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Title: Greek tragedy
Author: Gilbert Norwood
Release date: August 1, 2024 [eBook #74167]
Language: English
Original publication: Methuen & Co. Ltd, 1920
Credits: Turgut Dincer and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)
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GREEK TRAGEDY
GREEK TRAGEDY
BY
GILBERT NORWOOD, M.A.
FORMERLY FELLOW OF ST. JOHN’S COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE
PROFESSOR OF GREEK IN THE UNIVERSITY COLLEGE, CARDIFF
METHUEN & CO. LTD.
36 ESSEX STREET W.C.
LONDON
_First Published in 1920_
PREFACE
This book is an attempt to cover the whole field of Greek Tragedy.
My purpose throughout has been twofold. Firstly, I have sought to
provide classical students with definite facts and with help towards a
personal appreciation of the plays they read. My other intention has
been to interest and in some degree to satisfy those “general readers”
who have little or no knowledge of Greek. This second function is
to-day at least as important as the first. Apart from the admirable
progress shown in Europe and the English-speaking world by many works
of first-rate Greek scholarship, in the forefront of which stand Jebb’s
monumental Sophocles, Verrall’s achievements in dramatic criticism, and
the unrivalled _Einleitung_ of Wilamowitz-Moellendorff,—the magnificent
verse-translations of Professor Gilbert Murray, springing from a rare
union of poetic genius with consummate scholarship, have introduced
in this country a new epoch of interest in Greek drama among many
thousands who are unacquainted with the language. Even more momentous
is the fact that the feeling of educated people about drama in general
has been revolutionized and reanimated by the creative genius of Ibsen,
whose penetrating influence is the chief cause of the present dramatic
renaissance in Great Britain.
Two important topics have been given more prominence than is usual in
books of this kind: dramatic structure and the scansion of lyrics.
It might have been supposed self-evident that the former of these is a
vital part, indeed the foundation, of the subject, but it has suffered
remarkable neglect or still more remarkable superficiality of treatment:
criticism of the Greek tragedians has been vitiated time and again by a
tendency to ignore the very existence of dramatic form. It is a strange
reflection that the world of scholarship waited till 1887 for the mere
revelation of grave difficulties in the plot of the _Agamemnon_. Examining
boards still prescribe “_Ajax_ vv. 1-865,” on the naïve assumption that
they know better than Sophocles where the play ought to end. Euripides
has been discussed with a perversity which one would scarcely surpass if
one applied to Anatole France the standards appropriate to Clarendon.
Throughout I have attempted to follow the working of each playwright’s
mind, to realize what he meant his work to “feel like”. This includes
much besides structure, but the plot is still, as in Aristotle’s day,
“the soul of the drama”.
Chapter VI, on metre and rhythm, will, I hope, be found useful. Greek
lyrics are so difficult that most students treat them as prose. I have
done my best to be accurate, clear, and simple, with the purpose of
enabling the sixth-form boy or undergraduate to read his “chorus” with a
sense of metrical and rhythmical form. With regard to this chapter, even
more than the others, I shall welcome criticism and advice.
I have to thank my wife for much help, and my friend Mr. Cyril Brett,
M.A., who kindly offered to make the Index.
GILBERT NORWOOD
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
I. THE LITERARY HISTORY OF GREEK TRAGEDY 1
II. THE GREEK THEATRE AND THE PRODUCTION OF PLAYS 49
III. THE WORKS OF ÆSCHYLUS 84
IV. THE WORKS OF SOPHOCLES 132
V. THE WORKS OF EURIPIDES 186
VI. METRE AND RHYTHM IN GREEK TRAGEDY 327
INDEX 365
GREEK TRAGEDY
CHAPTER I
THE LITERARY HISTORY OF GREEK TRAGEDY
All the types of dramatic poetry known in Greece, tragic, satyric,
and comic, originated in the worship of Dionysus, the deity of wild
vegetation, fruits, and especially the vine. In his honour, at the
opening of spring, were performed dithyrambs, hymns rendered by a chorus,
who, dressed like satyrs, the legendary followers of Dionysus, presented
by song and mimic dance stories from the adventurous life of the god
while on earth. It is from these dithyrambs that tragedy and satyric
drama both sprang. The celebrated Arion, who raised the dithyramb to a
splendid art-form, did much[1] incidentally to aid this development. His
main achievement in this regard is the insertion of spoken lines in the
course of the lyrical performance; it seems, further, that these verses
consisted of a dialogue between the chorus and the chorus-leader, who
mounted upon the sacrificial table. Such interludes, no doubt, referred
to incidents in the sacred story, and the early name for an actor
(ὑποκριτής, “one who answers”) suggests that members of the chorus asked
their leader to explain features in the ritual or the narrative.
At this point drama begins to diverge from the dithyramb. With comedy
we are not here concerned.[2] The drama of the spring festival may be
called “tragedy,” but it was in a quite rudimentary state. Its lyrics,
sung by fifty “satyrs,” would altogether outshine in importance the
dialogue-interludes between chorus-leader and individual singers; the
theme, moreover, would be always some event connected with Dionysus.
Two great changes were necessary before drama could enter on free
development: the use of impersonation in the interludes and the admission
of any subject at will of the poet. The first was introduced by Thespis,
who is said to have “invented one actor”. The second was perhaps later,
but at least as early as Phrynichus we find plays on subjects taken from
other than Dionysiac legends. It is said that the audience complained of
this innovation: “What has this to do with Dionysus?”[3]
Another great development is attributed to Pratinas—the invention of
satyric drama. The more stately, graver features and the frolicsome,
often gross, elements being separated, the way was clear for the free
development of tragedy and satyric into the forms we know. But satyric
work, though always showing playful characteristics and a touch of
obscenity, was never confounded with comedy. Stately figures of legend
or theology regularly appeared in it—Odysseus in the _Cyclops_, Apollo
in the _Ichneutæ_—and it was a regular feature at the presentations of
tragedy; each tragic poet competed with three tragedies followed by one
satyric play. When the latter form changed its tone slightly, as in the
work of the Alexandrian Pleiad,[4] it approximated not to comedy but to
satire.[5]
The Dorians claimed the credit of having invented both tragedy and
comedy.[6] There seems little doubt that they provided the germ, though
the glories of Greek drama belong to Athens. Arion, whose contribution
has been described, if not himself a Dorian, worked among Dorians at
Corinth, which Pindar,[7] for example, recognized as the birthplace of
the dithyramb. Moreover the lyrics of purely Attic tragedy show in their
language what is generally regarded as a slight Doric colouring.[8]
Aristotle[9] sums up the rise of tragedy as follows: “Tragedy ... was
at first mere improvization ... originating with the leaders of the
dithyramb. It advanced by slow degrees; each new element that showed
itself was in turn developed. Having passed through many stages, it
found its natural form, and there it stopped. Æschylus first introduced
a second actor; he diminished the importance of the chorus, and assigned
the leading part to the dialogue. Sophocles raised the number of actors
to three, and added scene-painting. It was not till late that the short
plot was discarded for one of greater compass, and the grotesque diction
of the earlier satyric form for the stately manner of tragedy. The iambic
measure then replaced the trochaic tetrameter, which was originally
employed when the poetry was of the satyric order, and had greater
affinities with dancing.... The number of ‘episodes’ or acts was also
increased, and the other embellishments added, of which tradition tells.”
We have but meagre knowledge of the drama before Æschylus, whose vast
achievement so overshadowed his predecessors that their works were little
read and have in consequence practically vanished. Tragedy was born
at the moment when, as tradition relates, THESPIS of Icaria in Attica
introduced the actor. Arion, as we saw, had already caused one of the
chorus to mount upon the sacrificial table or the step of the altar and
deliver a narrative, or converse with his fellow-choristers, concerning
Dionysus, using not lyrical metre, but the trochaic tetrameter.[10]
Thespis’ great advance was to introduce a person who should actually
present the character to whom Arion’s chorister had merely made
allusion: the action, instead of being reported, went on before the eyes
of the audience. This change clearly at once begets the possibility of
drama, however rudimentary. By retiring to the booth while the singers
perform their lyric, he can change his mask and costume and reappear
as another person; by learning and discussing what has been said by
his supposed predecessor, he can exhibit the play of emotion or the
construction of a plan.
If this was done by Thespis, he was the founder of European drama. His
_floruit_ may be assigned to the year 535 B.C., the date of the first
dramatic competition at Athens. But little is known of him. Aristotle
in his _Poetic_[11] does not mention his name. Far later we have the
remarks of Horace, “Diogenes Laertius,”[12] and Suidas. Horace tells[13]
that Thespis discovered tragic poetry, and conveyed from place to
place on waggons a company of players who sang and acted his pieces,
their faces smeared with lees of wine: “Diogenes Laertius” says that
Thespis “discovered one actor”. Suidas gives us the names of several
plays, _Phorbas_ or _The Trials_ (ἆθλα) _of Pelias_, _The Priests_,
_The Youths_, _Pentheus_. We possess four fragments alleged to belong
to these, but they are spurious. Aristotle,[14] moreover, affirms that
Tragedy was in the first place a matter of improvization. The conclusion
seems to be that Thespis did not “write plays” in the modern sense of the
phrase. He was much more like those Elizabethan dramatists who provided
“the words” for their actors, and for whom printing and publication were
only thought of if the play had achieved success upon the boards. He
stood midway between Æschylus and the unknown actor-poets before Arion
who improvized as they played.
The next name of importance is that of CHŒRILUS the Athenian, who
competed in tragedy for the first time during the 64th Olympiad (524-1
B.C.) and continued writing for the stage during forty years. He produced
one hundred and sixty plays, and obtained the first prize thirteen times.
Later generations regarded him as especially excellent in the satyric
drama[15] invented by his younger contemporary Pratinas. To him were
attributed the invention of masks, as a substitute for the wine-lees
of Thespis, and more majestic costume. We know by name only one of his
works, the _Alope_, which is concerned with the Attic hero Triptolemus.
A fragment or two reveal an unexpected preciosity of style; he called
stones and rivers “the bones and veins of the earth”.
PRATINAS of Phlius, in the north of the Peloponnese, is said to have
competed with Æschylus and Chœrilus in the 70th Olympiad (500-497
B.C.). His great achievement, as we have said, was the invention of
satyric drama. Fifty plays are attributed to him, of which thirty-two
were satyric. Hardly any fragments of these are extant, but we get some
conception of the man from a _hyporchema_ in which he complains that
music is encroaching upon poetry: “let the flute follow the dancing
revel of the song—it is but an attendant”. With boundless gusto and
polysyllabic energy he consigns the flute to flames and derision.
At length we reach a poet who seems to have been really great, a
dramatist whose works, even to a generation which knew and reverenced
Æschylus, seemed unworthy to be let die—PHRYNICHUS of Athens, son of
Polyphradmon, whose first victory occurred 512-509 B.C. It is said that
he was the first to bring female characters upon the stage (always,
however, played by men). The following dramas are known by name:
_Egyptians_; _Alcestis_; _Antæus_ or _The Libyans_; _The Daughters of
Danaus_; _The Capture of Miletus_; _Phœnician Women_ (_Phœnissæ_);
_The Women of Pleuron_; _Tantalus_; _Troilus_. The _Egyptians_ seems
to have dealt with the same subject as the _Supplices_ of Æschylus;
so does the _Danaides_; these two dramas may have formed part of a
trilogy. The _Alcestis_ followed the same lines as the Euripidean play;
it is probable, indeed, that the apparition of Death with a sword
was borrowed by Euripides from Phrynichus. The _Antæus_ related the
wrestling-match between Heracles and his earth-born foe. The manner in
which Aristophanes[16] refers to the play shows that the description of
the wrestling-bout was still celebrated after the lapse of a century. The
_Pleuroniæ_ treated of Meleager and the fateful log which was preserved,
and then burnt in anger, by his mother Althæa.
Two plays were specially important. The _Phœnissæ_ (produced in 476),
celebrated the victory of Salamis, had Themistocles himself for choregus,
and won the prize; its popularity never waned throughout the fifth
century. We are told that the prologue was spoken by an eunuch while he
placed the cushions for the Persian counsellors; further—an important
fact—that this person, at the beginning of the play, announced the defeat
of Xerxes. The _Capture of Miletus_, less popular in later days—no
fragments at all are to be found—created even more stir at the moment.
Miletus had been captured by Darius in 494 B.C., Athens having failed to
give effective support to the Ionian revolt. While the distress and shame
excited by the fall of the proudest city in Asiatic Greece were still
strong in Athenian minds, Phrynichus ventured to dramatize the disaster.
Herodotus tells how “the theatre burst into tears; they fined him a
thousand drachmæ for reminding them of their own misfortunes, and gave
command that no man should ever use that play again”.[17]
Few lost works are so sorely to be regretted as those of Phrynichus.
The collection of fragments merely hints at a genius who commanded the
affection of an age which knew his great successors, a master whose
dignity was not utterly overborne by Æschylus, and whose tenderness
could still charm hearts which had thrilled to the agonies of Medea
and the romance of Andromeda. The chief witness to his popularity is
Aristophanes, who paints for us a delightful picture[18] of the old men
in the dark before the dawn, trudging by lantern-light through the mud
to the law-court, and humming as they go the “charming old-world honeyed
ditties” from the _Phœnissæ_. In another play[19] the birds assert that
it is from their song that “Phrynichus, like his own bee, took his feast,
food of the gods, the fruit of song, and found unfailingly a song full
sweet”. One or two snatches survive from these lyrics, lines from the
_Phœnissæ_ in the “greater Asclepiad” metre which is the form of some
of Sappho’s loveliest work, and a verse[20] from the _Troilus_ which
Sophocles himself quoted: “the light of love on rosy cheeks is beaming”.
It is clear that for most Athenians the spell of Phrynichus lay in his
songs; succeeding poets he impressed almost equally as a playwright. It
has already been mentioned that Euripides seems to have borrowed from
the _Alcestis_. Æschylus, especially, was influenced by his style, and
in the _Persæ_ followed the older poet closely. Indeed the relation
between the _Persæ_ and the _Phœnissæ_ is puzzling, but ancient authority
did not hesitate to say that the later work was “modelled on” the
earlier.[21] It is no question of a _réchauffé_ to suit the taste of
a later age, like the revisions of Shakespeare by Davenant and Cibber,
for the two tragedies are separated at the utmost by only seven years;
rather we appear to have a problem like the connexion between _Macbeth_
and Middleton’s _Witch_. Perhaps the soundest opinion is that the
younger playwright wished to demonstrate his own method of writing and
his theory of dramatic composition in the most striking way possible—by
choosing a famous drama of the more rudimentary type and rewriting it
as it ought to be written. Two features in the _Phœnissæ_ seem to lend
support to this view. Firstly, the prologue was delivered by a slave
who was preparing the seats of the Persian counsellors. The _Persæ_
expunges the man and his speech, presenting us at once with the elders in
deliberation. Nothing is more characteristic of the architectonic power
in literature than the instinct to sweep away everything but the minimum
of mere machinery; at the first instant we are in the midst of the plot.
Secondly, the prologue at once announced the disaster. Nothing was left
but the amplification of sorrow, a quasi-operatic presentation by the
Phœnician women who formed the chorus. Here again the _Persæ_ provides a
most instructive contrast.
From the fragments, from ancient testimony, and from the recasting of the
_Phœnissæ_ which appeared instinctive or necessary to Æschylus, we gain
some clear conception of Phrynichus. A lyrist of sweetness and pellucid
dignity, he has been compared[22] to his contemporary Simonides; the
graceful phrases in which Aristophanes declared that Phrynichus drew his
inspiration from the birds recall to us the “native wood-notes wild” of
Shakespeare’s earlier achievement. As a playwright in the strict sense
he is, for us, the first effective master, but still swayed by the age
of pure lyrists which was just reaching its culmination and its close in
Pindar—so greatly swayed that the “episodes” were still little more than
interruptions of lyrics which gave but a static expression to feeling.
