotima: Materials for the Study of Women and Gender in the Ancient World,
launched in 1995.68
To better understand the hesitation some scholars exhibit towards feminist
research in the field of Classical Studies, note the cautionary advice of Nikolaidis,
who suggests that feminist readings ‘sometimes seem to distort the historic reali-
ties by retrojecting . . . conditions and understandings of our own era more spe-
cifically of the western societies of our own era – to an ancient culture more than
two millennia back’ (27).69 While such ahistorical slippages are not the exclusive
domain of feminist scholars (as Keuls 1993: 9–11 has demonstrated with exam-
ples of those who could not be regarded as feminists), it calls to mind the works
of those researching such volatile topics as matriarchy who have at times pro-
duced distorted views of ancient societies.70 As Pomeroy 1975: 9 has observed,
one must be careful about reaching conclusions about women’s lives in antiquity
based on the presence of goddesses in belief systems and the various ritualistic
roles of women in worship. Culham adds that ‘it has recently been noted that
the depiction of goddesses and similar figures might be evidence for contempo-
rary fantasy and nothing else’ (14). Despite the cautions of Pomeroy and Cul-
ham, these more unruly approaches (sometimes of a populist nature) may have

11
 I ntroduction

contributed (in part) to reactions described by Richlin 1992a as ‘ranging from

bemused to hostile’ (xxxi).
Such works, and those that assume overly idealistic or negative positions in
regard to facets of Greek and Roman culture, and which do not address cultural
and historical specificities, have at times marred acknowledgement of the aca-
demic rigour of (the best) Feminist and Gender Studies. The latter include works
that have placed significant emphasis on (particularly) women’s experiences in
antiquity, be they of a literary or mythological nature, such as stories of rape and
violence, or sociological and legal documents. Feminist research in the discipline
of Classics has changed the way both scholars and undergraduates now approach
the representations of women, establishing (and urging) readings that do more
than explicate philological concerns in order to lay emphasis on the realities of
ancient woman’s ‘lived’ experience.
The theories of sexuality espoused by the French poststructuralist71 Foucault
(1926–84) require attention. Foucault’s three-­volume work, The History of Sex-
uality (1978, 1985, 1986) has had a profound and controversial impact on the
Humanities, especially in his native France and, in the English-­speaking world,
most notably in the United States. His second volume, The Use of Pleasure, deals
with the ancient world and further explores the theory postulated in the first vol-
ume that ‘sexuality’ is a modern construct that had no social or cultural reality
before the beginning of the Nineteenth Century. ‘Homosexuality’, ‘heterosexual-
ity’ and ‘bisexuality’ are equally as modern and equally meaningless when applied
to the sexual experiences of ancient Greece and Rome. A culturally created sexu-
ality (the constructionist theory) is one removed from nature, from the individual
and his/her inner self (the essentialist theory). Attraction, courtship and the physi-
cal expression of desire in Classical Athens were, according to the constructionist
theory, motivated and conditioned by the cultural, political and social institutions
in place. Halperin 1990, a leading exponent of Foucauldian theory, writes:

Sex in classical Athens . . . was not . . . simply a collaboration in some

private quest for mutual pleasure that absorbed or obscured, if only tem-
porarily, the social identities of its participants. On the contrary, sex was
a manifestation of personal status, a declaration of social identity; sexual
behaviour did not so much express inward dispositions or inclinations
(although, of course, it did also do that) as it served to position social
actors in the places assigned to them, by virtue of their political standing,
in the hierarchical structure of the Athenian polity.
(32)

Other Classicists who have utilised Foucauldian theory include Zeitlin and Win-
kler,72 and criticism has been directed against their varying schools of (Fou-
cauldian) thought, with Richlin (perhaps) the strongest opponent in terms of
Classical Studies.73 Richlin is of the opinion that Foucauldian scholars, while
inspired by feminist research in the formulation of ideas and arguments, have

12
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
 “That’ll have to do,” he thought. “It doesn’t really matter it being a
bit short.”
He poured himself out a cupful of hot water for shaving. It was
one of the advantages of living alone that he could shave in the
kitchen if he liked.
Curiously enough he paused after pouring out the water.
“Shall I or shall I not?” he pondered. He examined his chin in the
mirror. “I suppose I’ll do,” he decided, “it won’t be noticed in the gas-
light.”
Then he saw the water he had poured out.
“Oh, well,” he thought, “perhaps I will, after all....”
