Achilles Tatius

What is Typical of the Genre and what is Innovative in Achilles Tatius?


It may seem there is not much in Achilles that is entirely original to his novel. If we take an overview, we find all the elements we expect of the ancient Greek novel: two lovers are separated, spend a large portion of the novel trying to get back together and finally manage to be reunited in a happy conclusion. We find the usual characters we would expect: the aides to the lovers, the brigands, the rivals etc. Yet somehow this novel stands proud from the others through its distinctions and we would be hard pushed to claim that this would serve as a pertinent model for the typical ancient novel (if such a thing exists). To assess why and how this perception might hold true, it is necessary to investigate the common features Leucippe and Clitophon shares with Chariton, Xenophon et al and how such things may be alluded to, treated differently or possibly subverted in Achilles Tatius in order to thwart reader expectations.

Firstly, it is necessary to deal with the similarities between Leucippe and the other novels in order quickly to dispense with the superficial elements, as therein lie most of the ‘typical’ features of the novel. An overview of the plot reveals it is within the bounds of convention: there is a beautiful hero and a beautiful heroine; they fall in love and want to be together; they have to leave their home; they are separated; they experience many trials and much adversity whilst striving to get back together, and eventually they are reunited. Very similar plots can be found in the novels of Chariton, Xenophon, Heliodorus and, to a lesser extent, Longus (as the lovers are together more and do not travel as much). We also encounter many of the themes present in the other novels: travel; foreigners; pirates or brigands; twists of fate, fortune and chance; misunderstandings and misinformation; magic and ritual; sexuality; virginity and chastity, and beauty. So, we shall proceed to the innovations.

The first person narration employed in Leucippe is unconventional in the context of the ancient novel. Achilles begins with the first person narration of a shipwrecked stranger, to whom Clitophon begins speaking. Clitophon is subsequently invited to ‘tell his woeful tale of love’ and at this point he takes over the first person narration. The first point to be made is that the original individual is never referred to again. The reader might make the reasonable supposition that this individual would interject with his comments at some point or even that we should return to the context of the opening frame at the end of the novel, for the sake of continuity. But perhaps this is it; it is our expectation as a reader that demands such continuity and pandering to such a thing may be far from Achilles’ agenda.

Perhaps similarities to the narrative frame of Daphnis and Chloe encourage the reader to make certain generic demands upon Achilles. Certainly, both novels begin with a stranger describing a painting that seemingly has something to do with the overall narrative (a contention discussed further on) and in Longus we have a neat return to this painting at the conclusion of the novel. Why should we, the reader, not expect Achilles to fit into the same pattern? Herein lies our first hint at the nature of Leucippe and Clitophon and the unwillingness of the author to give in to such demands made upon the novel. Morales regards this as part of Achilles’ tendency towards the ‘soliciting and thwarting of desire’ throughout the novel. As we shall see, the various places Achilles actually thwarts the expectations of his readership might lead us to believe that this is the fundamental impetus behind the novel and thus the narrative frame is entirely suitable to the author’s intentions and the reader’s reception.

In all the novels, the concepts of virginity and chastity are fundamental themes and the hero and heroine can be seen attempting to protect or preserve their chastity in Chariton, Xenophon, Heliodorus and Longus. The heroine’s chastity is usually of particular import and so it may be seen as a little perplexing that Leucippe, despite not falling in love with the hero instantly like other heroines elsewhere, is shown as quite enthusiastic about going to bed with Clitophon very early on. Her avid protestations of innocence when her mother catches her just in time to prevent the consummation appear disingenuous in the circumstances. It actually takes a dream of Artemis instructing her to retain her virginity for her to have the will to protect it. As Morales notes, this places the responsibility upon an external force rather than being of her own volition; in opposition to the motivations of other heroines.

Both Plepelits and Morales argue that Leucippe’s behaviour at the beginning is more realistic than the ‘ideal’ portrayed by other heroines in the Greek novel. Morales takes this even further by claiming Leucippe strays from this individualised representation and more into generic territory as the novel progresses. She begins by willingly trying to give up her virginity, is then forced to maintain her virginal status until she is married and eventually becomes a virtual martyr to her chastity in a way that comically protracts the strength and endurance of other heroines. Perhaps trying to urge individuality or realistic character portrayals upon Achilles needs rather too many caveats to be an entirely satisfying theory, since the characters are so often used to juxtapose the norms of the genre with unexpected behaviour and occurrences. It is more practical to Achilles’ idiom to have our heroine’s development reflect the thread of subverted and inverted expectations.