ÆSCHYLUS, the son of Euphorion, was born at Eleusis in 525 B.C. At the
age of twenty-five he began to exhibit plays, but did not win the prize
until the year 485. The Persian invasions swept down upon Athens when
Æschylus had come to the maturity of his powers. He served as a hoplite
at Marathon[23] and his brother Cynegirus distinguished himself even on
that day of heroes by his desperate courage in attempting to thwart the
flight of the invaders. That the poet was present at Salamis also may
be regarded as certain from the celebrated description in the _Persæ_.
He twice visited Sicily. On the first occasion, soon after 470 B.C., he
accepted the invitation of Hiero, King of Syracuse, and composed _The
Women of Etna_ to celebrate the city which Hiero was founding on the
slope of that mountain. Various stories to explain his retirement from
Athens were circulated in antiquity. Some relate that he was unnerved
by a collapse of the wooden benches during a performance of one of his
plays. Others said that he was defeated by Simonides in a competition:
the task was to write an epitaph on those who fell at Marathon. According
to others he was chagrined by a dramatic defeat which he sustained at the
hands of the youthful Sophocles in 468. A fourth story declared that he
was accused of divulging the Eleusinian Mysteries in one of his plays,
and was in danger of his life until he proved that he had himself never
been initiated. These stories are hard to accept. Possibly he wrote
something which offended against Eleusinian rule, and was condemned
to banishment or possibly to death, which (as often occurred) he was
allowed to escape by voluntary exile. We cannot suppose that he pleaded
ignorance[24] seriously; a man of his genuinely devout temperament, and
a native of Eleusis, must assuredly have been initiated. A second visit
to Sicily was taken after he had again won the prize with the _Oresteia_.
He never returned. Story tells how he was sitting on the hillside near
the city of Gela when an eagle, flying with a tortoise in its claws in
quest of a stone whereon to crush it, dropped its prey upon the bald head
of the poet and killed him. He left two sons, Euphorion and Bion, who
also pursued the tragic art—a tradition which persisted in the family for
generations.
Æschylus is too great a dramatist to receive detailed treatment in the
course of a general discussion; a separate chapter must be allotted to
this. At present we shall consider only his position in the history of
tragedy.
The great technical change introduced by Æschylus was that he “first
introduced a second actor; he diminished the importance of the chorus,
and assigned the leading part to the dialogue”.[25] The two last
statements are corollaries of the first, which describe a deeply
important advance. It has been said above that the drama was founded
by the man who “invented one actor”; at the same time it is easy to
realize how primitive such drama must have been. The addition of another
actor did not double the resources of tragedy, rather it increased
them fifty-fold. To bring two opposed or sympathetic characters face
to face, to exhibit the clash of principles by means of the clash of
personalities, this is a step forward into a new world, a change so great
that to call Æschylus the very inventor of tragedy is not unreasonable.
This meagre equipment of two actors was found sufficient by two of the
fifth-century masters for work[26] of the highest value. The further
remark of Aristotle that Æschylus “diminished the importance of the
chorus” follows naturally from the vast increase in the importance of the
“episodes”.
Revolutionary as Æschylus was, he did not attain at a bound to a
characteristic dramatic form of his own and then advance no farther. In
his earliest extant play, the _Supplices_, the alterations mentioned
above are certainly in operation, but their use is tentative. The chorus
is no doubt less dominant than it had been, but it is the most important
feature, even to a modern reader. To an ancient spectator it must have
appeared of even greater moment. The number of singers was still fifty,
and the lyrics, accompanied by music and the dance of this great company,
occupy more than half of our present text. We have left Phrynichus
behind, but he is not out of sight.
It is necessary at this point to give some account of the life of
SOPHOCLES and his position in dramatic history, though a detailed
discussion of his extant work must be reserved for a separate chapter. He
was born about 496 B.C., the son of a well-to-do citizen named Sophillus,
and received, in addition to the usual education, more advanced training
in music from the celebrated Lampros. The youth’s physical beauty was
remarkable, and at the age of sixteen he was chosen to lead the choir of
boys who performed the pæan celebrating the victory of Salamis. Nothing
more is known of his life till the year 468, when he produced his first
tragedy. One of his fellow-competitors was Æschylus, and we are told[27]
that feeling ran so high that the Archon, instead of choosing the judges
by lot as usual, entrusted the decision to the board of generals;
they awarded the victory to the youthful Sophocles. For sixty years he
produced a steady stream of dramatic work with continuous success. He
at first performed in his own plays—his skill in the _Nausicaa_ gained
great applause—but was compelled to give this up owing to the failure of
his voice. The number of his plays was well over a hundred, performed in
groups of four, and he won eighteen victories at the City Dionysia; even
when he failed of the first prize, he was never lower than the second
place.[28] His genius seems even to have increased with advancing age;
he was about ninety when he wrote the _Œdipus Coloneus_. Sophocles took
a satisfactory if not prominent part in public life,[29] being twice
elected general, once with Pericles and later with Nicias. He served
also as Hellenotamias—a member, that is, of the Treasury Board which
administered the funds of the Delian Confederacy. It is an interesting
comment on the early part of the _Œdipus Coloneus_ that the poet acted
as priest of two heroes, Asclepius and Alcon. He had several sons, the
most celebrated of whom was Iophon, himself a tragedian of repute. A
famous story relates that Iophon, being jealous of his illegitimate
brother, brought a suit to prove his father’s insanity, with the intent
to become administrator of his estate. The aged poet’s defence consisted
in a recitation of the _Œdipus Coloneus_ which he had just completed, and
the jury most naturally dismissed Iophon’s petition. He died late in 406
B.C., fully ninety years old, a few months later than Euripides, and not
long before the disaster of Ægospotami. The Athenian people mourned him
as a hero under the name of Dexion, “The Entertainer,” or “Host,” and
brought yearly sacrifice to his shrine.
The personality of Sophocles stands out more definitely before the
modern eye than that of perhaps any other fifth-century Greek. His social
talent made him a noted figure whose good sayings were repeated, and of
whom the gossips as well as the critics loved to circulate illustrative
stories. He seemed the embodiment of all that man can ask. Genius, good
health, industry, long life, personal beauty, affluence, popularity, and
the sense of power—all were his, and enjoyed in that very epoch which,
beyond all others, seems to have combined stimulus with satisfaction.
Salamis was fought and won just as he had left childhood behind. His
adolescence and maturity coincided with the rise and establishment of
the Athenian Empire; he listened to Pericles, saw the Parthenon and
Propylæa rise upon the Acropolis, associated with Æschylus, Euripides,
Aristophanes, and Thucydides, watched the work of Phidias and Polygnotus
grow to life under their fingers. Though he carried into the years of
Nestor the genius of Shakespeare, he was yet so blessed that he died
before the fall of Athens. Phrynichus, the comic poet, wrote: “Blessed
was Sophocles, who passed so many years before his death, a happy man and
brilliant, who wrote many beautiful tragedies and made a fair end of a
life which knew no misfortune”.[30] Sophocles’ own words[31] come as a
significant comment:—
μὴ φῦναι τὸν ἅπαντα νικᾷ λόγον.
τὸ δ’, ἐπεὶ φανῇ,
βῆναι κεῖθεν ὅθενπερ ἥκει,
πολὺ δεύτερον ὡς τάχιστα.
“Best of all fates—when a man weighs everything—is not to be born, and
second-best beyond doubt is, once born, to depart with all speed to that
place whence we came.”
Of his social charm there are many evidences. He gathered round him a
kind of literary club or _salon_. Some hint of the talk in this circle
may be gathered from the fragment of Ion’s _Memoirs_ which tells how
when the poet came to Chios he engaged in critical battle with the local
schoolmaster concerning poetical adjectives, and quoted with approbation
Phrynichus’ line λάμπει δ’ ἐπὶ πορφυρέαις παρῇσι φῶς ἔρωτος. He was a
friend of Herodotus, from whom he quotes more than once, and to whom he
addressed certain elegiac verses. With regard to his own art, we possess
two remarks of deep interest. The first is reported by Aristotle:[32] “I
depict men as they ought to be, Euripides depicts them as they are”. It
is excellent Attic for “he is a realist, I am an idealist”. Nevertheless,
he esteemed his rival; when he led forth his chorus for the first time
after the news of Euripides’ death in Macedonia had reached Athens, he
and his singers wore the dress of mourning. The second remark is a brief
account[33] of his own development: “My dramatic wild oats were imitation
of Æschylus’ pomp; then I evolved my own harsh mannerism; finally I
embraced that style which is best, as most adapted to the portrayal of
human nature”. All that we now possess would seem to belong to his third
period, though certain characteristics of the _Antigone_ may put us in
mind of the second.[34]
Apart altogether from his glorious achievement in actual composition,
Sophocles is highly important as an innovator in technique. The changes
which he introduced are: (i) the number of actors was raised from two to
three;[35] (ii) scene-painting was invented[35]; (iii) the plays of a
tetralogy were, sometimes at any rate, no longer part of a great whole,
but quite distinct in subject;[36] (iv) it is said[37] that he raised the
number of the chorus from twelve to fifteen, was the first tragedian to
use Phrygian music and to give his actors the bent staff and white shoe
which they sometimes used.
The points named under (iv) are of small importance save the change in
the number of _choreutæ_, but that is a detail which can scarcely be
accepted, Æschylus during part of his career employed fifty _choreutæ_,
and it is extremely improbable that the number sank as low as twelve,
only to rise slightly again at once. The invention of scene-painting is
clearly momentous; it became easy to fix the action at any spot desired,
and a change of scene also became possible. Æschylus, of course, in his
later years made use of this development. The other two points are vital.
Though the stage gained immensely by the introduction of a third actor,
little perhaps need be said on the point. An examination of the early
Æschylean plays, and even of the _Choephorœ_ or _Agamemnon_, side by
side with the _Philoctetes_ or _Œdipus Coloneus_, will make the facts
abundantly clear. In the crisis of _Œdipus Tyrannus_ (for example) the
presence of Jocasta,[38] while her husband hears the tidings brought by
the Corinthian, does not merely add to the poignancy of the scene; it may
almost be said to create it.
The last change, that of breaking up the tetralogy into four disconnected
tragedies, is equally fundamental. The older poet was a man of simple
ideas and gigantic grasp. His conceptions demanded the vast scope of a
trilogy, and perhaps the most astonishing feature of his work is the
fact that, while each drama is a splendid and self-intelligible whole,
it gains its full import only from the significance of the complete
organism. Sophocles realized that he possessed a narrower, if more
subtle, genius, and moulded his technique to suit his powers. Each of
his works, however spacious and statuesque it may seem beside _Macbeth_,
_Lear_, or even _Hippolytus_, shows, as compared with Æschylus, a
closeness of texture in characterization and a delicate stippling of
language, which mark nothing less than a revolution.
Tradition tells that EURIPIDES was born at Salamis on the very day of
the great victory (480 B.C.); the Parian marble puts the date five years
earlier. He was thus a dozen or more years younger than Sophocles.
His father’s name was Mnesarchus; his mother Clito is ridiculed by
Aristophanes as a petty green-grocer, but all other evidence suggests
that they were well-to-do; Euripides was able to devote himself to
drama, from which little financial reward could be expected, and to
collect a library—a remarkable possession for those days. He lived
almost entirely for his art, though he must, like other citizens, have
seen military service. His public activities seem to have included
nothing more extraordinary than a single “embassy” to Syracuse. Unlike
Sophocles, he cared little for society save that of a few intimates,
and wrote much in a cave on Salamis which he had fitted up as a study.
The great philosopher Anaxagoras was his friend and teacher; several
passages[39] in the extant plays point plainly to his influence. It was
in Euripides’ house that Protagoras read for the first time his treatise
on the gods which brought about the sophist’s expulsion from Athens.
Socrates himself is traditionally regarded as the poet’s friend. Aulus
Gellius[40] says that he began to write tragedy at the age of eighteen;
but it was not till 455 B.C. (when he was perhaps thirty) that he
“obtained a chorus”—that is, had his work accepted for performance. One
of these pieces was the _Peliades_; he obtained only the third place. By
the end of his life he had written nearly a hundred dramas, including
satyric works, but obtained the first prize only four times: his fifth
victory was won by the tetralogy which included the _Bacchæ_, performed
after his death. His influence was far out of proportion to these scanty
rewards.[41] On any given occasion he might be defeated by some talented
mediocrity who hit the taste of the moment. When he offered the _Medea_
itself he was overcome, not only by Sophocles, but by Euphorion; yet his
vast powers were recognized by all Athens. Euripides was married—twice it
is said—and had three sons. Late in his life he accepted an invitation
from Archelaus, King of Macedonia; after living there a short time in
high favour and writing his latest plays, he died in 406 B.C. He was
buried in Macedonia and a cenotaph was erected to his memory in Attica.
Further light both on the career and works of Euripides has recently
been provided by an interesting discovery. In 1912 Dr. Arthur S. Hunt
published[42] extensive fragments of a life of the poet by Satyrus,
from portions of a papyrus-roll found at Oxyrhynchus in Egypt by Dr.
Grenfell and Dr. Hunt. Satyrus lived in the third century before
Christ: our MS. itself is dated by its discoverers “from the middle
or latter part of the second century” after Christ. The most striking
points are (i) Satyrus quotes the fragment of the _Pirithous_ dealt
with below,[43] attributing it, as was often done, to Euripides, and
saying that the poet “has accurately embraced the whole cosmogony of
Anaxagoras in three periods”;[44] (ii) there are new fragments, on the
vain pursuit of wealth; (iii) the poet was prosecuted for impiety by the
statesman Cleon; (iv) we read that Euripides wrote the proem for the
_Persæ_ composed by his friend the musician Timotheus; (v) Satyrus, in
discussing _peripeteia_, mentions “ravishings, supposititious infants,
and recognitions by means of rings and necklaces—for these, as you know,
are the back-bone of the New Comedy, and were perfected by Euripides”.
A discussion of Euripides’ surviving work will be found in a separate
chapter. Our business here is to indicate his position in the development
of technique. Though he is for ever handling his material and the
resources of the stage in an original and experimental manner, the
definite changes which he introduced are few. That many of his dramas
are not tragedies at all but tragicomedies, is a development of the
first importance. Another fact of this kind is his musical innovations.
The lyrics of his plays tend to become less important as literature and
to subserve the music, in which he introduced fashions not employed
before, such as the “mixed Lydian”; it is impossible to criticize some
of his later odes without knowledge, which we do not possess, of the
music which he composed for them and the manner in which he caused them
to be rendered. Hence the loose syntax, the polysyllabic vagueness of
expression, and the repeated words—features which irritated Aristophanes
and many later students.
Another novelty is his use of the prologue. Since this is properly
nothing but “that part of the play which precedes the first song of
the whole chorus,”[45] prologues are of course found in Æschylus and
Sophocles. The peculiarity of the Euripidean prologue is that it tends to
be non-dramatic, a narrative enabling the spectator to understand at what
point in a legend the action is to begin. It is from Euripides’ use of
the prologue that the modern meaning of the word is derived.
Aristophanes in his _Frogs_ makes a famous attack upon most[46] sides
of Euripides’ art as contrasted with that of Æschylus. But it is often
forgotten that, damned utterly as the younger tragedian is, Æschylus by
no means escapes criticism. Many of the censures put into Euripides’
mouth are just and important; it seems likely that Aristophanes is
practically quoting his victim’s conversation; the remark[47] about
Æschylus that “he was obscure in his prologues,” is no mere rubbish
attributed to a dullard. That Euripides did criticize his elder is a
fact. The _Supplices_[48] contains a severe remark on the catalogue
of chieftains in the _Septem_; the elaborate sarcasm directed in the
_Electra_[49] against the Recognition-scene of the _Choephorœ_ is even
more startling. Besides this, Aristophanes seems to quote remarks of
Euripides on himself and his work: “When I first took over the art from
you, I found it swollen with braggadocio and tiresome words; so the first
thing I did was to train down its fat and reduce its weight”.[50] His
comment on dialogue is no less pertinent: “With you Niobe and Achilles
never said a word, but I left no personage idle; women, slaves, and
hags all spoke”.[51] Finally, there is the perfect description of his
own realism[52]: οἰκεῖα πράγματ’ εἰσάγων, οἷς χρώμεθ’, οἷς σύνεσμεν, “I
introduced life as we live it, the things of our everyday experience”.