He took out his razor, one of the old-fashioned kind, stropped it
carefully and lathered himself.
While he was shaving he thought: “I wish I hadn’t told that boy
Jones I’d send him to Clotters on Monday morning. Clotters won’t
like it much....”
Suddenly, and seemingly without any premeditation, he thrust the
soapy razor into his throat, just above the windpipe....

§7
At the Duke Street Methodist Schoolroom a select audience of
eleven waited until half-past eight for Mr. Weston to deliver his paper
on “Shakespeare.”
“Perhaps he’s ill,” suggested Miss Picksley.
“No, he’s not, because he was at school this afternoon. My
brother’s in his class,” said one of the Gunter girls.
“Where does he live?”
“Kitchener Road ... 24 or 25 ... I forget which.”
“Well, it’s not far away. Somebody might go round and see. He
may have forgotten all about it.”
 “I’ll go,” said Mr. Sly, the treasurer.
“I’ll come too,” said Miss Picksley, who had designs on Mr. Sly.
“We’ll all come,” chorused the Gunter girls.
“No, don’t,” said Miss Picksley. “We don’t want a crowd. It doesn’t
look nice.”
Through the refuse of a Friday evening’s marketing Mr. Sly and
Miss Picksley walked to Kitchener Road. They did not mind the walk
They did not even go the quickest way.
At No. 26 old father Jopson was standing at the front gate with
his monstrous goitre hanging down.
“It must be 24,” said Mr. Sly, “because this is 26.”
“Yes,” agreed Miss Picksley. She walked up to the porch of No.
24 and knocked.
“Does Mr. Weston live here?” enquired Mr. Sly.
Jopson nodded profoundly.
“He must be out,” said Miss Picksley.
“Do you know if he’s out?” enquired Mr. Sly.
Jopson raised his eyes sagaciously.
“’E’s in, ’cos I seed ’im come in couple ’v ars ago, an’ I bin ’ere or
in the fron’-rum ever since.”
“Perhaps he’s in the garden.”
“’E don’t go in the gawden nardays.”
“Lives by himself, doesn’t he?”
“Yus, lives by ’imself.”
“I’m sure he must be out,” said Miss Picksley. As unostentatiously
as possible she peeped through the letter-box. (She was not quite
certain whether this was really a ladylike proceeding.)
“’E ain’t aout, ’relse I should ’a seen ’im go aout.”
 “His hat and coat are on the hall-stand, too.... Perhaps he’s ill.”
“Try again. Maybe he was in the garden and didn’t hear the first
knocks.”
They tried again, but to no purpose. Eventually they went away in
the direction of Cubitt Lane.
“Nine o’clock,” said Miss Picksley. “Surely nobody’ll be waiting in
the schoolroom. I don’t think it’s much good going back.”
“Nor do I,” said Mr. Sly. “In fact, we might go for a walk....”
Miss Picksley did not object, so they strolled past the King’s Arms
into the Forest and forgot all about Mr. Weston and his promised
paper on William Shakespeare....

§8
On Saturday morning at half-past nine the rent-man came to No.
24, Kitchener Road to collect his weekly seven-and-sixpence. His
customary treble knock begat no reply. Simultaneously he noticed
the milk-can on the step. It was full, and the conclusion was that Mr.
Weston was still in bed.
Never as long as the rent-man could remember (and that was a
very long time) had the household at No. 24 been asleep at 9.30 on
a Saturday morning.
He went his rounds and returned to No. 24 on his way home
about ten past one. The milk-can was still there on the step. Its
solitude was now shared by a loaf of bread which the baker had left.
Receiving no answer to his knocks, the rent-man went to No. 26.
There the garrulous Mrs. Jopson recounted the visit of the two
callers on the previous evening.
“They knocked an’ knocked an’ knocked, but couldn’t git no anser
... an’ my ’usband swears ’e ’adn’t seen ’im go aout.”
Eventually it was decided that the rent-man should climb over the
fence in Jopson’s back garden and effect an entrance into No. 24 by
the back way. Jopson, morbidly curious, was to go with him.
You picture this strange couple standing in the tiny back scullery
of No. 24, Jopson with his huge face-monstrosity all mottled and pink
and shining with sweat, and the rent-man sleek and dapper,
fountain-pen behind his ear, receipt-book stuffed in his side pocket.
“Gow on strite through,” said Jopson thickly, “it leads inter the
kitchin.”