A confoundedly bizarre issue is that surrounding the state of Clitophon’s chastity. In book two of the novel he claims to be no authority on women and states elsewhere that he is a virgin in some sense. He says he has slept with prostitutes, so presumably he means he has never had sex with a woman he has loved or is on equal social terms with. However, he gives a fine speech upon the pleasures a woman gains from sex and even describes her orgasm in incredible detail. Apart from the fact that this is the most dazzlingly graphic description of sexual pleasure to be found in the Greek novel, the reader may be a little suspicious about his statement of inexperience. Morales points out that this also has implications upon his validity and reliability as narrator.

However, this doubt in his chasteness is nothing compared to the infamous episode with Melite. He is united with her since he believes Leucippe to be dead but manages to put off the consummation for some time, as he has not come to terms with her death. Once a reunion with the, very much alive, Leucippe is close at hand and he is being freed by Melite, he finally gives in to her demands. This could be seen, yet again, as the author playing with our expectations, for we almost believe he will continue his defence for the sake of Leucippe and his proximity to a reunion with her. But no, this is precisely one of the mitigating reasons proffered for his having sex with Melite.

Although it may be argued as an episode displaying realistic behaviour, it is surely a shock to the reader at this point. Yes, it is true that Daphnis has sex with Lycaenion but there is a strong argument for the fact that his relationship to Chloe cannot progress very far if he cannot work out how to make love to her. Hence instruction by the older woman is practically a requirement to the narrative. As Morales points out, Melite is not in the business of pedagogy and this can be seen as a serious indulgence by Clitophon; guilt free sex. It is guilt free since he justifies it avidly, albeit tenuously, and then fails to mention it later, when questioned by Leucippe’s father. Achilles is alternately maddening and horribly amusing when it comes to resisting the urge to give in to the reader’s demanding anticipation; when we expect sex we are refused it, when we expect chaste behaviour it does not transpire.

Another wonderfully vexing rhetorical flourish is found in the apparently fallacious nature of Melite’s test of fidelity. When she is made to undergo a trial that will prove whether or not she has committed adultery, her wording of the oath she must give in the waters of the Styx (the sanctity of which cannot be lost upon the reader) means she will inevitably be proven innocent even though we have played witness to her infidelity with Clitophon. It may have the more morally scrupulous reader balk at such flagrant eschewing of justice in the form of a bureaucratic technicality but it is entirely fitting to the ambience of the novel. We are, for a moment, rather anxious about how Melite can escape divine judgement and rather surprised when her clever sophistry saves her. Leucippe similarly passes her virginity test but we must recall that she has not always entirely deserved the reputation for strict chastity. Plepelits indicates that the corrupt nature of these tests appear even more of a mockery when considered alongside the very serious and completely ingenuous virginity tests in Heliodorus (even allowing he was writing later than Achilles, as this is not a statement of influence). We know Theagenes and Charikleia are bound to pass their tests unscathed.

The absolute piece de la resistance of Achilles’ thwarting is attained at the close of the novel. For the duration of the story we have been coming to terms with the hero and heroine being prevented from making love right at the last moment. We have been anticipating their joyful reunion for the entirety of their trials and separations. One might believe the culmination of their reunion will be the most impressive and detailed part of the narrative, especially since we have had some intimate descriptions elsewhere. It really should not be surprising by now that Achilles does not give in to our whims and it really shouldn’t be such a disappointment to see the marriage of Leucippe and Clitophon squashed into one sentence so dismissively. Afterall, our experience thus far should have warned us not to hope for the conventionally inevitable ending of joy, feasts, celebration and consummation. A horrible pun it may be, but this simply is the ultimate anticlimax.

Another criticism of Achilles’ consistency is in his seemingly lax approach to the strict form of first person narrative. However, it is not the intention here to map precisely how and where the form is used improperly but rather to show why it might be important to employ it at certain points in the narrative. It is at these same points that Achilles especially betrays his novel’s peculiar character and sense of humour. For instance, the scene where Leucippe is apparently sacrificed and eaten is described by Clitophon, entirely from his point of view. The first thing this does is intensify the experience for the reader, as the man Leucippe loves is stupefied by the sight of his beloved being torn apart and violated. In hindsight, once we have discovered that it was a trick and Leucippe is alive and well, it is clear that it was a device used to heighten suspense and to make the reader wonder what direction the novel would turn next.

Rationally, our experience of the ancient novel should tell us it is an entirely ridiculous supposition that Achilles could or would kill off the heroine so early, if at all. However, this first person account and the intensity of experience thereby produced encourage us to doubt and suspect – Leucippe might not turn out be the main heroine after all. There is the distinct feeling we are somehow being duped but we are kept in suspense for as long as is seemly to the author. One cannot help but think Achilles thoroughly enjoyed the possibilities of terrorising the reader and then revealing how ridiculous their initial reaction was in actuality. Perhaps if some critics were to suspend patronising and pedantic attitudes when regarding this novel they may actually find it possesses a devilishly enjoyable quality in its penchant for trying to outfox the reader’s expectations.