Such sentences as these reflect unmistakably the conversation of a
playwright who was jealous for the dignity and the progress of his art.
Though during his own time Euripides was hardly equal in repute to his
two companions, scarcely had his Macedonian grave closed over him than
his popularity began to overshadow theirs. Æschylus became a dim antique
giant; Sophocles, though always admired, was too definitely Attic and
Periclean to retain all his prestige in the Hellenistic world. It was
the more cosmopolitan poet who won posthumous applause from one end of
the civilized earth to the other. From 400 B.C. to the downfall of the
ancient world he was unquestionably better known and admired than any
other dramatist. This is shown by the much larger collection of his
work which has survived, by the imitation of later playwrights, and
by innumerable passages of citation, praise, and comment in writers
of every kind. He shared with Homer, Vergil, and Horace the equivocal
distinction of becoming a schoolbook even in ancient times. Nine of our
nineteen plays were selected for this purpose: _Alcestis_, _Andromache_,
_Hecuba_, _Hippolytus_, _Medea_, _Orestes_, _Phœnissæ_, _Rhesus_, and
_Troades_. It is not easy to see what principle of selection prompted the
educationists of the day: _Andromache_ and _Hippolytus_ do not strike a
modern reader as specially “suitable”. Owing to their use in schools they
were annotated; these _scholia_ are still extant and are often of great
value. In the Byzantine age the number was reduced to three: _Hecuba_,
_Orestes_, _Phœnissæ_.
Among the numerous lesser tragedians of the fifth century five hold a
distinguished place: Neophron of Sicyon, Aristarchus of Tegea, Ion of
Chios, Achæus of Eretria, Agathon of Athens.
NEOPHRON is an enigmatic figure. It would seem that he was an important
forerunner of Euripides. Not only do we learn that he wrote one hundred
and twenty tragedies and that he was the first to bring upon the stage
“pædagogi” and the examination of slaves under torture; it is said also
that his _Medea_ was the original of Euripides’ tragedy so-named.[53]
“Pædagogi” or elderly male attendants of children are familiar in
Euripides, and the “questioning” of slaves is shown (though not to
the audience) in the _Ion_.[54] As for the third point, we have three
fragments which clearly recall the extant play—a few lines in which
Ægeus requests Medea to explain the oracle, a few more in which she
tells Jason how he shall die, and the celebrated passage which reads
like a shorter version of her great soliloquy when deciding to slay her
children. There is the same anguish, the same vacillation, the same
address to her “passion” (θυμός). Such a writer is plainly epoch-making:
he adds a new feature to tragedy in the life-time of Sophocles. The
realism of everyday life and the pangs of conscience battling with
temptation—these we are wont to call Euripidean. But some have denied
the very existence of Neophron as a dramatist: the fragments are
fourth-century forgeries, or Euripides brought out a first edition[55]
of his play under Neophron’s name. Against these views is the great
authority of Aristotle,[56] who, however, may have been deceived by
the name “Neophron” in official records. An argument natural to modern
students, that a poet of Euripides’ calibre would not have borrowed and
worked up another’s play, is of doubtful strength. Æschylus, as we have
seen, probably acted so towards Phrynichus. The best view is probably
that of antiquity. We may note that Sicyon is close to Corinth, and that
a legend domestic to the latter city might naturally find its first
treatment in a playwright of Sicyon.
ARISTARCHUS of Tegea, whose _début_ is to be dated about 453 B.C., is
said by Suidas to have lived for over a hundred years, to have written
seventy tragedies, two of which won the first prize, and one of which
was called _Asclepius_ (a thank-offering for the poet’s recovery from
an illness), and to have “initiated the present length of plays”.[57]
This latter point sounds important, but it is difficult to understand
precisely what Suidas means. For though the average Sophoclean or
Euripidean tragedy is longer than the Æschylean, Aristarchus began work
later than Sophocles and no earlier than Euripides. It has been thought
that Suidas refers to the length of dramas in post-Euripidean times, but
of these we have perhaps no examples.[58] Aristarchus’ reputation was
slight but enduring. Ennius two and a half centuries later translated
his _Achilles_ into Latin; the same work is quoted in the prologue of
Plautus’ _Pœnulus_. A phrase[59] from another play became proverbial.
A more distinguished but probably less important writer was ION of
Chios, son of Orthomenes, who lived between 484 and 421 B.C. A highly
accomplished man of ample means, he travelled rather widely. In Athens he
must have spent considerable time, for he was intimate with Cimon and his
circle, and produced plays the number of which is by one authority put at
forty. Besides tragedy and satyric drama, he wrote comedies, dithyrambs,
hymns, pæans, elegies, epigrams, and scolia. He was, moreover,
distinguished in prose writing: we hear of a book on the _Founding of
Chios_, of a philosophic work, and of certain memoirs.[60] This latter
work must be a real loss to us, if we may judge from its fragments. In
the fifth century B.C. no one but a facile Ionian would have thought it
worth while to record mere gossip even about the great; for us there is
great charm in an anecdote like that of the literary discussion between
Sophocles and the schoolmaster, or the exclamation of Æschylus at the
Isthmian Games.[61] Ion would seem to have been less a great poet than
a delightful _belletrist_; the quality is well shown in his remark[62]
that life, like a tragic tetralogy, should have a satyric element. One
year he obtained a sensational success by winning the first prize both
for tragedy and for a dithyramb; to commemorate this he presented to each
Athenian citizen a cask of Chian wine. He died before 421, the date of
Aristophanes’ _Peace_,[63] wherein he is spoken of as transformed into a
star, in allusion to a charming lyric passage of his:—
ἀώϊον ἀεροφοίταν
ἀστέρα μείναμεν ἀελίου λευκοπτέρυγα πρόδρομον.
“We awaited the star that wanders through the dawn-lit sky, pale-winged
courier of the sun.”
His tragedies,[64] though they do not appear to have had much effect
on the progress of technique or on public opinion, were popular.
Aristophanes, for instance, nearly twenty years after his death, quotes
a phrase from his _Sentinels_[65] as proverbial, and centuries later the
author of the treatise _On the Sublime_[66] wrote his celebrated verdict:
“In lyric poetry would you prefer to be Bacchylides rather than Pindar?
And in tragedy to be Ion of Chios rather than—Sophocles? It is true
that Bacchylides and Ion are faultless and entirely elegant writers of
the polished school, while Pindar and Sophocles, although at times they
burn everything before them as it were in their swift career, are often
extinguished unaccountably and fail most lamentably. But would anyone
in his senses regard all the compositions of Ion put together as an
equivalent for the single play of the Œdipus?”
ACHÆUS of Eretria was born in 484 B.C., and exhibited his first play
at Athens in 447. He won only one first prize though we hear that he
composed over forty plays, nearly half of which are known by name. That
he was second only to Æschylus in satyric drama was the opinion held by
that delightful philosopher Menedemus[67] the minor Socratic, the seat of
whose school was Eretria itself, Achæus’ birthplace.
It has been suggested that the apparent disproportion of satyric plays
written by Achæus is to be accounted for by his having written them for
other poets.[68] He is once copied by Euripides and parodied twice by
Aristophanes.[69] Athenæus makes an interesting comment on his style:
“Achæus of Eretria, though an elegant poet in the structure of his
plots, occasionally blackens his phrasing and produces many cryptic
expressions”.[70] The instance which he gives is significant:—
λιθάργυρος δ’
ὄλπη παρηωρεῖτο χρίσματος πλέα
τὸν Σπαρτιάτην γραπτὸν ἐν διπλῷ ξύλῳ
κύρβιν,
“the cruse of alloyed silver, filled with ointment, swung beside the
Spartan tablet, double wood inscribed”. That is, “he carried an oil-flask
and a Spartan general’s bâton”. Aiming at dignified originality of
diction Achæus has merely fallen into queerness. On the other side,
when he seeks vigorous realism he becomes quaintly prosaic. In the
_Philoctetes_, for instance, Agamemnon utters the war-cry ἐλελελεῦ in the
middle of an iambic line.
A far more noteworthy dramatist was AGATHON the Athenian, who seems to
have impressed his contemporaries, and even the exacting Aristotle, as
coming next in merit to the three masters. Born about 446 B.C., he won
his first victory in 416 and retired to the Court of the Macedonian
prince Archelaus some time before the death of Euripides (406). From
contemporary evidence we gather that he was popular as a writer and as a
social figure, handsome, and given to voluptuous living.
Three striking innovations are credited to him:—
(i) He produced at least one play of which both the plot and the
characters were invented by himself.[71] The name of this “attractive”
drama is uncertain: it may have been _The Flower_ (_Anthos_) or
_Antheus_. Agathon, here as elsewhere, shows himself a follower of
Euripides. The master had employed recognized myths as a framework for a
thoroughly “modern” treatment of ordinary human interests; his disciple
finally throws aside the convention of antiquity.
(ii) Another post-Euripidean feature is the use of musical interludes.
Aristotle tells us: “As for the later poets, their choral songs pertain
as little to the subject of the piece as to that of any other tragedy.
They are therefore sung as mere interludes—a practice first begun by
Agathon.”[72] Our poet then is once more found completing a process
which his friend had carried far. Sophocles had diminished the length
and dramatic importance of the lyrics, but with him they were still
entirely relevant. Euripides shows a strong tendency to write his odes as
separable songs, but complete irrelevance is hardly found. Plays such as
Agathon’s could obviously be performed, if necessary, without the trouble
and expense of a chorus, which in process of time altogether disappeared.
His interludes served, it seems, more as divisions between “acts” than
as an integral part of the play. In this connexion should be mentioned
his innovation in the accompaniment—the use of “chromatic” or coloured
style.[73] His florid music is laughed at by Aristophanes as “ants’
bye-paths”.[74]
(iii) Occasionally he took a great extent of legend as the topic of a
single drama, and it seems likely[75] that he composed a _Fall of Troy_,
taking the whole epic subject instead of an episode. Agathon is trying
yet another experiment—it was necessary for a writer of his powers to
vary in some way from Euripides, but this attempt was unsatisfactory.[76]
In the _Thesmophoriazusæ_ Aristophanes pays Agathon the honour of
elaborate parody. Euripides comes to beg his friend to plead for him
before an assembly of Athenian women, and the scene in which Agathon
amid much pomp explains the principles of his art, contains definite and
valuable criticism under the usual guise of burlesque; that Aristophanes
valued him is shown by the affectionate pun on his name which he
introduces into the _Frogs_ (v. 84):—
ἀγαθὸς ποιητὴς καὶ ποθεινὸς τοῖς φίλοις,
“a good poet, sorely missed by his friends”. Plato lays the scene of
his _Symposium_ in the house of Agathon, who is celebrating his first
tragic victory; the poet is depicted as a charming host, and, when the
conversation turns to a series of panegyrics upon the god of Love, offers
a contribution to which we shall return.
From these sources we learn as usual little about the poet’s dramatic
skill, much as to his literary style. But under the first head falls a
vital remark of Aristotle: “in his reversals of the action (_i.e._ the
_peripeteia_), however, he shows a marvellous skill in the effort to hit
the popular taste—to produce a tragic effect that satisfies the moral
sense. This effect is produced when the clever rogue, like Sisyphus, is
outwitted, or the brave villain defeated. Such an event is, moreover,
probable in Agathon’s sense of the word: ‘it is probable,’ he says,
‘that many things should happen contrary to probability’.”[77] Agathon
belongs to the class of playwrights who win popularity by bringing down
to the customary theatrical level the methods and ideas of a genius who
is himself too undiluted and strange for his contemporaries. Agathon’s
relation to Euripides resembles that of (let us say) Mr. St. John Hankin,
in his later work, to Ibsen. Of his literary style much the same may
be said. He loves to moralize on chance and probability and the queer
twists of human nature, with Euripides’ knack of neatness but without his
insight. Such things as
μόνου γὰρ αὐτοῦ καὶ θεὸς στερίσκεται,
ἀγένητα ποιεῖν ἅσσ’ ἂν ᾖ πεπραγμένα
“this alone is beyond the power even of God, to make undone that which
has been done,” and even the celebrated τέχνη τύχην ἔστερξε καὶ τύχη
τέχνην, “skill loves luck, and luck skill,” give the measure of his power
over epigram. His easy way of expressing simple ideas with admirable
neatness may remind us of a much greater dramatist—Terence, or, in later
times, of Marivaux.[78]
Plato tells us that he was a pupil both of Prodicus[79] and of
Gorgias,[80] the renowned sophists, and we may trace their teaching
in the fragments and in the remarkable speech which the greatest
stylist of all time puts into his mouth in the _Symposium_—the rhymes,
antitheses, quibbles, and verbal trickiness of argument. The parody,
both brilliant and careful, which Aristophanes presents at the opening
of his _Thesmophoriazusæ_ is directed chiefly perhaps against his music,
whereof we have no trace. The blunt auditor, Mnesilochus, describes
it as lascivious.[81] The words set to it read like a feeble copy of
Euripides—fluent, copious, nerveless, in spite of the “lathe,” the
“glue,” the “melting-pot,” and the “moulds”[82] over which his satirist
makes merry.
Agathon, then, marks unmistakably the beginning of decadence. The three
masters had exhausted the possibilities of the art open to that age.
A new impulse from without or the social emancipation of women might
have opened new paths of achievement. But no great external influence
was to come till Alexander, and then the result for Greece itself was
loss of independence and vigour. And the little that could be done with
women still in the harem or the slave-market was left to be performed by
Menander and his fellow-comedians.[83] Agathon made a valiant effort to
carry tragedy into new channels, but lacked the genius to leave more than
clever experiments.
On a lower plane of achievement stands CRITIAS, the famous leader of
the “Thirty Tyrants”. Two tragedies from his pen are known to us,
_Pirithous_[84] and _Sisyphus_, both at one time attributed to Euripides;
but he is too doctrinaire, too deficient in brilliant idiomatic ease, for
such a mistake to endure. The _Pirithous_ deals with Heracles’ descent
into Hades to rescue Theseus and to demand of Pluto Persephone’s hand
for Pirithous. Of this astounding story we find little trace in the
fragments, which are mostly quasi-philosophical dicta. For instance:—
A temper sound more stable is than law;
The one no politician’s eloquence
Can warp, but law by tricks of cunning words
Full often is corrupted and unhinged.
In strong contrast to these prosaic lines is Critias’ superb apostrophe
to the Creator, which may be paraphrased thus:—
From all time, O Lord, is thy being; neither is there any that
saith, This is my son.
All that is created, lo, thou hast woven the firmament about
it; the heavens revolve, and all that is therein spinneth like
a wheel.
Thou hast girded thyself with light; the gloom of dusk is about
thee, even as a garment of netted fire.
Stars without number dance around thee; they cease not, they
move in a measure through thy high places.
From the same hymn probably comes the majestic passage which tells of
“unwearied Time that in full flood ever begets himself, and the Great
Bear and the Less....”
In apparent contrast to this tone is the remarkable passage, of forty-two
lines, from the _Sisyphus_. It is a purely rationalistic account of
religion. First human life was utterly brutish: there were no rewards
for righteousness, no punishment of evil-doers. Then law was set up,
that justice might be sovereign; but this device only added furtiveness
to sin. Finally, “some man of shrewdness and wisdom ... introduced
religion” (or “the conception of God,” τὸ θεῖον), so that even in secret
the wicked might be restrained by fear. The contradiction between these
two plays is illusory: Critias combines with disbelief in the personal
Greek gods belief in an impersonal First Cause. It is too often forgotten
that among the “Thirty Tyrants” were men of strong religious principles.