Slowly and almost apprehensively the rent-man turned the
handle....
 CHAPTER VIII
POST-MORTEM
§1
IT seemed to Catherine the most curious thing in the world that she
should be sitting with George Trant inside a taxi. There was no light
inside, and only the distant glimmer of London came in through the
window. All was dim and dark and shadowy. Yet somewhere
amongst these shadows sat George Trant. Perhaps he was thinking
that somewhere amongst those shadows sat she, Catherine Weston.
A voice said out of the shadows: “We shan’t be long now.”
Catherine said: “How far are we going?”
“You’re going home ... to your lodgings, that is.... You fainted, I
suppose you know....”
“Did I?” And she thought: “He killed himself out of loneliness. He
couldn’t live without me. I am the cause, I am the reason.”
“Feeling all right now?”
“Oh yes ... must have been the excitement.”
“Probably.” His voice was cold, unsympathetic. She felt that he
was deliberately looking away from where he thought she was.
“You needn’t take me all the way, you know. I can walk from the
Ridgeway corner.”
“I shall take you all the way,” he said crisply.
With strange instinct she sensed his antagonism.
“I believe you’re angry with me,” she said. Yet all the while she
was thinking: “I suppose there’ll be an inquest and a big fuss and all
that. And the furniture and stuff will have to be sold.”
No answer.
“You are,” she repeated, and was surprised by her own
persistence. After all, she didn’t care twopence whether he was
angry with her or not. Only she would have been gratified if he were
angry with her. It was something to come into a man’s life enough to
make him angry. And it was rather an amusing pastime, this flirting
with George Trant.
“Perhaps I am,” he said coldly.
“Why?” It would interest her to know why. At any rate she might
as well know why.
“You’ve disappointed me.”
That was all. It satisfied her. He had evidently been building
ideals around her. He had dreamed dreams in which she had been
epic and splendid and magnificent. He had thought of her sufficiently
for her to have the power of disappointing him. She was gratified.
After all, she did not like him, so there was no reason why she
should mind disappointing him. And he had paid her the subtle
compliment of being disappointed with her.
She did not particularly want to know how she had disappointed
him. Yet the conversation seemed incomplete without the question:
“In what way?”
She could feel him turning round to face her.
“Various ways,” he said vaguely, but his tone seemed to invite her
to pursue the subject. For that very reason she kept silent. It was not
a matter of sufficient importance for her to ask the same question
twice over. And if he did want her to repeat her question, that was all
the more reason for her not doing so.
After a moment’s silence he said: “You’ve changed a good deal
since I last knew you.”
“Yes, haven’t I?” There was an almost triumphant jauntiness in
her voice.
 “And you haven’t changed for the better, either,” he went on.
“That’s what you say.”
“Precisely. That’s what I say.” He was trying to be sarcastic, yet
she knew that he was feeling acutely miserable. There was
something in his voice that told her he was feeling acutely miserable.
And she had no pity. She was even exhilarated. He was miserable
about her. In some way she was invested with the power of making
him miserable.
“Oh, I can’t tell you——” he began bitterly, and stopped.
A queer thrill went down her spine. For the first time in her life
she was conscious of the presence of passion in another person. It
was quite a novel experience, yet it called to mind that scene in the
Duke Street Methodist Schoolroom when she and Freddie McKellar
had come to blows.... A flash of realization swept over her. He was in
love with her. He was really in love with her. She had so often
wondered and thought and speculated, and now she knew. His voice
had become transfigured, so to speak, out of passion for her. What a
pity he could not see her hair! She did not care for him one little bit.
She knew that now. She had not been quite certain before, but now,
in the very moment of realizing his love of her, she thought: “How
funny, I believe I really dislike him.... I don’t even want to flirt with him
again.”
Yet she was immensely gratified that he had paid her the terrific
compliment of falling in love with her.
A sort of instinct warned her that she should deflect the
conversation into other channels. She was immensely interested in
this curious phenomenon, yet she feared anti-climax. He might try to
kiss her and grope round in the dark searching for her. That would
be anti-climax. And also (this came as a sudden shaft of realization)
she did not want him to kiss her. Many a time of late she had
thought: “What shall I do if he kisses me?” She had resigned herself
to the possibility that one day he might kiss her. She had been
annoyed at his dalliance. “I wish to goodness he’d do it, if he’s going
to,” had been her frequent thought, and she had provoked him
subtly, cunningly, deliberately.... Now it came to her as an
unwelcome possibility. She did not in the least desire him to kiss her.