The episodes of Leucippe’s staged deaths serve to elucidate the novel’s rather intriguing preoccupation with spectacle, spectatorship and objectification. It can be evinced from the other Greek novels that an interest in displaying and extolling the beauty of the heroine is frequently indulged in. However, none revel quite so in this activity as Achilles Tatius. As Morales argues, Leucippe is subject to viewing and exposal much more than any of the other heroines elsewhere in the genre and what is more it becomes physically invasive when we read Clitophon’s eye witness accounts of what he believes to be the twice recurring mutilation and death of his beloved. This raises questions regarding how we as readers are meant to view these episodes, as they could be deemed grotesque, darkly humorous, parodic, subversive or misogynistic. Perhaps, akin to similar violent passages in Ovid’s Metamorphoses, it is all (or none) of the above in consideration of whatever sense we personally and subjectively perceive the work.

In light of the argument here we must necessarily regard it as another ‘tale of the unexpected’, since none of the other Greek novels dwell quite so intensely upon sensational macabre effects in order to shock the audience. Morales argues, Achilles’ propensity towards sensationalism and spectacle is rather strongly influenced by contemporary society:

Leucippe and Clitophon was written and first read in a supremely
spectacular society. It is the product of a visually voracious and
violent world, in which there was a heightened, sometimes paranoid,
awareness of the pleasures and the dangers of spectatorial relations.

For instance, when Clitophon recovers Leucippe’s headless body he mourns over her, as is acceptable in these circumstances. However, he then kisses the mutilated neck in an image at once redolent of saccharine sentiment and utterly revolting. Of course, the notion of a lover kissing his dead beloved is a cliché but we assume that a headless heroine will necessarily be spared such attention. Achilles must have realised the impact of such a ridiculously sickening image and it is certainly one that would not fit comfortably in any of the other Greek novels.

It can be seen that Leucippe is constantly objectified and generalised in the novel. Although she is frequently being looked at and admired, we are never given an individualised description of her. A good example of this is at (1.19), where Clitophon compares her to all manner of flora without actually creating an accurate representation of her features – either individually or as a whole. We have already seen how her body is used to achieve grotesquely spectacular scenes of evisceration, cannibalism and beheading but it must be remembered that these events are instrumental to the effects of suspense, surprise and dark humour. It would be pertinent to recall that one very good reason so much attention is given to Leucippe’s appearance and the experience of viewing it is owing to the story being told from her lover’s point of view; he is obsessed with looking at her and so the novel reflects this concept. The process, experience and interactions of viewing are of great interest to Achilles, in a way that stands out from the other novels. The viewing and exposal of Leucippe is particularly noticeable in contrast to other novels, where the heroine’s beauty is often much admired but she is never subject to such total scrutiny so frequently as Leucippe. Morales states, “Leucippe and Clitophon is profoundly ocularcentric; it is a scopophiliac’s paradise”. Of course some may wish to argue that a preoccupation with such devices is used as a convenient excuse to promote female objectification, voyeurism and misogyny.

The ‘digressions’ in Achilles are certainly a remarkable feature and also a complex issue, as can be seen by the disparate (and sometimes dismissive) opinions of scholars. They may, however, provide further evidence to support the idea of the novel being one that is primarily interested in the thwarting of generic expectations. It can be generally said that the passages of description, however bound to and by the novel they may prove to be, can serve to disorientate the reader because of their lengthiness in comparison to their use in other novels (Heliodorus is a good example). There are also potentially misleading moments, such as the description of the painting of Europa in the first book. Hagg and Plepelits both link ideas in the painting to the themes in the novel – love, seduction, rape, travel etc. The point is, one can read anything they wish into an interpretation of the painting and it is an obvious deduction that a love story will contain the themes of love and seduction. It is too obscure and generalising and it is probably the reader’s familiarity, again, with Longus that breeds an attempt at full integration between painting and narrative.

So, we can see that Achilles employs and builds upon the rudimentary architecture of his designated genre. He teases, he reverses, he exaggerates those familiar devices and themes we encounter elsewhere but he rarely treats something in the same way as another author. We can see how “It is much more characteristic of this author to confound generic expectations and break with tradition” than to conform to the usual types and conventions intrinsic to the Greek novel. One can see how it would be unfair to say that Achilles’ novel is merely a parody (or in fact ‘merely’ an anything), as the more dismissive arguments might persuade us. It is hoped that the discussion has encapsulated the assertion that any labelling would be limiting and the issues are deeply implicated with the reader’s cognisance of the genre; any interpretation will always be heavily in debt to one’s personal views of Achilles’ treatment.