The democratic writers of Athens loved to depict them as mercenary
butchers, but it is plain from the casual testimony of Lysias[85] that
they looked upon themselves as moral reformers. “They _said_ that it was
their business to purge the city of wicked men, and turn the rest of
the citizens to righteousness and self-restraint.” Such passages read
like quotations from men who would inaugurate a “rule of the saints,”
and if their severities surpassed those of the English Puritans, they
were themselves outdone by the cruelty which sternly moral leaders of
the French Revolution not only condoned but initiated. Critias was the
Athenian Robespierre. But the one revolution was the reverse of the
other. The _régime_ of the Thirty was a last violent effort of the
Athenian oligarchs to stem the tide of ochlocracy, to induce some
self-discipline into the freedom of Athens. They failed, and Critias was
justified on the field of Chæronea.
The most successful tragic playwright of the fourth century was
ASTYDAMAS, whose history furnishes good evidence that after the
disappearance of Euripides and Sophocles the Greek genius was incapable
of carrying tragedy into new developments. While prose could boast such
names as Plato and Demosthenes, the tragic art found no greater exponent
than this Astydamas, of whose numerous plays nothing is left save nine
odd lines. There were, moreover, two Astydamantes, father and son, whose
works (scarcely known save by name) it is difficult to distinguish. But
it seems that it was the son whose popularity was so great as to win him
fifteen first prizes and an honour before unknown. His _Parthenopæus_
won such applause in 340 B.C. that the Athenians set up a brazen statue
of the playwright in the theatre; it was not till ten years later that
the orator Lycurgus persuaded them to accord a like honour to the three
Masters. We learn from Aristotle[86] that Astydamas altered the story of
Alcmæon, causing him to slay his mother in ignorance; and Plutarch[87]
alludes to his _Hector_ as one of the greatest plays. He was nothing more
than a capable writer who caught the taste of his time, and probably owed
much of his popularity to the excellence of his actors.
Only one fact is known about POLYIDUS “the sophist,” but that is
sufficiently impressive. Aristotle twice[88] takes the Recognition-scene
in his _Iphigenia_ as an example, and in the second instance actually
compares the work of Polyidus with one of Euripides’ most wonderful
successes—the Recognition-scene in the _Iphigenia in Tauris_. It appears
that as Orestes was led away to slaughter he exclaimed: “Ah! So I was
fated, like my sister, to be sacrificed.” This catches the attention
of Iphigenia and saves his life. Polyidus here undoubtedly executed a
brilliant _coup de théâtre_.
During the fourth century many tragedians wrote not for public
performance but for readers. Of these ἀναγνωστικοί[89] the most
celebrated was CHÆREMON, of whom sufficient fragments and notices
survive to give a distinct literary portrait. Comic poets ridiculed his
preciosity: he called water “river’s body,” ivy “the year’s child,”
and loved word-play: πρὶν γὰρ φρονεῖν εὖ καταφρονεῖν ἐπίστασαι.[90]
But though a sophisticated attention to style led him into such frigid
mannerisms, he can express ideas with a brief Euripidean cogency: perhaps
nothing outside the work of the great masters was more often quoted in
antiquity than his dictum “Human life is luck, not discretion”—τύχη τὰ
θνητῶν πράγματ’, οὐκ εὐβουλία.
The only technical peculiarity attributed to him is the play _Centaur_,
if play it was. Athenæus calls it a “drama in many metres,”[91] while
Aristotle[92] uses the word “rhapsody,” implying epic quality. It may be
that the epic or narrative manner was used side by side with the dramatic
in the manner of Bunyan. Here is another proof that by the time of
Euripides tragedy had really attained its full development. Attempts at
new departures in technique are all abortive after his day.
A delightful point which emerges again and again is Chæremon’s passion
for flowers. From _Thyestes_ come two phrases—“the sheen of roses mingled
with silver lilies,” and “strewing around the children of flowering
spring”—which indicate, as do many others, Chæremon’s love of colour and
sensuous loveliness. It was his desire to express all the details of what
pleased his eye that led him into preciosity—a laboured embroidery which
recalls Keats’ less happy efforts. But he can go beyond mere mannerism. A
splendid fragment of his _Œneus_ shows Chæremon at his best: it describes
the half-nude beauty of girls sleeping in the moonlight. One can hardly
believe that Chæremon belonged to the fourth century and was studied by
Aristotle. In this passage, despite its voluptuous dilettantism, there
is a sense of physical beauty, above all of colour and sensuous detail,
which was unknown since Pindar, and is not to be found again, even in
Theocritus, till we come to the Greek novelists. In one marvellous
sentence, too, he passes beyond mere prettiness to poetry, expressing
with perfect mastery the truth that the sight of beauty is the surest
incentive to chastity: κἀξεπεσφραγίζετο ὥρας γελώσης χωρὶς ἐλπίδων ἔρως:—
Love, his passion quelled by awe,
Printed his smiling soul on all he saw.
It is the idea which Meredith has voiced so magically in _Love in the
Valley_:—
Love that so desires would fain keep her changeless,
Fain would fling the net, and fain have her free.
That Greek literature has progressed far towards the self-conscious
Alexandrian search for charm can nevertheless be observed if we
compare this passage from Chæremon with the analogous description
in Euripides’ _Bacchæ_[93] (which no doubt suggested it). There the
same general impression, and far more “atmosphere,” is given with no
voluptuous details: θαῦμ’ ἰδεῖν εὐκοσμίας—“a marvel of grace for the
eye to behold”—is his nearest approach to Chæremon’s elaboration. If,
as has been well said,[94] one may compare the three Masters to Giotto,
Raffaelle, and Correggio respectively, then Chæremon finds his parallel
among the French painters; he reminds one not so much of the handsome
sensuality of Boucher as of that more seductive _simplesse_ in which
Greuze excelled.
A curious figure in this history is DIONYSIUS the Elder, tyrant of
Syracuse from 405-367 B.C. Like Frederick the Great of Prussia, not
satisfied with political and military glory, he aspired to literary
triumphs. With a pathetic hero-worship he purchased and treasured the
desk of Æschylus, and similar objects which had belonged to Euripides,
hoping (says Lucian[95]) to gain inspiration from them. The prince
frequently tried his fortune at the dramatic contests in Athens, but for
long without success, and naturally became a butt of the Attic wits, who
particularly relished his moral aphorisms (such as “tyranny is the mother
of injustice”!); Eubulus devoted a whole comedy to his tragic _confrère_.
In 367 B.C. he heard with joy that at last the first prize had fallen to
him at the Lenæa for _Hector’s Ransom_; gossip said that his death in the
same year was due to the paroxysms of gratified vanity. Little is known
about the contents of his dramas, but we hear that one play was an attack
upon the philosopher Plato. In other works, too, he appears to have
discussed his personal interests. Lucian preserves the bald verse:—
Doris, Dionysius’ spouse, has passed away,
and the astonishing remark:—
Alas! alas! a useful wife I’ve lost.
But one may be misjudging him. Perhaps by “useful” (χρησίμην) he meant
“good” (χρηστήν); Dionysius had a curious fad for using words, not in
their accepted sense, but according to real or fancied etymology.[96]
Ancient critics set great store by CARCINUS, the most distinguished of a
family long connected with the theatre. One hundred and sixty plays are
attributed to him, and eleven victories. He spent some time at the court
of the younger Dionysius, the Syracusan tyrant, and his longest fragment
deals with the Sicilian worship of Demeter and Persephone. We possess
certain interesting facts about his plots. Aristotle[97] as an instance
of the first type of Recognition—that by signs—mentions among those which
are congenital “the stars introduced by Carcinus in his _Thyestes_”
(evidently birthmarks). More striking is a later paragraph:[98] “In
constructing the plot and working it out with the proper diction, the
poet should place the scene, as far as possible, before his eyes.... The
need of such a rule is shown by the fault found in Carcinus. Amphiaraus
was on his way from the temple. This fact escaped the observation of one
who did not see the situation. On the stage, however, the piece failed,
the audience being offended at the oversight.” This shows incidentally
how little assistance an ancient dramatist obtained from that now
vital collaborator, the rehearsal. In the _Medea_[99] of Carcinus the
heroine, unlike the Euripidean, did not slay her children but sent them
away. Their disappearance caused the Corinthians to accuse her of their
murder, and she defended herself by an ingenious piece of rhetorical
logic: “Suppose that I _had_ killed them. Then it would have been a
blunder not to slay their father Jason also. This you know I have not
done. Hence I have not murdered my children either.” Just as Carcinus
there smoothed away what was felt to be too dreadful in Euripides, so in
_Œdipus_ he appears[100] to have dealt with the improbabilities which
cling to _Œdipus Tyrannus_. He excelled, moreover, in the portrayal of
passion: Cercyon, struggling with horrified grief in Carcinus’ _Alope_,
is cited by Aristotle.[101] The _Ærope_ too had sensational success.
That bloodthirsty savage Alexander, tyrant of Pheræ, was so moved by the
emotion wherewith the actor Theodorus performed his part, that he burst
into tears.[102]
Two points in his actual fragments strike a modern reader. The first
is a curious flatness of style noticeable in the one fairly long
passage; every word seems to be a second-best. The opening lines will be
sufficient:—
λέγουσι Δήμητρός ποτ’ ἄρρητον κόρην
Πλούτωνα κρυφίοις ἁρπάσαι βουλεύμασι,
δῦναί τε γαίας εἰς μελαμφαεῖς μυχούς.
πόθῳ δὲ μητέρ’ ἠφανισμένης κόρης
μαστῆρ’ ἐπελθεῖν πᾶσαν ἐν κύκλῳ χθόνα.
To turn from this dingy verbiage to his amazing brilliance in epigram
is like passing from an auctioneer’s showroom into a lighthouse. (The
difference, we note, is between narrative and “rhetoric”.) Such a
sentence as οὐδεὶς ἔπαινον ἡδοναῖς ἐκτήσατο (“no man ever won praise by
his pleasures”) positively bewilders by its glitter. It is perhaps not
absolutely perfect: its miraculous ease might allow a careless reader to
pass it by; but that is a defect which Carcinus shares with most masters
of epigram, notably with Terence and Congreve. More substantial is the
wit of this fragment:—
χαίρω σ’ ὁρῶν φθονοῦντα, τοῦτ’ εἰδώς, ὅτι
ἓν δρᾷ μόνον δίκαιον ὧν ποιεῖ φθόνος·
λυπεῖ γὰρ αὐτόχρημα τοὺς κεκτημένους.
“I rejoice to see that you harbour spite, for I know that of all its
effects there is one that is just—it straightway stings those who cherish
it.” One notices the exquisite skill which has inserted the second line,
serving admirably to prepare for and throw into relief the vigorous third
verse.
THEODECTES of Phaselis enjoyed a brilliant career. During his forty-one
years he was a pupil of Plato, Isocrates, and Aristotle, obtained great
distinction as an orator (Cicero[103] praises him), produced fifty plays,
and obtained the first prize at eight of the thirteen contests in which
he competed. Alexander the Great decked his statue with garlands in
memory of the days when they had studied together under Aristotle. That
philosopher quotes him several times, and in particular pays Theodectes
the high honour of coupling him with Sophocles; the examples which he
gives[104] of _peripeteia_ are the _Œdipus Tyrannus_ and the _Lynceus_ of
Theodectes. The same drama is used[105] to exemplify another vital point,
the difference between Complication and _Dénouement_.
He was doubtless a brilliantly able man and a popular dramatist with
a notable talent for concocting plots. But all that we can now see in
his remains is a feeble copy of Euripides, though he was, to be sure,
audacious enough to place Philoctetes’ wound in the hand instead of
the foot—for the sake of gracefulness, one may imagine. For the rest,
we possess a curious speech made by some one ignorant of letters, who
describes[106] as a picture the name “Theseus”—this idea is taken bodily
from Euripides—and sundry sententious remarks, one of which surely
deserves immortality as reaching the limit of pompous common-place:—
Widely through Greece hath this tradition spread
O aged man, and ancient is the saw:
The hap of mortals is uncertain ever.
Mention should be made of DIOGENES and CRATES the philosophers, who wrote
plays not for production, but for the study, as propagandist pamphlets.
They may none the less have been excellent plays, like the _Justice_ of
Mr. Galsworthy. Very little remains on which an opinion can be founded.
One vigorous line of Diogenes catches the attention: “I would rather have
a drop of luck than a barrel of brains”.[107]
A more remarkable dramatist was MOSCHION, whose precise importance it
is hard to estimate, though he is deeply interesting to the historian
of tragedy. For on the one hand, he was probably not popular—nothing
is known of his life,[108] and Stobæus is practically the only writer
who quotes him. On the other hand, he is the one Greek poet known to
have practised definitely the historical type of drama. Moschion is of
course not alone in selecting actual events for his theme. Long before
his day Phrynichus had produced his _Phœnissæ_ and _The Capture of
Miletus_, Æschylus his _Persæ_; and his contemporary Theodectes composed
a tragedy _Mausolus_ in glorification of the deceased king of Caria.
But all four were _pièces d’occasion_. Moschion alone practised genuine
historical drama: he went according to custom into the past for his
material, but chose great events of real history, not legend.[109] His
_Themistocles_ dealt with the battle of Salamis; we possess one brief
remnant thereof, in which (as it seems) a messenger compares the victory
of the small Greek force to the devastation wrought by a small axe in a
great pine-forest. _The Men of Pheræ_ appears[110] to have depicted the
brutality of Alexander, prince of Pheræ, who refused burial to Polyphron.
These “burial-passages” include Moschion’s most remarkable fragment,
a fine description in thirty-three lines describing the rise of
civilization. The versification is undesirably smooth—throughout there
is not a single resolved foot. Like a circumspect rationalist, Moschion
offers three alternative reasons, favouring none, for the progress
made by man: some great teacher such as Prometheus, the Law of Nature
(ἀνάγκη), the long slow experience (τριβή) of the whole race. His style
here is vigorous but uneven; after dignified lines which somewhat recall
Æschylus we find a sudden drop to bald prose: ὁ δ’ ἀσθενὴς ἦν τῶν
ἀμεινόνων βορά:[111] “the weak were the food of the strong”.
It is convenient to mention here a remarkable satyric drama, produced
about 324 B.C., the _Agen_,[112] of which seventeen consecutive lines
survive. This play was produced during the Dionysiac festival in the camp
of Alexander on the banks of the Hydaspes or Jhelum, in the Punjaub. Its
subject was the escapades of Harpalus, who had revolted from Alexander
and fled to Athens. The author is said[113] to have been either Python
of Catana or Byzantium, or the Great Alexander himself. No doubt it was
an elaborate “squib” full of racy topical allusions. Were it not that
Athenæus calls it a “satyric playlet”[114] we might take the fragment
as part of a comedy. But about this time satyric drama tended to become
a form of personal attack—a dramatic “satire”. Thus one Mimnermus,
whose date is unknown, wrote a play against doctors[115]; Lycophron and
Sositheus, both members of the Alexandrian “Pleiad,” attacked individual
philosophers, the former writing a _Menedemus_ which satirized the
gluttony and drunkenness of the amiable founder of the Eretrian school,
the latter ridiculing the disciples whom the “folly of Cleanthes”
drove like cattle—an insult which the audience resented and damned the
play.[116]
The third century saw a great efflorescence of theatrical activity in
Alexandria. Under Ptolemy II (285-247 B.C.), that city became the centre
of world-culture as it already was of commerce. All artistic forms were
protected and rewarded with imperial liberality. The great library
became one of the wonders of the world, and the Dionysiac festivals
were performed with sedulous magnificence. Among the many writers of
tragedy seven were looked on as forming a class by themselves—the famous
Pleiad (“The Constellation of Seven”). Only five names of these are
certain—Philiscus, Homerus, Alexander, Lycophron, and Sositheus; for
the other two “chairs” various names are found in our authorities:
Sosiphanes, Dionysiades, Æantides, Euphronius. Nor can we be sure that
all these men worked at Alexandria.[117] That the splendour of the city
and Ptolemy’s magnificent patronage should have drawn the leading men of
art, letters, and science to the world’s centre, is a natural assumption
and indeed the fact: Theocritus the idyllist, Euclid the geometer,
Callimachus the poet and scholar, certainly lived there. Of the Pleiad,
only three are known to have worked in Alexandria: Lycophron, to whom
Ptolemy entrusted that section of the royal library which embraced
Comedy, Alexander, who superintended Tragedy, and Philiscus the priest
of Dionysus. Homerus may have passed all his career in Byzantium, which
later possessed a statue of him, and Sositheus was apparently active at
Athens.