She knew she would actively dislike it if he did.
“Getting chilly,” she remarked nonchalantly, and she knew how
such an observation would grate upon him. She was fascinated by
this new miraculous power of hers to help or to hurt or to torture.
Every word she said was full of meaning to him: talking to him was
infinitely more subtle than ordinary conversation. It was this subtlety
that partly fascinated her. For instance, when she said, “Getting
chilly,” she meant, “We’ll change the subject. I know what you’re
driving at, and I don’t like it. It doesn’t please me a bit.” And what
was more, she knew that he would interpret it like that, and that he
would feel all those feelings which the expansion of her remark
would have aroused.
“I’ll shut the window,” he said, and did so.
It was so subtle, this business, that his remarks, too, could be
interpreted. For instance, his words, “I’ll shut the window,” meant
really, “Is that so? Well, I guessed as much. You’re utterly heartless. I
shall have to resign myself to it, anyway. So, as you suggest, we’ll
change the subject.”
The taxi turned into the Bockley High Street.
Catherine was like a child with a new toy. And this toy was the
most intricate, complicated, and absorbingly interesting toy that had
ever brought ecstasy to its possessor. How strange that he should
be in love with her! How marvellous that there should be something
strange and indefinable in her that had attracted something strange
and indefinable in him!
And she thought, in spasms amidst her exhilaration: “Probably
Ransomes will sell the furniture for me.... He killed himself for me.
I’m the reason....”
It tickled her egoism that he should have done so. He must have
done so. It could only have been that.
Here was George Trant, head over heels in love with her. And
here was her father, stupid, narrow-minded, uncompromising bigot,
yet committing suicide because she had run away from home. She
preferred to regard herself as a runaway rather than as a castaway.
Truly she was developing into a very marvellous and remarkable
personage!...

§2
As she entered the side door of No. 14, Gifford Road at the
improper hour of three a.m., the thin voice of Mrs. Carbass called
down the stairs: “That you, Miss Weston?”
“Yes.”
“There’s a telegraph for you on the table....”
“Righto!” How jaunty! How delightfully nonchalant! As if one were
used to receiving telegrams! As if one were even used to arriving
home at three a.m.!
Catherine turned the tap of the gas, which had been left burning
at a pin-point in the basement sitting-room. Her hand must have
been unsteady, for she turned it out. That necessitated fumbling for
matches....
The telegram was addressed to the Upton Rising Cinema, and
had been handed in at Bockley Post Office some twelve hours
before. It ran:
Father had accident. Come at once.—may.
Now who was May?
After much cogitation Catherine remembered an Aunt May, her
mother’s sister, who lived at Muswell Hill. Catherine had seen her but
once, and that was on the occasion of her mother’s funeral. She had
a vague recollection of a prim little woman about fifty, with a high-
necked blouse and hair done up in a knob at the back.
Catherine decided to go as soon as possible the following day.
She went quietly to bed, but found it impossible to sleep. She was
strangely exhilarated. She felt like a public-school boy on the eve of
the breaking-up morning. New emotions were in store for her, and
she, the epicure, delighted in new and subtle emotions. Yet even
with her exhilaration there was a feeling of doubt, of misgiving, of
uneasiness as to the nature of her own soul. Was she really
heartless? How was it she had never grieved at her mother’s death?
Try as she would, she could not detect in her feelings for her father
anything much more than excitement, curiosity, amazement, even in
a kind of way admiration, at what he had done. She felt he had done
something infinitely bigger than himself. For the first time in her life
she felt towards him impersonally, as she might have done towards
any stranger: “I should like to have known that man.”
The exact significance of her attitude towards George Trant came
upon her. She was playing with him. She knew that. It was not so
much in revenge for what had happened long before; it was from
sheer uncontrollable ecstasy at wielding a new and
incomprehensible power. She would have played ruthlessly with any
man who had been so weak and misguided as to fall in love with her.
She knew that perfectly well. Therefore it was a good thing the man
was George Trant, for at least in his case she might conceivably
justify herself. And yet she knew that justifying herself had really
nothing at all to do with the matter; she knew that there was in her
some mysterious impulse that prompted her to do and to say things
quite apart from any considerations of justice or justification. Cruel?
Yes, possibly.
She pondered.
