At the beginning of the play Praxagora is waiting in the darkness for the women she has summoned to appear. They have resolved to disguise themselves as men, and to attend the assembly which has been called for that morning. There they are to propose and carry a resolution that the State shall be handed over to the management of women. Presently they begin to assemble; their husbands are safely in bed and asleep, for their wives have taken measures that they should have a restful night. Sticks, cloaks, shoes, and false beards are produced and adjusted, but before they set out to pack the assembly Praxagora proposes a rehearsal of their arguments. The ladies who have confined their attention to looking like men prove not very expert at speaking in the male style, and Praxagora herself has to give them a sample speech.
Things go wrong [she says] because we choose our government on wrong principles. It is a government by classes, and every one considers his own personal interests. Public money is paid away for private gain. A government of women would alter all this, for women by experience in house management know how to get full value for money. Secondly, women are conservative, and would never agree to any violent change in the finances or the tariff; they are natural economists, and specious cries of fair trade would have no effect upon them. Thirdly, as war ministers, they are certain to be successful; their experience in providing meals will ensure that the soldiers are well fed, and they are not likely to risk unduly the lives of their own sons. Lastly, women are so used to trickery that it will be very hard to trick them. Therefore, without any further talking or inquiry as to what women are likely to do, the best thing is to entrust them with the government.
The women by the end of the speech have learnt their parts, and with one last instruction to thrust their elbows into the face of any policeman who tries to interfere they all set out for the assembly. Then Blepyrus, the elderly husband of Praxagora, appears, and the play begins to deteriorate, for it is one of the most dexterous touches in the Lysistrata that the husbands are for the most part away from home, and therefore can take no part in the action. Blepyrus and his neighbours have found that their wives have disappeared together with their cloaks and shoes. While they are standing in doubt they hear strange news. The assembly convened that morning to consider the vital question of State reform is already over; it was so well attended and so punctual to time that many men came too late to vote or to receive their attendance fee. A resolution has been passed unanimously that tailors shall provide clothes and bakers bread, free gratis to all; and, furthermore, that the government shall be in the hands of women. A good-looking young man, who made a most effective speech, was chiefly responsible for this change of policy. He pointed out that women could keep a secret far better than men; that they were in the habit of trusting one another, and that they never would be likely to plot against the government; moreover, everything but woman-government had been tried already without much success, and the experiment was well worth making. Blepyrus and his friends acquiesce in the fait accompli, and when Praxagora returns she learns from her husband that women are now in authority. The socialistic State begins at once to take shape. Praxagora decrees a community of property—land, food, slaves, belong now to the State—every one possesses everything. Women are part of the community of goods, but to avoid disputes the less well-favoured women and men are to have the first choice of partners, and such unions are purely temporary. Law courts, gambling saloons, and night clubs are all summarily closed; for these appurtenances of civilisation are incompatible either with socialism or feminism. The difficulty of work is disposed of by the convenient institution of slavery, and a régime of universal happiness and feasting begins.
Thus far the first section of the play. The second part, which is very inferior, attempts to show the working of the new system. Praxagora disappears, and the characters are mere mechanical figures. A man, A; a man, B; a young man; a young woman; three old women. The scenes are coarse and uninteresting, nor is the prosiness of the dialogue relieved by any of the vivid touches of humour which mark the poet’s earlier plays. Finally, this section, like the first, ends with a banquet, given by the State, and open to all.
The Ecclesiazusæ is plainly inspired by Plato’s theories of communism and feminism as we have them now in the Republic and the Laws. A further example of the connection between the comedian and the philosopher is the Aristophanic tale of the origin of sex in Plato’s Symposium. The story—a Platonic myth with a difference—is so good a specimen both of Aristophanes’ humour and of the gay fashion in which the Greeks anticipate modern science that it is a pity its length prevents quotation.
In ancient days [according to Aristophanes] there were not two sexes but three, the children of the sun, the earth, and the moon. Men were round in shape, with four feet and hands, two faces, and they were able both to walk and to roll. In the pride of their strength they rebelled against heaven, and Zeus cut them in twain. Apollo was bidden to heal the places, but the two halves pined one for the other, and so in pity the god turned their bodies round, and men became in shape such as we see them now.
There are many other details, but the most striking point in the story is the recognition of the original identity of sex. The man and the woman are not separate and opposite, but rather complementary halves of one organism, which once included both; they are a divided whole, and that is why men and women yearn one for the other. How far the tale is Aristophanes’ invention, how far Plato’s, cannot be decided, but the doctrine of the identity of sex-qualification is the common possession of all the Socratic Circle, and forms as clearly the basis of Plato’s serious philosophy as it does of the humorous apologue of Aristophanes.