LYCOPHRON’S _Menedemus_ has already been mentioned. His fame now rests
upon the extant poem _Alexandra_, in high repute both in ancient and in
modern times for its obscurity. But SOSITHEUS is the most interesting of
the galaxy. We may still read twenty-one lines from his satyric drama
_Daphnis_ or _Lityerses_, describing with grim vigour the ghoulish
harvester Lityerses who made his visitors reap with him, finally
beheading them and binding up the corpses in sheaves. Sositheus made his
mark, indeed, less in tragedy than in satyric writing: he turned from
the tendency of his day which made this genre a form of satire, and went
back to the antique manner. SOSIPHANES, finally, deserves mention for a
remarkable fragment:—
ὦ δυστυχεῖς μὲν πολλά, παῦρα δ’ ὄλβιοι
βροτοί, τί σεμνύνεσθε ταῖς ἐξουσίαις,
ἃς ἕν τ’ ἔδωκε φέγγος ἕν τ’ ἀφείλετο;
ἢν δ’ εὐτυχῆτε, μηδὲν ὄντες εὐθέως
ἴσ’ οὐρανῷ φρονεῖτε, τὸν δὲ κύριον
Αἵδην παρεστῶτ’ οὐχ ὁρᾶτε πλησίον.
“O mortal men, whose misery is so manifold, whose joys so few, why plume
yourselves on power which one day gives and one day destroys? If ye find
prosperity, straightway, though ye are naught, your pride rises high
as heaven, and ye see not your master death at your elbow”—a curiously
close parallel with the celebrated outburst in _Measure for Measure_. We
observe the Euripidean versification, though Sosiphanes “flourished” two
centuries[118] after the master’s birth, and though between the two, in
men like Moschion, Carcinus, and Chæremon, we find distinct flatness of
versification. The fourth-century poets, however second-rate, were still
working with originality of style: Sosiphanes belongs to an age which
has begun not so much to respect as to worship the great models. He sets
himself to copy Euripides, and his iambics are naturally “better” than
Moschion’s, as are those written by numerous able scholars of our own day.
After the era of the Pleiad, Greek tragedy for us to all intents and
purposes comes to an end. New dramas seem to have been produced down to
the time of Hadrian, who died in A.D. 138, and theatrical entertainments
were immensely popular throughout later antiquity, as vase-paintings
show, besides countless allusions in literature. But our fragments are
exceedingly meagre. One tragedy has been preserved by its subject—the
famous _Christus Patiens_ (Χριστὸς Πάσχων), which portrayed the Passion.
It is the longest and the worst of all Greek plays, and consists largely
of a repellent _cento_—snippets from Euripides pieced together and eked
out by bad iambics of the author’s own. The result is traditionally, but
wrongly, attributed to Gregory of Nazianzus (born probably in A.D. 330).
Its only value is that it is often useful in determining the text of
Euripides. It would be useless to enumerate all the poetasters of these
later centuries whose names are recorded.
* * * * *
In this chapter we have constantly referred to the _Poetic_ of Aristotle,
and it will be well at this point to summarize his view of the nature,
parts, and aim of tragedy. Before doing so, however, we must be clear
upon two points: the standpoint of his criticism and the value of his
evidence. It was long the habit to take this work as a kind of Bible of
poetical criticism, to accept with blind devotion any statements made
therein, or even alleged[119] to be made therein, as constituting rules
for all playwrights for ever. Now, as to the former point, the nature
of his criticism, it is simply to explain how good tragedies were as a
fact written. He takes the work of contemporary and earlier playwrights,
and in the light of this, together with his own strong common sense,
æsthetic sensibility, and private temperament, tells how he himself (for
example) would write a tragedy. On the one hand, could he have read
_Macbeth_ then, he would have condemned it; on the other, could he read
it now as a modern man, he would approve it. As to the second point, the
value of his evidence, we must distinguish carefully between the facts
which he reports and his comment thereon. The latter we should study with
the respect due to his vast merits; but he is not infallible. When, for
instance, he writes that “even a woman may be good, and also a slave;
though the woman may be said to be an inferior being, and the slave quite
worthless,”[120] and blames Euripides because “Iphigenia the suppliant
in no way resembles her later self,”[121] we shall regard him less as
helping us than as dating himself. But as to the objective facts which
he records he must be looked on as for us infallible.[122] He lived in
or close to the periods of which he writes; he commanded a vast array of
documents now lost to us; he was strongly desirous of ascertaining the
facts; his temperament and method were keenly scientific, his industry
prodigious. We may, and should, discuss his opinions; his facts we cannot
dispute. The reader will be able to appreciate for himself the statement
which follows.
Aristotle’s definition of tragedy runs thus: “Tragedy, then, is an
imitation of an action that is serious, complete, and of a certain
magnitude; in language embellished with each kind of artistic ornament,
the several kinds being found in separate parts of the play; in the form
of action, not of narrative; through pity and fear effecting the proper
purgation of these emotions”.[123] Adequate discussion of this celebrated
passage is here impossible; only two points can be made. Firstly, the
definition plainly applies to Greek Tragedy alone and as understood by
Aristotle: we observe the omission of what seems to us vital—the fact
that tragedy depicts the collision of opposing principles as conveyed by
the collision of personalities—and the insertion of Greek peculiarities
since, as he goes on to explain, by “language embellished” he means
language which includes song. Secondly, the famous dictum concerning
“purgation” (_catharsis_) is now generally understood as meaning, not
“purification” or “edification” of our pity and fear, but as a medical
metaphor signifying that these emotions are purged out of our spirit.
Further light on the nature of tragedy he gives by comparing it with
three other classes of literature. “Comedy aims at representing men as
worse, Tragedy as better than in actual life.”[124] In another place he
contrasts tragedy with history: “It is not the function of the poet to
relate what has happened, but what may happen—what is possible according
to the law of probability or necessity. The poet and the historian differ
not by writing in verse or in prose.... The true difference is that one
relates what has happened, the other what may happen. Poetry, therefore,
is a more philosophical and a higher thing than history: for poetry tends
to express the universal, history the particular.”[125] Our imperfect
text of the treatise ends with a more elaborate comparison between
Tragedy and Epic, wherein Aristotle combats the contemporary view[126]
that “epic poetry is addressed to a cultivated audience, who do not need
gesture; Tragedy to an inferior public. Being then unrefined, it is
evidently the lower of the two.” His own verdict is that, since tragedy
has all the epic elements, adds to these music and scenic effects, shows
vividness in reading as well as in representation, attains its end within
narrower limits, and shows greater unity of effect, it is the higher
art.[127]
In various portions of the _Poetic_ he gives us the features of Tragedy,
following three independent lines of analysis:—
§ I. On the æsthetic line he discusses the _elements_ of a tragedy: plot,
character, thought, diction, scenery, and song. Of the last three he has
little to say. But on one of them he makes an interesting remark. “Third
in order is Thought—that is, the faculty of saying what is possible
and pertinent in given circumstances.... The older poets made their
characters speak the language of civic life; the poets of our time, the
language of the rhetoricians.”[128] This prophesies from afar of Seneca
and his like. As for character, it must be good, appropriate, true to
life, and consistent.
Concerning Plot, which he rightly calls “the soul of a tragedy,”[129]
Aristotle is of course far more copious. The salient points alone can be
set down here:—
(_a_) “The proper magnitude is comprised within such limits, that the
sequence of events, according to the law of probability or necessity,
will admit of a change from bad fortune to good, or from good fortune to
bad.”[130]
(_b_) “The plot ... must imitate one action and that a whole, the
structural union of the parts being such that if anyone of them is
displaced or removed, the whole will be disjointed and disturbed.”[131]
A tragedy must be an organism. It therefore follows that “of all plots
and actions the episodic are the worst ... in which the episodes or acts
succeed one another without probable or necessary sequence”.[132] He is
recommending the “Unity of Action”.
(_c_) “Plots are either Simple or Complex.... An action ... I call
Simple, when the change of fortune takes place without Reversal (or
Recoil) of the Action and without Recognition. A Complex Action is one
in which the change is accompanied by such Reversal, or by Recognition,
or by both.”[133] Reversal we shall meet again. By Recognition Aristotle
means not merely such Recognition-scenes as we find in the crisis of
the _Iphigenia in Tauris_ (though such are the best) but “a change from
ignorance to knowledge, producing love or hate between the persons
destined by the poet for good or bad fortune”.[134]
(_d_) “Two parts, then, of the plot—Reversal and Recognition—turn upon
surprises. A third part is the Tragic Incident. The Tragic Incident is a
distinctive or painful action, such as death on the stage, bodily agony,
wounds, and the like.”[135] In the words “death on the stage”—or “before
the audience” (the phrase[136] has no bearing on the stage-controversy),
Aristotle casually but completely overthrows another critical convention,
that in ancient Tragedy deaths take place only “behind the scenes”. In
the extant plays, not only do Alcestis and Hippolytus “die on the stage”
in their litters, but Ajax falls upon his sword.
(_e_) The best subject of Tragedy is the change from good fortune to
bad in the life of some eminent man not conspicuously good and just,
whose misfortune, however, is due not to wickedness but to some error or
weakness.[137]
(_f_) The poet “may not indeed destroy the framework of the received
legends—the fact, for instance, that Clytæmnestra was slain by Orestes
and Eriphyle by Alcmæon—but he ought to show invention of his own, and
skilfully handle the traditional material”.[138] This injunction was
obeyed beforehand by all the three Athenian masters; it is especially
important to remember it when studying Euripides.
(_g_) “The unravelling of the plot ... must arise out of the plot
itself; it must not be brought about by the _Deus ex Machina_, as in
the Medea.... The _Deus ex Machina_ should be employed only for events
external to the drama—for antecedent or subsequent events, which lie
beyond the range of human knowledge.”[139] This vital criticism will be
considered later, when we discuss the _Philoctetes_[140] of Sophocles and
the Euripidean drama.[141]
(_h_) “Within the action there must be nothing irrational. If the
irrational cannot be excluded, it should be outside the scope of the
tragedy. Such is the irrational element in the Œdipus of Sophocles.”[142]
Aristotle means certain strange _data_ in the _Œdipus Tyrannus_—the fact
that neither Œdipus nor Jocasta has learnt earlier about the past, and so
forth.
§ II. On the purely literary line he tells us the parts:—[143]
(_a_) “The Prologos is that entire part of a tragedy which precedes the
Parodos of the chorus” (see below for the Parodos). Thus a drama may have
no “prologos” at all, for example the _Persæ_. The implications of our
word “prologue” are derived from the practice of Euripides, who is fond
of giving in his “prologos” an account of events which have led up to the
action about to be displayed.
(_b_) “The Episode is that entire part of a tragedy which is between
complete choric songs.” “Episodes” then are what we call “acts”: the name
has already been explained.[144]
(_c_) “The Exodos is that entire part of a tragedy which has no choric
song after it.” The few anapæsts which close most tragedies are not
“choric songs”—they were performed in recitative. Thus the Exodos is
simply the last act.
(_d_) “Of the choric part the Parodos is the first undivided utterance of
the chorus: the Stasimon is a choric ode without anapæsts or trochees:
the Commos is a joint lamentation of chorus and actors.” It will be seen
later[145] that by excluding trochees he probably means the trochaic
tetrameter as seen in dialogue; lyric trochees are very common.
§ III. On the strictly dramatic line he tells us the _stages of
structural development_.
(_a_) “Every tragedy falls into two parts—Complication and Unravelling
(or _Dénouement_).... By the Complication I mean all that comes between
the beginning of the action and the part which marks the turning-point
to good or bad fortune. The Unravelling is that which comes between the
beginning of the change and the end.”[146]
(_b_) “Reversal (or Recoil, Peripeteia) is a change by which a train of
action produces the opposite of the effect intended, subject always to
our rule of probability or necessity. Thus in the Œdipus, the messenger
comes to cheer Œdipus and free him from his alarms about his mother, but,
by revealing who he is, he produces the opposite effect.”[147]
Much might be written on this analysis of dramatic structure. One remark
at least must be made. It is not plain how much importance Aristotle
allots to the Recoil or Peripeteia. We have seen that he did not regard
it as indispensable. At the most he seems to think it a striking way
of starting the _dénouement_. It is better to look upon it, and the
action which leads up to it, as a separate part of the drama—and it may
be argued that every tragedy, if not every comedy, has a Peripeteia—to
form, in fact, that middle stage which elsewhere[148] in the _Poetic_ he
mentions as necessary.
CHAPTER II
THE GREEK THEATRE AND THE PRODUCTION OF PLAYS
I. THE OCCASIONS OF PERFORMANCE
Greek drama was looked upon not only as a form of entertainment and
culture, but as an act of worship offered to the god Dionysus. It was,
in consequence, restricted to his festivals; performances of a quite
secular character are unknown. Three Attic festivals are connected with
the tragic drama: the City Dionysia, the Lenæa, the Rural Dionysia. The
City or Great Dionysia were the most splendid of the three, held in
the precinct of Dionysus Eleuthereus on the south-eastern slope of the
Acropolis, where the ruined theatre still lies. Tragedies, comedies, and
dithyrambs were performed, but of these tragedy was the most important.
The time was the month of Elaphebolion (March to April). The Lenæa or
“Wine-Press Festival” which occurred in Gamelion (January to February)
was the great occasion for comedy, though tragedies were also to be seen.
It was held at first in the Lenæon, a sacred enclosure, the site of which
is still uncertain, later in the same theatre as tragedy. The Rural
Dionysia fell in Poseideon (December to January), and were celebrated by
the various Attic townships, especially the Peiræus; most of the dramas
performed were probably such as had been successful in Athens itself;
companies of actors travelled about the country for this purpose.
Of these three celebrations the City Dionysia were the most important
for tragedy. The tyrant Pisistratus greatly increased the splendour of
this festival and instituted the tragic contest. Each year during the
fifth century three tragedians submitted each a tetralogy, and five
comedians one play apiece. Tragedies were given in the mornings, comedies
in the afternoon, and the celebration continued for at least five days.
II. THE BUILDINGS
Since the performance was a state-function, the whole nation was
theoretically expected to be present, and in point of fact enormous
audiences attended: the great theatre accommodated perhaps 30,000[149]
spectators. This fact governs the nature of the whole presentation. The
theatre could not be roofed, and the acting therefore differed greatly
from that customary in modern buildings.
A Greek theatre consisted of three parts—the auditorium, the orchestra,
and the “stage-buildings”. The heart of the whole is the orchestra or
“dancing-ground” (ὀρχήστρα) upon which the chorus, throughout the action,
were stationed—a circular area of beaten earth, later paved with marble.
Beside the altar in this orchestra stood, in the earliest days of the
theatre, the sacrificial table upon which the single actor mounted.
This table in the fixed theatre is the descendant of the waggon from
which the peripatetic actor of Thespis delivered his lines. In addition
to the celebrants the passive worshippers were needed—the audience.
Therefore the orchestra was placed at the bottom of a slope; and the
spectators stood or sat on the higher ground. On the farther side rose
the “stage-buildings,” whatever from time to time they were. The general
plan, then, of any Greek theatre was this:—
[Illustration]
A is the circular orchestra, B the altar (θυμέλη) of Dionysus which
invariably stood in the middle of it. C represents the “stage-buildings”;
D, E, F, are the doors which led from the building to the open air. The
building usually projected into side-wings (G, G), called παρασκήνια. H,
H, are the passage-ways (πάροδοι), by which the chorus generally entered
the orchestra, and by which the audience always made its way to the
seats. J, J, J, is the auditorium, a vast horseshoe-shaped space rising
up a hillside from the orchestra, and filled with benches. This space
was intersected by gangways,[150] K, K, L, L, etc., called, perhaps,
κλίμακες; the areas M, M, N, N, etc., so formed, had the name “pegs”
(κερκίδες). In most theatres a longitudinal gallery O, O, O, was made
for further convenience in getting to the seats. In the strictly Greek
type the front line of “stage-buildings” never encroached on the circle
of the orchestra. But these theatres were used in Roman times also, and
altered to suit certain needs. The front of C was thrown forward so that
it cut into the orchestra and obliterated the passages H, H. To replace
these, entrances were tunnelled through the auditorium. Thus at Athens
the orchestra is now only little more than a semicircle, though amid
the ruins of the “stage-buildings” can still be seen a few feet of the
kerbstone which surrounded the original dancing floor—the only surviving
remnants of the Æschylean theatre; this masonry shows that the diameter
of the whole was about 90 feet.