No. She was not cruel. If she heard a cat mewing in the street
she would scarcely ever pass it by. A child crying filled her with
vague depression. She was not cruel. But she was immensely,
voraciously curious, a frantic explorer of her own and other people’s
emotions, a ruthless exploiter of dramatic possibilities. She had not
developed these traits by reading novels or seeing plays or any such
exterior means. They were inherent in herself.
Suddenly she remembered the note that had been given her that
evening. By the light of a candle she sat up in bed and tore open the
thin, purple-lined envelope.
 She read:
dear madam,
Will you come and see me to-morrow (Sunday) at three p.m.,
“Claremont,” the Ridgeway, Upton Rising?—Yrs., etc.,
emil razounov.
Razounov!
She actually laughed, a little silver ripple which she immediately
stifled on reflecting that Mrs. Carbass slept in the room below.
Razounov!
Truly she was developing into a very marvellous and remarkable
personage! ...

§3
The door of No. 24, Kitchener Road was opened by Mrs. Jopson.
“Do come in,” she began effusively. “I’ve jest bin clearin’ up a
bit....” Then she added mysteriously: “Of course, they’ve took ’im
away....”
Nothing had seemingly changed in the interior aspect of the
house. Her father’s overcoat and bowler hat hung sedately as ever
upon the bamboo hall-stand. The Collard and Collard piano
presented its usual yellow grin as she looked in through the parlour
door. Catherine could not explain this yellow grin: there had been
something in the instrument’s fretwork front with the faded yellow silk
behind that had always suggested to her a demoniac leer. Now it
seemed to be leering worse than ever.... The morning sunlight struck
in through the drawn Venetian blinds and threw oblique shadows
over the grin. Every article in that room Catherine knew almost
personally. Even the unhorticultural flowers on the carpet were
something more to her than a mere pattern: they were geographical,
they held memories, they marked the topography of her earliest
days. And the mantelpiece was full of memories of seaside holidays.
A present from Southend, from Margate, from Felixstowe, a
photograph of Blackpool Tower framed in red plush, an ash-tray with
the Folkestone coat-of-arms upon it....
Mrs. Jopson related the story of the tragedy in careful detail. She
revelled in it as a boy may revel in a blood-and-thunder story. She
emphasized the mystery that surrounded the motives of the tragedy.
He had been getting livelier again. Everybody was noticing that. He
had been seen smoking his pipe in the Forest on a Sunday morning
with the complacency of one to whom life is an everlasting richness.
He had started taking out library books from the Carnegie library. He
had even had friends in his house—presumably colleagues from the
Downsland Road Council School. And he had bought a
gramophone. That was the strangest thing of all, perhaps. What on
earth did he want with a gramophone? At one time the gramophone
had been his pet aversion. All music bored him, but the sound of a
gramophone used to call forth diatribes against the degeneracy of
the modern world.... And yet it was there, in the tiny front parlour,
with its absurdly painted tin horn sticking up in the air and a record
lying flat on the circular platform. The record was one of a recent and
not particularly brilliant ragtime. Catherine, accustomed
professionally to such things, knew it well. And Mrs. Jopson said
they had heard that ragtime night after night since he had bought the
gramophone. Sometimes it was played over and over again. Really,
Mr. Jopson had thought of complaining, only he did not wish to
interfere with Mr. Weston’s efforts to liven himself up....
When Mrs. Jopson departed and left Catherine alone in the
familiar house, the atmosphere changed. The very furniture seemed
charged with secrets—secrets concerning the manner in which Mr.
Weston had spent his evenings. Whether he had gone out much, or
read books or merely moped about. Only the gramophone seemed
anxious to betray its information, and the tin horn, cocked up at an
absurdly self-confident angle, had the appearance of declaring:
“Judge from me what sort of a man he was. I was nearly the last
thing he troubled about. I am the answer to one at least of his
cravings.” From the gramophone Catherine turned to the writing-
desk. That at any rate guarded what it knew with some show of
modesty. It was full of papers belonging to Mr. Weston, but they all
seemed to emphasize the perfect normality of his life. Algebra
papers marked and unmarked, catalogues of educational book
publishers, odd cuttings from newspapers, notes from parents asking
that children should be allowed to go home early, printed lists of
scholarship candidates, and so forth. Everything to show that Mr.
Weston had gone on living pretty much as he had been accustomed.