The “stage-buildings,” as we have called them for convenience, require
a longer discussion. Originally there stood in that place only a tent,
called _scēnē_ (σκηνή), which took no part in the theatrical illusion,
but was used by the one actor simply as a dressing-room. Soon, no doubt,
came the important advance of employing it as “scenery”—the tent of
Agamemnon before Troy, for example. Later a wooden booth was erected, and
Sophocles’ invention of scene-painting—that is, of concealing this booth
with canvas to represent whatever place or building was needed—added
enormously to the playwright’s resources. This booth was afterwards built
of stone and became more and more elaborate; Roman “stage-buildings”
survive which are admirable pieces of dignified architecture. The
building of course contained dressing-rooms and property-rooms. There
were doors at the narrow ends. The front of the building was pierced by
three, later by five, doors.
Upon what did these doors open? Was there a stage in the Greek theatre?
This problem has aroused more discussion than any other in Greek
scholarship save the “Homeric Question”. That all theatres possessed a
stage (λογεῖον) in Roman times is certain; the Athenian building—which
in its present condition dates from the alterations made by Phædrus in
the third century after Christ—shows quite obviously the front wall of
a stage about 4½ feet high. But did the dramatists of the fifth and
fourth centuries before Christ write for a theatre with a stage or not?
There is a good deal of _prima-facie_ evidence for a stage, and a good
deal to show that the actors moved to and fro on that segment of the
orchestra nearest to the booth. That is, the question lies between
acting on top of the proscenium (or decorated wall joining the faces of
the _parascenia_ G, G) and acting in front of it. A brief _résumé_[151]
of the evidence is all that can be attempted here. It is confined to the
consideration of the fifth and fourth centuries B.C., to which belongs
practically all the extant work. For the period after 300 B.C. the use of
a stage seems indisputable.
A. ARGUMENTS FOR A STAGE
§ 1. _A High Stage._—Vitruvius, the Roman architect, who wrote at the end
of the first century B.C., in his directions for building a Greek theatre
says: “Among the Greeks the orchestra is wider, the back scene is farther
from the audience, and the stage is narrower.[152] This latter they call
_logeion_ (speaking-place), because the actors of tragedy and comedy
perform there close to the back scene, while the other artistes play
in the ambit of the orchestra, wherefore the two classes of performer
are called _scænici_ and _thymelici_ respectively.” [Literally, “those
connected with the booth” and “those connected with the central altar”.]
“This _logeion_ should be not less than 10, and not more than 12, feet
in height.”[153] This, says Dörpfeld, applies to the Greek theatre of
Vitruvius’ own time, but has been extended by modern writers to the fifth
century. Supposing, however, that Vitruvius was thinking of the fifth
century, then:—
(_a_) The stage is too narrow for performances, viz. 2·50 to 3 mètres,
from which 1 mètre must be subtracted for the background. The remaining
space is not enough for actors and mutes, not to mention any combined
action of players and chorus.
(_b_) It is also too high. Many passages in the plays show that chorus
and actors are on the same level; in all these cases the chorus would
have to mount steps, or the actors descend. This is absurdly awkward;
nor is there evidence for steps. An attempt has been made[154] to meet
the difficulties by the assumption of another platform about half the
height of the stage, erected on the orchestra for the chorus. But the
various objections to such a subsidiary platform are so strong that it is
no longer believed in. With it, however disappears the only way by which
plays with a chorus could be performed on the high stage of Vitruvius.
§ 2. _A Low Stage._—Many scholars, abandoning Vitruvius as evidence for
the fifth century, postulate a low stage. Their arguments are:—[155]
(_a_) Aristotle in the fourth century calls the songs of the actors τὰ
ἀπὸ τῆς σκηνῆς, and says that the actor performed ἐπὶ τῆς σκηνῆς, phrases
which seem to mean “from the stage” and “on the stage” respectively.
And though Dörpfeld would take σκηνή as “background” (not “stage”)
translating Aristotle’s phrases by “from the background” and “at the
background,” there remains the difficulty that Aristotle plainly thinks
of actors and chorus as occupying quite distinct stations, which scarcely
suggests that they move on contiguous portions of the same ground.
(_b_) The side-wings or _parascenia_ must have been meant to enclose a
stage. What else could have been their use?
(_c_) There are five phrases used by Aristophanes. Three times[156] an
actor, on approaching other actors, is said to “come up”; twice[157] he
is said to “go down”. Nothing in the context implies raised ground as
needed by the drama, so that we seem forced to refer these expressions to
the visible stage itself. Dörpfeld and others would translate these two
verbs by “come here” and “go away”; but there is no evidence for these
meanings.
(_d_) The existing plays throw incidental light on the problem:—
(i) Certain characters[158] complain of the steepness of their path as
they first come before the audience. Do they not refer to an actual
ascent from orchestra to stage?
(ii) Ghosts sometimes appear. How can they have ascended out of “the
ground” unless action took place on a raised area? This argument is,
however, not strong. In later theatres such spectres did rise from below.
But in the fifth century they may well have walked in.
(iii) A more striking[159] argument is that on several occasions the
chorus, though it has excellent reason to enter the back scene, remains
inert. In the _Agamemnon_ the elders talk of rushing to the king’s aid; a
similar thing happens in the _Medea_; there are a number of such strange
features. The inference is that there was a stage, to mount which would
have appeared odd.
(iv) A stage was needed to make the actors visible, instead of being
hidden by the chorus.[160] But, though there is no evidence that the
chorus grouped themselves about the orchestra (as in the performances at
Bradfield College), and they apparently stood in rows facing the actors,
they could have been placed far forward enough to enable all to see the
actors. Anyone who has visited a circus will appreciate this.
(v) Plato[161] remarks that Agathon and his actors appeared on an
ὀκρίβας, a “platform”. But the word suggests a slight structure: Dörpfeld
objects that this appearance was probably in the Odeum, or Music Hall,
not the Theatre of Dionysus; if it was in the theatre, the passage rather
tells against a stage, for a temporary platform would not have been used
if there was a stage.
(vi) Horace[162] says that “Æschylus gave his modest stage a floor of
beams” or “gave the stage a floor of moderate-sized beams”. Dörpfeld
alleges (without evidence) that _pulpitum_ (translated “stage” in the
last sentence) may mean “booth,” and suggests that the poet assumes a
stage as matter of course: he is marking the advance made by Æschylus
upon Thespis, who (according to Horace himself), performed his plays
upon a waggon. But the proper answer is surely that Horace is regularly
unreliable when he deals with questions of Greek scholarship, and that
he is no doubt arbitrarily combining his knowledge of contemporary Greek
theatres with his knowledge that Æschylus advanced in theatrical matters
beyond Thespis.
Such are the main arguments in favour of a stage in the fifth and fourth
centuries before Christ.
B. ARGUMENTS AGAINST A STAGE
(i) The evidence of the extant dramas. This, already adduced by many
to prove that a stage was used, is taken by Dörpfeld[163] as “showing
unmistakably that no separation existed between chorus and actors, that
on the contrary both played on the same area”. He refers to action where
people pass between house and orchestra with no apparent difficulty or
hesitation. The chorus enter from the “palace” in the _Choephorœ_, the
_Eumenides_, and Euripides’ _Phaethon_; the chorus of huntsmen enter it
in the _Hippolytus_. There are other probable or possible instances.
Particularly noteworthy is the fact that in _Helena_ the chorus in the
midst of the play enter the building, and later reappear from it.
(ii) The tradition in later writers. It is true, says Dörpfeld, that we
have no express assertion that there was no stage—it never occurred to
the older writers to say so, for they knew of no such thing. The later
writers imply that there was none. Timæus,[164] commenting on ὀκρίβας,
says: “for there was not yet a _thymele_”. _Thymele_ there means “stage”.
Several late writers tell us that the Roman _logeion_ (“speaking-place”
or “stage”) was once called “orchestra”: this supports the view that the
stage is part of the old orchestra, higher than the other portion (see
below). The scholiast on _Prometheus Vinctus_, 128, remarks: “They (the
chorus) say this as they hover in the air on the machine; for it would
be absurd for them to converse from below [_i.e._ from the orchestra] to
one aloft”. Now, the pro-stage theory makes all choruses do this. The
scholiast on Aristophanes’ _Wasps_, 1342, writes: “The old man stands
on a certain height (ἐπί τινος μετεώρου) as he summons the girl”. The
word “certain” (τινός) implies that he knew nothing of a regular stage.
Finally, if there was a definite and regular difference of position
between actors and chorus, is it not astonishing (_a_) that there is in
Greek literature no certain allusion to the fact, (_b_) that the older
literature contains no word for the stage, the place where the acting
was performed being referred to merely by reference to the _booth_ (ἐπὶ
σκηνῆς and ἀπὸ σκηνῆς)?
(iii) The architectural remains. Dörpfeld sums up his celebrated
architectural researches thus. No theatre survives from the fifth
century, but the theatre of Lycurgus (fourth century) belongs to a period
when the plays of that century were still acted in the old manner. Also
we possess numerous buildings which represent the rather later form of
the theatre (the building with fixed proscenium), and which belong to
that period to which the remarks of Vitruvius apply. From the Lycurgean
theatre we learn that there was no stage high or low. A platform for
actor or orator is only necessary when the audience are all on a flat
area. If they sit on a slope, a stage is more inconvenient than if the
speaker stands on the ground.[165] And so, in the earliest times, when
there was no sloping auditorium, Thespis, for example, performed upon a
cart. In Italy the slope came into use only late, and the stage had been
widely adopted before that time—for there was no chorus to provide for.
When the Greek theatre was introduced into Italy, the Roman form was
invented. They did not abandon their own stage, but divided the Greek
orchestra into two parts of different height. The farther half, now
superfluous (the chorus having vanished) could be used for spectators or
gladiators. This portion was (in earlier theatres of the true Greek type)
excavated and filled with fresh seats. The stage was, of course, not made
higher than the lowest eyes.
The nature of the proscenium in Greek theatres was not suitable for
the supporting wall of a stage. It would be absurd to see a temple in
the air above a colonnade.[166] Again, it was impossible to act on top
of the proscenium. The fear of falling, when the actor wore a mask and
was forced to approach the edge in order to be well seen by the lowest
spectators, would spoil his acting. Finally, why was the proscenium-front
not a tangent of the orchestra circle? It should have been brought as far
forward as possible if they acted on top of it.
To sum up. The orchestra in the earliest period was the place of the
chorus and the actors. It kept that function when the _scēnē_ was
erected beside it as a background. The chorus used the whole circle, the
actors only part of it and the ground which lay in front of the _scēnē_.
No change in this arrangement was made later. The actors in Roman times,
of course, stood above the level of the excavated semicircle. But they
remained throughout at the same distance from the spectators[167] and at
the same level—that of the old orchestra.
How then are we to deal with Vitruvius’ statement about the height of the
stage? Dörpfeld suggested[168] that Vitruvius used plans and descriptions
made by a Greek; Vitruvius, in absence of any warning, taking it (as a
Roman) for granted there was a stage, saw it in the proscenium; or he may
have misunderstood the phrase ἐπὶ σκηνῆς in his Greek authority. But such
a fundamental error made by a professional architect, who even if he had
never been in Greece, must have known many persons familiar with Greek
acting, is extremely hard to assume.[169] Yet the mistake is credible as
regards the Greek theatre of the fourth and fifth centuries.
Amidst the mass of evidence and argument, only an outline of which is
here presented, it is difficult to decide. The majority of inquirers will
probably be swayed as regards the theatre of Sophocles and Astydamas
by two considerations: the acting exigencies of the plays we now read
or know of, and their own feeling as to how the performance would look
with a stage and without. It seems, perhaps, most likely that Dörpfeld
is right: that there was no stage, though when the façade represented a
palace or temple a few steps might naturally appear.
III. SUPERVISION OF DRAMATIC DISPLAYS
The authority superintending dramatic performances was the Athenian
State, acting through the archon basileus for the Lenæa, the archon
eponymus for the City Dionysia. The archon allotted the task of producing
the three annual series of dramas to three persons for each series: the
poet, the choregus, the protagonist. We will consider these persons in
turn.
Playwrights submitted their work to the archon, who himself selected
three: to each he was said to “give a chorus”. The applications were
many, and distinguished poets sometimes failed to “receive a chorus”.
The poet’s business was not only to write the play and the music,
(but in early times) to train actors and chorus. Near the end of the
fifth century B.C. it became the practice to employ an expert trainer.
Occasionally the poet caused some other person to “produce” the play.
This was frequently done by Aristophanes, and we hear that Iophon
competed with tragedies written by his father Sophocles.
The name “choregus” means “chorus-leader,” but the choregus actually had
quite other functions. He was a rich citizen who as a “liturgy” or public
service bore all the special cost of the performance. To each choregus
a flute-player was allotted, and it seems likely that the poet too was
regarded as assigned to the choregus rather than the latter to the poet.
The mounting of plays, which depended on the choregus, greatly influenced
the audience, and their expressed opinion cannot but have had weight with
the ten judges.[170] The wealthy Nicias, for example, obtained success
for every tetralogy which he mounted.[171]
The third person with whom the archon concerned himself was the
“protagonist” (the chief actor)—after the middle of the fifth century;
before then it appears that poets chose their protagonists. In the
middle of the fifth century a protagonist was selected by the archon
and one assigned to each tragic poet by lot. (The chief actor provided
his subordinates himself.) This change came at about the time when three
actors were regularly employed in each tragedy and when the contests
in acting were instituted; a prize for acting was awarded, and the
successful actor had the right to perform the following year. As the
importance of the actor increased—Aristotle tells us that in his time the
success of a play depended more upon the actor than upon the poet[172]—it
was considered unfair that one poet should have the best performer for
all his plays. In the middle of the fourth century the arrangement was
introduced that each protagonist should play in one tragedy only of each
poet.
Each dramatist competed with a tetralogy[173] (that is, “four works”)
consisting of three tragedies and a satyric play, and the claims of
these three tetralogies were decided by five[174] judges. Some days
before the competition began, the Council of the State and the choregi
selected a number of names from each of the ten tribes. These names were
sealed up in urns, which were produced at the opening of the festival.
The archon drew one name from each urn, and the ten citizens so selected
were sworn as judges and given special seats. After the conclusion of
the performances each of the ten gave his verdict on a tablet, and five
of these were drawn by the archon at random; these five judgments gave
the award. In this method the principle of democratic equality and the
necessity to rely on expert opinion were well combined. When the votes
had been collected, a herald proclaimed the name of the successful
poet and of his choregus, who were crowned with ivy (a plant always
associated with Dionysus). There is no evidence that a dramatic choregus
was given any further reward: the prize of a tripod was only for
dithyramb. The poet received, tradition said, a goat[175] in early times;
after the State-supervision began, a sum of money from public funds was
paid to each of the competitors. Records of the results were inscribed
upon tablets and set up both by the victorious choregi and by the State.
It is from these, directly or indirectly, that our knowledge of the facts
is obtained; directly, because such inscriptions have been discovered in
Athens, indirectly, because they were the basis of written works on the
subject. Aristotle wrote a book called _Didascaliæ_ (διδασκαλίαι), that
is, “Dramatic Productions”; though it is lost, later works were based
upon it, and it is from these that the Greek “Arguments” to the existing
plays are derived.