Everything to make it more mysterious than ever why he should
suddenly cut his throat while shaving. Catherine was puzzled. She
had been constructing a grand tragedy round this pitifully
insignificant man; under the stimulating influence of her own
imagination she had already begun to sympathize; doubtless if her
imagination had discovered anything substantial to feed on she
might have ended by passionate affection for her own dead father.
Several times recently she had been on the verge of tears, not for
him personally, but out of vague sympathy with the victim of a
poignant tragedy. For to her it did indeed seem a poignant tragedy
that a man so weak, so fatuous as he was should be left entirely
alone at a time when he most needed the companionship of
someone stronger. She did not in the least regret leaving him. That
was inevitable. He wanted to boss the show. He was so pitifully
weak, so conscious of weakness that he manufactured a crisis rather
than yield on what he regarded as a crucial point. Afterwards, no
doubt, he had regretted his hastiness. Yet that strange interview on
the train to Liverpool Street seemed incapable of being fitted in....
Catherine had often thought of him sorrowing, regretting, mourning.
She had regarded his suicide as a tragic confirmation of his misery.
And now the interior of his writing-desk seemed to say: “Oh, he was
much the same—you’d scarcely have noticed any difference in him.”
And the gramophone chuckled and declared: “As a matter of fact the
old chap was beginning to have rather a good time....”
In a drawer beneath the desk she discovered his pocket diaries.
Every night before retiring it had been his custom to fill a space an
inch deep and two inches across with a closely written pencilled
commentary on the day’s events. For ten, twelve, fifteen—perhaps
twenty years he had done this. Catherine turned over the pages of
one of them at random. They contained such items as: “Sweet peas
coming up well. Shall buy some more wire-netting for them....
Clotters away at a funeral. Did his registers for him.... Gave paper on
‘Tennyson’ to Mutual Impr. Soc. Have been asked to speak at Annual
Temperance Social....” Nearly all the entries were domestic, or
connected with Mr. Weston’s labours in the school, the chapel or the
garden. Catherine searched anxiously for any mention of herself.
There were not many. Sometimes a chance remark such as: “C.
came with me to chapel ...” or “C. out to tea.” And once the strange
entry: “C. been misbehaving. But I think L. knows the right way to
manage her.” (L. was, of course, Laura, his wife.) ...
Catherine looked up the entry for November 17th, the day on
which she had left Kitchener Road. It ran: “Clotters away again this
morning. Had to take IVa in mensuration. Feel very tired. Cold wind.
Did not go to night-school.”
That was all! No mention of her!
And on the day he met her in the train to Liverpool Street he
wrote: “Warm spring sort of day. Went to Ealing to see Rogers.
Rogers got a job under the L.C.C. Two boys and a girl. Mrs. R. rather
theatrical....” And in the corner, all cramped up, as if he had stuck it
in as a doubtful after-thought: “Met C. in train to L’pool St. Seems
well enough.”
Grudging, diffident, self-reproachful, sardonic, that remark
—“Seems well enough.” With the emphasis no doubt on the
“seems.”
Lately the entries had been getting more sprightly.
“Met Miss Picksley to-day. Promised her a paper on W.
Shakespeare for the Mut. Impr. Soc....” “Walked to High Wood after
chapel. Beautiful moonlight. Saw motor-bus collision in B. High St.
coming back....” “Bought gramophone sec. hand off Clayton. £2 10.
Like a bit of music. No piano now, of course....”
“Of course.”
Catherine was immensely puzzled by that entry. She realized its
pathos, its tragic reticence, its wealth of innuendo, yet she could not
conceive his feelings when setting it down. For he had never taken
any pleasure in her “strumming,” as he called it. He had accused her
of interrupting his work. He had said: “Not quite so much noise,
please. Shut both doors....” And sometimes he had hinted darkly: “I
don’t know whether it’s you or the piano, but——” And yet he had
missed those piano noises. Vaguely, perhaps almost unconsciously,
yet sufficiently to make him conquer a carefully nurtured hatred of
the gramophone. The gramophone, viewed in the light of this new
discovery, was the tangible, incontrovertible evidence of his sense of
loss. He had missed her. He had been lonely. He had wanted her to
come back. And because of that he had bought a gramophone.
Catherine felt the presence of tragedy. Yet the ingredients were
all wrong. Gramophone buying, even in the most extravagant
circumstances, does not lend itself to sophistication. And yet, that
gramophone—absurd, insignificant, farcical though its presence was
—was the evidence of tragedy. Once more Catherine’s melodramatic
ideals crumbled. Her artistic sense was hurt by the deep significance
of that gramophone. She felt a gramophone had no right to be the
only clue she had to the tragedy of her own father. She felt
humiliated. And then for a swift moment a passion swept over her.