IV. THE MOUNTING OF A TRAGEDY
Scenery was painted on canvas or boards and attached to the front of
the buildings. In satyric drama it appears to have varied little—a wild
district with trees, rocks, and a cave. Tragedy generally employed a
temple or palace-front, though even in the extant thirty-two there
are exceptions—the rock of Prometheus, the tent of Ajax, the cave
of Philoctetes, and so forth. In a façade there were three doors,
corresponding to the three permanent doors in the buildings; when a cave
or tent was depicted, its opening was in front of the central door.
Statues were placed before the temple or palace—those of the deities, for
instance, in the _Agamemnon_ to whom the Herald utters his magnificent
address. Individuality would be given to a temple by the statue of
a particular god. Scene-painting was probably not very artistic or
scrupulous of details. We never read any praise of splendid theatrical
scenery such as is familiar to-day; and clever lighting effects were
of course out of the question when all was performed in the daylight.
Here and there the persons allude to the landscape, as in Sophocles’
_Electra_, where the aged attendant of Orestes points out to the prince
striking features of the Argolid plain. Such things were mostly left to
the imagination of the audience, like the forest of Arden and the squares
of Verona or Venice in Shakespeare. Undoubtedly, a Greek tragedy provided
a beautiful spectacle, but this resulted from the costumes, poses, and
grouping of actors and chorus.
Change of scene was rarely needed in tragedy; the peculiar arrangements
of comedy do not concern us. Only two extant tragedies need it. In the
_Eumenides_ of Æschylus the change from the temple of Apollo at Delphi
to Athena’s temple in Athens is vital to the plot but need not have
caused much trouble; probably convention was satisfied by changing the
statue. In _Ajax_ the scene shifts from that hero’s tent to a deserted
part of the sea-shore; no doubt the tent was simply removed. One reason
against change of scene was the continuous presence of the chorus;
when the playwright found he must shift his locality the chorus were
compelled to retire and reappear. We read[176] of a permanent appliance
by which scenery could be altered; there is, however, no evidence that
it was known in the great age of Athenian drama. This consisted of the
_periacti_ (περίακτοι). At each end of the scene stood wooden triangular
prisms standing on their ends and revolving in sockets, so arranged
that one of the narrow oblong sides continued the picture. A different
subject was painted on each side. A twist given to either marked a change
of place; the alteration of one _periactus_ meant a change of locality
within the same region, while the alteration of both meant a complete
change of district. Thus, had this contrivance been used in the fifth
century, one _periactus_ would have been moved in the _Ajax_, both in the
_Eumenides_. Another and stranger use of this contrivance is mentioned
by Pollux: “it introduces sea-gods and everything which is too heavy for
the machine”. We shall return to this when we come to the “eccyclema” and
the “machine”. No curtain is known for the classical age.
Stage-properties were few and for the most part simple. Much the most
important was the tomb of some great person; that of Darius in the
_Persæ_, and of Agamemnon in the _Choephorœ_, are fundamental to the
plot, and there are many other examples.[177] Statues have already been
mentioned. The spaciousness of the orchestra made it easy to introduce
chariots and horses, as in _Agamemnon_, Euripides’ _Electra_ and
_Iphigenia at Aulis_.
Various contrivances were employed to permit the appearance of actors
in circumstances where they could not simply enter the orchestra or
_logeion_. We need not dwell upon certain quaint machinery which it
is fairly certain was not used in the great age—“Charon’s steps,” by
which ghosts ascended, the “anapiesma” which brought up river-gods and
Furies, the “stropheion” which showed heroes in heaven and violent
deaths, the “hemicyclion” by which the spectators were given a view of
remote cities or of men swimming, the “bronteion,” or thunder machine,
consisting of a sheet of metal and sacks of stones to throw thereon,
the “ceraunoscopeion” or lightning machine, a black plank with a
flash painted upon it, which was shot across the stage. In the fifth
century the theatrical contrivances amounted to four—the distegia, the
theologeion, the “machine,” and the eccyclema.
The distegia was employed when human beings showed themselves above the
level of the “stage,” for example on a roof or cliff. Such appearances
are not common—the watchman (_Agamemnon_), Antigone and her nurse
(_Phœnissæ_), Orestes and Pylades (_Orestes_), Evadne (Euripidean
_Supplices_), are all the occasions in existing tragedy; comedy supplies
a few more. Probably it was “a projecting balcony or upper story, which
might be introduced when required”;[178] the word appears to mean “second
story”. The arrangement would then correspond closely to the gallery used
at the back of the Elizabethan stage.
Similar to this was the “theologeion” (“speaking-place for gods”), on
which gods or deified heroes appeared when they were not to be shown
descending through the air. The arrangement seems to have been a platform
in the upper part of the scenery. Whether it was fixed there and the
actors entered through an opening to take their place, or whether it was
used like the eccyclema (see below), is not clear.
We hear much more of the “machine” (μηχανή) by which actors descended as
from Heaven or ascended. It was a crane from which cords were attached to
the actor’s body; a stage-hand hauled the actor up or down by a winch.
There are a good many instances of its use. The apparition of Thetis at
the close of _Andromache_ exemplifies the most customary happening. But
sometimes the machine had to carry a greater burden; both the Dioscuri
appear in Euripides’ _Electra_, both Iris and Frenzy in _Hercules
Furens_. Æschylus no doubt sent Oceanus on his four-legged bird by this
route; possibly Medea, and the chariot containing her sons’ bodies, were
also suspended by it; and it has even been thought that the chorus of
_Prometheus Vinctus_ and their “winged chariot” enter in this way. But
the last suggestion is very questionable. The weight would be excessive,
and probably the car is supposed to be left outside, or may have been
painted on a _periactus_. Aristophanes gets excellent fooling out of
the machine. The celebrated basket in which Socrates “walks the air and
contemplates the sun”[179] is attached to it; and in the _Peace_ there is
a delightful parody of Bellerophon’s ascent to Heaven.
Far more puzzling is the eccyclema. This celebrated device was employed
to reveal to the spectators events which had just taken place “within”.
After the murders in the _Agamemnon_ the palace doors are opened and
Clytæmnestra is shown standing axe in hand over the corpses of Cassandra
and the king. There are a good many instances of precisely the same
type: the scene exhibited is a small _tableau_. But there are dissimilar
examples which shall be discussed later. The construction of this machine
is usually described thus. Inside the middle[180] door was a small oblong
platform on wheels, upon which the _tableau_ was arranged; then the
platform was thrust out upon the stage and in a few minutes drawn back
again. Two quite different objections have been raised to this account.
First, it seems ridiculous to reveal what is supposed to be inside a
building—not to come out, be it observed, but to stay inside—by thrusting
forth one or two people on a species of dray. But we must remember the
enormous and rightful influence of convention. If Greek audiences wished
to see such _tableaux_ and were convinced that by no other means could
they be shown, then it was their business to accept the eccyclema; that
in such circumstances they would accept and soon fail even to notice
it, is proved by the whole history of art. We see nothing ludicrous
in the spectacle of a man telling his deepest secrets in a study one
wall of which is replaced by a vast assembly of eavesdroppers. The
Elizabethan theatre accepted precisely this contrivance of the eccyclema.
In our texts of _Henry VI_ (Pt. II, Act III, Sc. ii.) we read this
stage-direction: “The folding-doors of an inner chamber are thrown open,
and Gloucester is discovered dead in his bed: Warwick and others standing
by it”. Instead of all this, the old direction merely says: “Bed put
forth”. In another early drama we find the amusing instruction: “Enter
So-and-So in bed”. The æsthetic objection to the eccyclema has no force
whatever.
The other objection rests on the fact that a more elaborate _tableau_ is
sometimes indicated than could be accommodated on so narrow a platform.
The most serious example is provided by the _Eumenides_, where we are
to imagine upon the eccyclema an altar, Orestes kneeling by it, Apollo
and Hermes standing beside him, and the whole chorus of Furies sleeping
around them. In Aristophanes’ _Clouds_ the interior of Socrates’ school
is exhibited, with pupils at work amid lecture-room appliances. A
brilliant scene of the same poet’s _Acharnians_ depicts Dicæopolis’
interview with Euripides, who is too busy to come downstairs from his
study-attic, but consents to be “wheeled out”. Thus the eccyclema
shows him outside and also aloft: how could this be represented on the
dray? Perhaps by elevating poet and furniture upon posts? Even this is
not inconceivable.[181] Nor is it impossible that the Furies of the
_Eumenides_ were arranged on two eccyclemata of their own, thrust out
of the side doors, while Orestes and the gods were upon the central
platform. For Pollux does say that there were three.
Other views of this machine have been offered, which explain the
“wheeling” of which we read as the working of wheeled mechanism, such
as a winch. Some would have it that the scenery opens, whether doors
are flung wide, or the canvas is rolled back like curtains. In this
way a considerable area behind the scenes could be revealed. This
is, of course, infinitely more in accordance with modern ideas. But
it will not fit all the available evidence, which talks of “wheeling
in” and “wheeling out,” “Roll this unhappy man within”[182] and the
like. Moreover, in such a simple operation there would be nothing for
Aristophanes to parody. A third explanation is that a considerable
part of the back scene was cut out and replaced so as to swing on
a perpendicular axis. Projecting from this at the back was a small
platform, upon which the _tableau_ was grouped; this oblong portion was
twisted round so that the platform pointed towards the spectators. It
resembled, in fact, that contrivance in the modern Japanese theatre by
which one scene is prepared while the preceding action takes place, and
is swung into position when needed. A grave objection to this is that
some of the groups—those in _Eumenides_ and _Acharnians_—would be too
large for such a contrivance. The best view seems to be the traditional,
to which the evidence strongly points. As for the large scenes so
displayed, various tolerable explanations may be found. Only one or two
Furies and Socratic novices may have appeared on the platform, and the
others may have simply walked in through the right and left doors, or
even been shown on subsidiary platforms at those entrances.
All other appurtenances of a performance were provided by the
choregus—such things as chariots and animals, and, far the most
important, costumes of chorus and actors. All dramatic performers, both
actors and chorus in tragedy, comedy, and satyric drama alike, wore
disguise throughout the whole history of the ancient theatre. The reason
in the first place was that masks or some kind of facial disguise—in
Thespis’ time the face was anointed with lees of wine—was a feature of
Dionysiac worship. The dressing of a tragic chorus was generally a simple
matter. It often represented a company of people from the district with
no special characteristics. The dress was therefore the usual dress of
Greek men or women, with a special shoe, the _crēpis_ (κρηπίς), said to
have been introduced by Sophocles. There were also obvious indications of
circumstances; old men wore beards and carried staves; suppliants bore
olive-branches twined with wool. The occasional choruses of peculiar
character were of course equipped specially. In Euripides’ _Bacchæ_ they
were dressed in fawn-skins and carried timbrels. When Æschylus brought
out his _Eumenides_ he designed the Furies’ costume himself; their
terrible masks and the snakes entwined in their hair are said to have
terrified the spectators and produced most untoward effects on the more
susceptible. The equipment of satyric choristers was very different. They
were always dressed as satyrs or goat-men. A tight garment, representing
the naked flesh, covered their bodies. Their masks were surmounted
by horns, their feet were shod in hoof-shaped shoes, and round their
middle they wore a woollen girdle like goatskin to which were attached
the phallus and a tail, which, however, after about 400 B.C., resembled
the tail of a horse, not a goat, the satyr-type being superseded by the
Silenus-type. Satyric actors seem to have worn much the same costume
as the tragic, save that the dress of Silenus represented the hides of
animals.
The dress of tragic actors was mostly the invention of Æschylus and
showed little change throughout ancient times. Everything was done to
make the actor’s appearance as stately as possible. His robes were heavy,
sweeping, and of brilliant colours. His size was increased by various
devices. The boot, the famous _cothurnus_ (κόθορνος) or buskin, had an
immensely thick sole; the limbs were padded and the height was further
increased by an _oncus_ (ὄγκος) or projection of the mask above the
forehead. The mask itself was modelled and painted to correspond with the
character: a tyrant’s mask wore a frown, that of a suppliant a distorted
look of misery, and so forth. Increased power was given to the voice by a
large orifice at the mouth. Identity was indicated wherever possible by
some obvious mark: Apollo was known by his bow, Heracles by his lion’s
skin and club, kings by crowns and sceptres. It was a joke against
Euripides that his heroes so often entered in the rags of beggary.
Such a cumbersome equipment would be fatal to acting as we understand it.
The mask at once destroys all chance of that facial play which we deem
essential; the padded limbs, heavy garments, and gigantic boots made all
life-like motion and _élan_ impossible. This is no doubt one great reason
why the playwrights rarely exhibit exciting physical action. Even so, the
ludicrous sometimes occurred. Æschines when acting Œnomaus fell and had
to be helped up by the chorus-trainer.[183] A natural supposition is that
these impedimenta date not from Æschylus but from the period of vulgar
elaboration. Certainly, it is not easy to imagine how such scenes as the
delirium of Orestes, or the departure of Pentheus in the _Bacchæ_, could
have been reasonably carried out—so to say—on stilts; indeed the whole
spirit of such plays as _Orestes_, _Ion_, and _Iphigenia at Aulis_ seems
utterly alien to such equipment. But it is hard to set aside the voice
of all the evidence. The best way would be to surmise that Euripides
sometimes dispensed with buskins and the rest—though we should surely
expect some allusion to so remarkable a change—for noble as is the work
of his predecessors, it could be so performed without too absurd an
effect. If Garrick’s audience did not object to his playing Macbeth in a
periwig and knee-breeches, it is likely enough that Athens was content
with such a Clytæmnestra as Pollux would have us imagine.
V. THE PERFORMERS AND THEIR WORK
A tragic performance was carried out by actors, extra performers,
flute-player, and chorus. All these were men.
Extra performers, though they take up very little space in our text,
were important to the spectacle. Mutes were often needed. Not only did
these figure as attendants, crowds, and the like; they are sometimes
important to the plot though they do not happen to speak. The jury of
Areopagites in _Eumenides_ is vital; children such as Eurysaces in
_Ajax_, and the sons[184] of Medea, are important. Other extra performers
were those who had very small speaking or singing parts, such as Eumelus
in _Alcestis_. This would seem to mean a fourth actor, but, so slight
was the part always[185] allotted, that it is not an unreasonable
statement that there were never more than three actors. Thirdly, an extra
chorus was occasionally needed for a short scene, as the Propompi in
_Eumenides_ and the Huntsmen in _Hippolytus_. Any such extra performer
was called a _parachoregema_ (παραχορήγημα, “extra supply”) and was paid
by the choregus, as the name shows. (The regular chorus was paid by the
State.) At times a chorus sang behind the scenes and was then called a
“parascenion”; this function would, if possible, be performed by members
of the regular chorus.
Instrumental music was supplied by a single flute-player, paid by the
choregus. He was stationed in the orchestra, very likely upon the step of
the thymele, and accompanied all songs. At times a harpist was added to
the flute-player; Sophocles had great success with that instrument in his
own _Thamyris_. At the end of a play the flute-player led the chorus out
of the orchestra. The music itself is a subject complicated and obscure.
Practically none of it has survived, and the details are naturally
difficult to determine; but some main facts are clear. Though there
was much singing and dancing the music composed by the tragedians was
vastly more simple than that of a modern opera. All choral singing was
in unison, and as a rule the words dominated the music.[186] The result
was that an audience followed the language of an ode with ease, nor is it
likely that such lyrics as those of the _Agamemnon_ or the Colonus-song,
not to mention many others, which are masterpieces of literature, would
have been written were they fated to be drowned by elaborate music.
Nevertheless a distinct change took place even in the fifth century,
owing chiefly to the eminent composer Timotheus, whose innovations
were of course looked upon by conservative taste as corrupt; the comic
playwright Pherecrates grumbles about the way in which his notes scurry
hither and thither like ants in a nest,[187] a charge repeated almost in
the same words by Aristophanes against Agathon. Euripides followed the
new manner, and his novelties are brilliantly caricatured in the _Frogs_:
the elaborate but thin _libretto_ and the trills.[188] The increasing
use of monodies, or solos by an actor, which we find in Euripides—the
exotic but effective performance of the Phrygian slave in _Orestes_
is a conspicuous instance—also points to the growing importance of
musical virtuosity. Greek music was composed in certain modes (νόμοι),
the precise difference between which is not clear, though the ethical
distinctions are known. The Dorian mode was austere and majestic, the
Lydian and Mixolydian plaintive, the Phrygian passionate.