The false ideals collapsed into ruins, the sham sentiment, no less a
sham because it was not the sham sentiment of other people, the
morbid seeking after emotional effect, the glittering pursuit of
dramatic situations, tumbled into dust and were no longer worth
while. Nothing was left in her save a sympathy that was different
from anything she had previously called sympathy, something that
overwhelmed her like a flood. It was a pleasurable sensation, this
sympathy, and afterwards she tried to analyse the sweet agony it
had wrought in her. But at the time she did not realize either its
pleasure or its pain, and that is the truest testimony that it was
something more real and sincere than she had felt before. Tears
welled up in her eyes—tears that she did not strive either to summon
or to repress, tears that were the natural, spontaneous outpouring of
something in her that she knew nothing about. She did not think in
her egoistical, self-analysing way: “What a strange emotion I am
experiencing!” She thought kaleidoscopically of her childhood and
girlhood, and of one particular evening when her father had crept
into her room at night and asked her to kiss him. It was terrible to
remember that she had replied: “Oh, go away! ...” Terrible! All her life
it seemed to her that her attitude towards him had been—“Oh, go
away! ...” And now he had gone away out of her reach for ever. She
sat down in front of the writing-desk with the diary in front of her and
cried. She cried passionately, as a child who is crying because by his
own irrevocable act something has been denied him. She bowed her
head in her hands and gave herself up to an orgy of remorse. She
was truly heartbroken.
For a little while.
The transience of her brokenheartedness may be gauged by the
fact that on her way home she was strangely elated by a single
thought. That thought—occurring to her some half-way down the
Ridgeway—was begotten of her old ruthless habit of self-analysis.
“I’m not heartless,” she told herself. “I can’t be. Nobody could have
acted as I did who hadn’t got a heart. I believe I’ve got as much heart
as anybody, really....”
She was rather proud of the tears she had shed.... Delicious to
have such proof that she was a human being! Reassuring to find in
herself the essential humanities she had at times doubted.
Comforting to think that tragedy could move her to sympathy that
was more than merely æsthetic.... Splendid to know that deep down
in her somewhere there was a fount of feeling which she could not
turn off and on at will like a water-main....
 CHAPTER IX
NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH
§1
“CLAREMONT,” the Ridgeway, was a corner detached house well
set back from the road. A high evergreen hedge impeded the view
from the footpath, and a curving carriage drive overhung with
rhododendron bushes hid all suggestion of a house until the last
possible moment. Then all that you saw was a tiny porch and a
panorama of low-hanging eaves, diamond window-panes and
russet-brown roofs of immense steepness. A telephone bracket
affixed to one of the rafters and an electric bell in the porch
convinced you that all this parade of antiquarianism was really the
most aggressive modernity. A motor-garage, suitably disguised,
stood at one side of the house. Behind was a vista of tennis-courts,
conservatories, and an Italian pergola.
Beneath the tiny porch in the middle of a hot Sunday afternoon
Catherine paused and pressed the button of the bell. She was
excited. Her visit savoured of the miraculous. This was the house of
the famous Emil Razounov The famous Emil Razounov had
arranged this appointment to meet her. She was actually ringing the
bell of Emil Razounov’s house. In another minute she and Emil
Razounov would be face to face.
A maid opened the door. “What name, please?” she asked pertly,
and Catherine replied.
Catherine passed into a wide hall, furnished with all sorts of
queer furniture that she contrasted mentally with the bamboo hall-
stand and the circular barometer that had graced the hall of No. 24,
Kitchener Road. At one side a door was half open, and through this
Catherine was ushered into what was apparently the front room of
the house.
It was a long, low-roofed apartment, with dark panelling along the
walls and rafters across the ceiling. The furniture was sparse, but
bore signs of opulence: there were several huge leather armchairs
and a couple of settees. Apart from these there was nothing in the
room save a small table littered with music in manuscript, and a full-
size grand piano. At first Catherine thought the room was
unoccupied, but two winding coils of smoke rising upwards from two
of the armchairs—the backs of which were towards her—seemed to
proclaim the presence of men.
“Miss Weston,” announced the maid, and closed the door behind
her.
One of the coils of smoke gyrated from the perpendicular. This
was the preliminary to a slow creaking of one of the armchairs. A
figure rose from the depths, and its back view was the first that
Catherine saw of it. It was tall, attired in a light tweed jacket, grey
flannel trousers, and carpet slippers of a self-congratulatory hue.
Altogether, it was most disreputable for a Sabbath afternoon. It was
difficult to recognize in this the spruce, well-groomed man of the
world who had pushed his way into the Forest Hotel on the previous
night. Yet Catherine did recognize him, and was rather astonished at
her own perception in so doing. He faced her with the graceless
langour of one who has just got out of bed at an early hour. Yet in his
extreme ungainliness perhaps there was a certain charm. And as for
his face—Catherine decided that it was not only lacking in positive
good looks, but was also well endowed with extremely negative
characteristics. To begin with, the lie of his features was not
symmetrical. His hair was black and wiry, lustreless and devoid of
interest. The whole plan and elevation of his face was so
unconventional that he would probably have passed for being
intellectual....
He bowed to her slightly. There was no doubt of his ability to bow.
Whether he were ungainly or not, his bowing was so elegant as to
savour of the professional. It was consciously a performance of
exquisite artistry, as if he were thinking: “I know I’m ugly, but I’ve
mastered the art of bowing, anyway. Put me in evening clothes, and
I’ll pass for an ambassador or a head-waiter.”
He did not offer his hand.
“Ah,” he said, “M’sieur Razounov will be ready in a moment.
Please take a seat.”
Catherine sat down in one of the easy chairs. From this position
she could see that another chair contained the recumbent form of
Emil Razounov. He was reading a Sunday paper and taking
occasional puffs at a large cigar. Catherine had heard much gossip
about Razounov’s eccentricities, yet compared with his companion
he seemed to her to be disappointingly ordinary. For several
moments the two men sat in silence, while Catherine made ruthless
mental criticisms. She was piqued at the lack of enthusiasm
accorded her.
Suddenly Emil Razounov spoke. The voice came from the depths
of the chair like a female voice out of a gramophone horn. It was
almost uncanny.
“I say, Verreker, hass not the young lady come?”
The man addressed as Verreker replied somewhat curtly: “Oh
yes, she’s here.”
“Zhen perhaps she weel go to the piano and play.”
Catherine left her chair and went to the instrument. Before sitting
down she took off her hat—which was a species of tam-o’-shanter—
and placed it on the table beside the piano. She did this from two
reasons: first, she did not feel comfortable with it on; and second,
she was proud of her hair, and conscious that it was the most
impressive thing about her.
“What shall I play?” she asked nonchalantly. She could not help
betraying her annoyance at her unceremonious reception.
There was a pause. It seemed almost as if both men were struck
dumb with astonishment at her amazing question. Then Verreker
said carelessly, as if it were a matter of no consequence at all: “Oh,
whatever you like.” She took several moments to adjust the music-
stool to her final satisfaction and prepare for playing. The time was
useful to decide what she should play. Strange that she should not
have decided before! She had decided before, as a matter of fact:
she had decided to play some Debussy. But since entering the room
she had changed her mind. She would play Chopin.
She played “Poland is Lost.” She played it well, because she was
feeling defiant. She played with the same complete disrespect for
her audience as had won her the first prize at the musical eisteddfod.
Where she wanted to bang, she banged. She did not care that she
was in a low-roofed dining-room and not a concert hall. She did not
care if she pleased or displeased them. They were contemptuous of
her: she would be contemptuous of them. The result was that she
was not in the least nervous. Yet when she had struck the last note
she could not help remarking to herself: “I did play that well. They
must have been rather impressed.”
An awkward pause ensued. Then Verreker said very weakly:
“Thank you.” His “thank you” was almost ruder than if he had said
nothing at all.
“Well?” said Razounov.
Catherine thought he was speaking to her. She was meditating
something in reply when Verreker spoke, showing that the word had
been addressed to him. A feeling of exquisite relief that she had not
spoken came over her.
“She oughtn’t to play Chopin,” remarked Verreker.
“No,” agreed Razounov.
Catherine’s face reddened. It was the subtle innuendo of their
remarks that hurt her. Also, by all the standards she had learnt at the
Bockley High School for Girls there was something impolite in their
criticizing her coolly in the third person as if she were not present.
She resented it. She was not a stickler for etiquette, but she would
not be insulted. “I don’t care who they are,” she thought rebelliously,
“they’ve no right to treat me like that. I’m as good as they are, every
bit!”