We come now to the actors. These three performers were able to present
more than three persons, since they could change mask and costume behind
the scenes. One of them far outshone the others in importance—the
“protagonist” (πρωταγωνιστής, “first competitor”). He alone was allotted
to the poet by the archon; the “deuteragonist” and “tritagonist,”
he selected himself; he alone could be a competitor for the acting
prize. The most important rôle was of course performed by him. In many
dramas this was a vast responsibility; Hamlet himself—the proverbial
instance—is not more vital to his play than Prometheus, Œdipus, or Medea
to theirs. The other two divided the minor parts among them; it was the
custom to give a tritagonist the rôle of a king when only spectacularly
important—the Doge in _The Merchant of Venice_ would have been just the
part. In earlier dramas it is plain which rôle would be given to the
protagonist; there is no mistaking the pre-eminence of Clytæmnestra in
_Agamemnon_ or of Philoctetes. But in some later works it is not clear
who is the outstanding character. In the _Bacchæ_ Dionysus and Pentheus,
in the _Orestes_ Electra and her brother, have parts of fairly equal
importance. In such cases the protagonist would take an important rôle
and a minor rôle. Change of costume took little time, as examination of
structure sometimes shows.[189]
This restriction of the “company” to three actors had important influence
upon both plot and presentation. As for plot, however many persons a
dramatist used, he clearly could not bring more than three of them
forward together. But the power to do even this was frugally used: there
are but few instances of a genuine three-cornered conversation; one of
the three in turn is generally silent. In the Recognition-scene of the
_Tauric Iphigenia_, Orestes, Pylades, and Iphigenia are all present, but
though the _éclaircissement_ fills about two hundred lines, the only
part of it in which all three share is but twenty lines in length. This
frugality indicates that the simplicity of Greek tragedy is a result not
only of external conditions, but of the poets’ deliberate choice. As for
presentation, the restriction to three actors would result in excellent
playing of minor parts: a thoroughly competent performer would discharge
such short but important rôles as that of the Butler in _Alcestis_ and
the Herald in _Agamemnon_. Anyone who has been depressed by wooden
Macduffs and Bassanios will realize the value of this method.
A Greek actor combined the functions of a modern actor and of an
operatic performer. Lyrics performed by actor and chorus together were
called “commi” (κομμοί): the most elaborate instance is the great and
lengthy invocation of Agamemnon’s shade in the _Choephorœ_. A solo by an
actor was known as a “monody”; Euripides is particularly fond of these;
Ion’s song is perhaps the most attractive. Finally, two or three actors
might sing alternately to each other without the chorus; no name for this
has been preserved. Certain other passages were neither sung nor spoken,
but delivered in recitative: in tragedy these were the dialogue-trochaics
and anapæsts. Iambics were spoken (or “declaimed”). Obviously the voice
is of great importance to an actor’s proficiency, above all in a vast
open-air theatre, but Greek writers lay even more stress upon it than
we should have expected. Both volume and subtlety were demanded. This
is illustrated by a famous story.[190] An actor named Hegelochus ruined
the sick-bed scene in _Orestes_ by a slip in pronunciation. Orestes, on
recovering from delirium, says (v. 279):—
ἐκ κυμάτων γὰρ αὖθις αὖ γαλήν’ ὁρῶ
“after the billows once more I see a calm”. The unlucky player instead
of saying γαλήν’ said γαλῆν, “once more do I see a weasel coming out of
the waves”. The theatre burst into laughter, for correct pronunciation
was far more insisted upon than in the English theatre of to-day.[191]
The status of the acting profession rose steadily as time went on. At
first the poet acted as protagonist, but this practice was dropped by
Sophocles, owing to the weakness of his voice. From that time acting was
free to develop as a separate profession. In the middle of the fifth
century a prize for acting was instituted, and the actor’s name began to
be added in the official records of victories. In the fourth century the
importance of the player increased still more. We have seen that he was
so vital to the success of a playwright that for fairness’ sake the three
protagonists each acted in a single tragedy of each poet. We often hear
of brilliant acting successes. In the fourth century an Actors’ Guild was
formed at Athens and continued in existence for centuries. Its object was
to protect the remarkable privileges held by the “artists of Dionysus”.
They were looked upon as great servants of religion, and were not only
in high social esteem but possessed definite privileges, especially
the right of safe-conduct through hostile states and exemption from
military service. About the beginning of the third century before Christ
the Amphictyonic Council, at the instance of the Guild itself, renewed
a decree, the terms of which have fortunately been preserved,[192]
affirming the immunity of person and property granted to the Athenian
actors.
The chorus, we have seen, was originally the only celebrant of the
Dionysiac festival. As the importance of the actors increased it became
less and less vital to the performance. Its numbers, its connexion
with the plot, and the length and relevance of its songs, all steadily
diminished.
Originally there were fifty choristers, but we learn that early in the
fifth century there were only twelve, and it is suggested that this
change was due to the introduction of tetralogies—the fifty choreutæ
being divided as equally as possible between the four dramas. Sophocles,
it is said, raised the number to fifteen. This account is doubtful. It is
not in the nature of things likely that Æschylus (if it was he) caused
or approved such an immense drop in numbers, from fifty to twelve: for
the notion that the original chorus was split up into four is frivolous.
Is it not obvious that a poet would employ the same choristers for each
play of his tetralogy? Again, that Sophocles should chafe at Æschylus’
twelve singers and alter the number, and that by a mere trifle of
three, is quite unlikely. There is, moreover, strong evidence that the
elder poet used fifty choreutæ, at any rate in his earlier time. The
_Supplices_ has for chorus the daughters of Danaus, and their exact
number, fifty, was a familiar _datum_ of the legend. The natural view
is that Æschylus began with fifty, that Sophocles ended with fifteen,
and that between these two points the number gradually sank. Whether the
choreutæ after the fifth century became still fewer is not clearly known;
there is some evidence that at times they were only seven.
Next, the dramatic value of the chorus steadily went down. In our
earliest tragedy, the Æschylean _Supplices_, the chorus of Danaids is
absolutely vital; they are the chief, almost the sole, interest. In other
works of the same poet their importance is certainly less, but still very
great; everywhere they are deeply interested in the fate of the chief
persons—Xerxes, Eteocles, Prometheus, Agamemnon, Orestes; the chorus of
the _Eumenides_ is even more closely attached to the plot. In Sophocles
a certain change is to be felt. The connexion between chorus and plot
is of much the same quality as in the five plays just mentioned, but
the emotional tie and (still more) the tie of self-interest are weaker.
The chorus of Greek seamen in _Philoctetes_ are (in the abstract) as
deeply concerned in the issue as the Oceanids in _Prometheus_, but most
readers would probably agree that they show it less; we can “think away”
the chorus more easily from the _Philoctetes_. In all the other six
Sophoclean dramas the interest of the chorus in the action is about the
same as in the _Philoctetes_—strong but scarcely vital. Euripides’ work
shows more variety. _Alcestis_, _Heracleidæ_, _Hecuba_, _Ion_, _Troades_,
_Iphigenia in Tauris_, _Helen_, and _Rhesus_ all possess choruses which
are _prima-facie_ Sophoclean in this regard, though their language tends
to show less personal concern. In other dramas, _Medea_, _Hippolytus_,
_Andromache_, _Electra_, _Phœnissæ_, _Orestes_, _Iphigenia at Aulis_,
the chorus is simply a company of spectators. Thirdly, in two plays,
_Supplices_ and _Bacchæ_, the importance of the chorus is thoroughly
Æschylean. In Euripides, then, there is found on the whole a weakening
in the dramatic value of the chorus: in some instances the singers
are little more than random visitors. In the fourth century Aristotle
protests against this: “the chorus too should be regarded as one of the
actors; it should be an integral part of the whole, and share in the
action, in the manner not of Euripides but of Sophocles”.[193]
A precisely similar change operated in the length of the ode. The
lyrics of Æschylus’ _Supplices_ form more than half the work, those of
_Orestes_ only one-ninth. Even at the end of Æschylus’ career we find
in the _Agamemnon_ odes magnificent, elaborate, and lengthy. Sophocles
composed shorter songs which were still closely germane to the plot. But
in Euripides there frequently occur lyrics whose connexion with the plot
is slight, sometimes difficult to make out. Agathon carried this still
further: his odes are mere interludes, quite outside the plot.[194]
The fifteen choristers usually entered through the _parodos_, marching
like soldiers.[195] Drawn up in ranks upon the orchestra, they followed
the action with their backs to the audience but faced about when they
sang. Their work fell into two parts, the odes sung between the episodes,
and participation in the episodes. The entrance-song was called the
_parodos_ or “entrance,” and was written in anapæstic rhythm, suitable
for marching. If so, it was chanted in recitative; lyrics were sung.
Songs between episodes were called _stasima_. This means “stationary
songs,” not because the singers stood still but because they had taken
up their station in the orchestra. As they left at the end they sang
an _exodos_ or “exit” in anapæsts. Besides these, there were occasional
_hyporchemes_ (ὑπορχήματα, “dances”), short, lively songs expressing
sudden joy. All lyrics were rendered by both song and dance. Singing was
generally executed by all the choreutæ, but some passages were divided
between them. The most frequent division was into two semi-choruses
(ἡμιχόρια), but now and then individuals sang a few words. Incidental
iambic lines were spoken by one person, and the short anapæstic system
which at the end of the lyric often announces the approach of an actor
was no doubt assigned to the _coryphæus_, or chorus-leader alone.
Dancing was also an essential feature, but both Greeks and Romans meant
more by dancing than do we, or than we did before the rise of “Salome”
performances. It was in fact a mimetic display, giving by the rhythmic
manipulation of all the limbs an imitation of the emotions expressed,
or the events described, by the song. The whole company, moreover, went
through certain evolutions over the surface of the orchestra. When
they sang the _strophe_[196] they moved in one direction, back again
for the _antistrophe_,[196] and perhaps stood still when there was an
_epode_.[196] But nothing is known as to details here. The centre of
all the dancing was the coryphæus (κορυφαῖος, “top man”), the leader
of the chorus; when two semi-choruses acted separately each had its
leader. As was natural, choric dancing flourished mightily in the early
days, and went down with lyrical performance in general. Thus Phrynichus
congratulated himself on having devised “as many figures of the dance as
are the billows on the sea under a dread night of storm”. Æschylus too
was a brilliant ballet-master. But Plato, the comic playwright, at the
end of the same century grumbles[197] amusingly:—
There was something to watch when the dancing was good,
But now there’s no acting to mention—
Just a paralysed row of inflexible singers,
Who howl as they stand at attention.
During the best period of the chorus its mimetic dancing must have been
a wonderful spectacle. We hear of highly-skilled performers who could
reproduce action so that the audience followed every detail. They seem
to have “accompanied” some portions of the episodes in this manner; and
that fact may account for a rather curious feature in the _Ion_. The
messenger gives a remarkably detailed description of the designs upon
the embroideries wherewith Ion roofed his great banqueting-marquee—the
constellations and “Dawn pursuing the stars” are all described. Possibly
this was written for the sake of an unusually brilliant mimetic evolution
by groups of choreutæ.
The chorus had other duties during the episodes. As a body they normally
showed themselves interested spectators; thus the chorus of _Orestes_
enter in order to inquire of Electra concerning her sick brother. Not
infrequently they do more, taking an actual share in events. At the close
of _Agamemnon_ the Argive elders are at point to do battle with Ægisthus
and his henchmen; in _Alcestis_ they join the funeral procession; at
other times they aid the persons of the play, not only by misleading
enemies (_Choephorœ_) or directing friends (_Œdipus Tyrannus_) but by
keeping watch (_Orestes_). Further, the coryphæus almost always delivers
two or three lines at the end of every long speech, save when it ends a
scene. These little interpolations are invariably obvious and feeble.
After Hermione’s tirade against women the coryphæus comments thus: “Too
freely hast thou indulged thy tongue against thy sex. It is pardonable in
thee, but still women should gloss over the weaknesses of women.” Anyone
who has listened to the delivery of some splendid passage in Shakespeare,
an outburst of Lear or Mercutio’s Queen Mab speech, will remember how the
applause which follows it drowns the next speaker’s opening lines. Some
pause is needed. This is provided in Greek tragedy by the insertion of a
line or two which will not be missed if inaudible.
The satyric chorus diverged little from the tragic in the points
discussed under this section. It had, however, a special type of dance
called the “Sikinnis”. “One of the postures used ... was called the owl,
and is variously explained by the old grammarians as having consisted in
shading the eyes with the hands, or in turning the head to and fro like
an owl.”[198]
VI. THE AUDIENCE
The time of the Dionysiac festivals, especially the great Dionysia, was
a holiday for all Athens, and the centre of enjoyment was the show of
tragedies and comedies. At sunrise the theatre was filled with a huge
throng prepared to sit packed together for hours facing the sun with no
interval for a meal or for exercise. It is important to remember that in
Athens that incalculable play-goer, “the average man,” did really enjoy
and appreciate first-class dramatic work.
There were a few rows of special seats for officials and persons
otherwise honoured by the State. All the rest of the space, save for the
separation of men and women, and the possibility that each _cercis_ was
allotted to a distinct tribe, was open to all without distinction of
rank or means. The official seats were in the front rows, and the first
row of all consisted of sixty-seven marble thrones, most of which are
still preserved _in situ_. Of these sixty-seven, fifty belonged—as the
inscriptions show—to ecclesiastics, and the famous middle throne—the
best and most conspicuous[199] place in the theatre—was occupied by the
priest of Dionysus of Eleutheræ. Besides priests, the archons, the
generals, and the ten judges had special places, also benefactors of the
State or their descendants, and the sons of men who had fallen in battle.
Ambassadors from abroad, too, received this compliment of προεδρία
(“foremost seat”).
Behind the dignified front circle of thrones rose tier after tier of
stone benches, all alike and not marked off into separate seats, so that
the audience must usually have been crowded. They were also cramped, for
the height of each seat was but fifteen inches.[200] Spectators brought
with them any cushions they needed. Admission to the theatre was allowed
in the first instance to any Athenian citizen. In spite of the indecency
which was a normal[201] feature of the Old Comedy, there is no doubt that
women and boys were present at the shows both of tragedy and comedy.
Slaves and foreigners also were admitted, obtaining admission, like the
boys and women, through citizens. Foreigners, except the distinguished
persons to whom _proedria_ was granted, seem to have been confined to the
extreme right and left _cercides_, next to the _parodoi_. All the seating
which has been described dates from the time of the orator Lycurgus[202]
in the fourth century; during the fifth Athens was content with wooden
benches, called _icria_ (ἴκρια, “planks”).
Admission was at first free, but the drama was so popular that the rush
for seats caused much confusion; it is said that the more sedulous would
secure places the night before. In the fifth century the custom arose
of charging for admission, and making every one book in advance, save
those dignitaries whose places were reserved. The price for one day was
two obols (about threepence in weight, but of much greater purchasing
power). At the end of that century this sum was paid by the State to any
citizen who claimed it. The money allotted for this purpose was called
the “theoric” fund (τὸ θεωρικόν, “money for the shows”), of which we
hear so much in the speeches of Demosthenes. By his time the system had
grown to a serious danger. Payments were made, not only for the original
purpose, but for all the numerous festivals, and a law was actually
passed that anyone who proposed to apply the fund in any other way should
be put to death. Demosthenes represents the theoric fund and the Athenian
affection for it as preventing Athens from supplying sufficient forces
to check the growing menace from Philip of Macedonia. On paying in his
two obols the spectator received a ticket of lead. The sums taken were
appropriated by the lessee or _architecton_ who in consideration thereof
kept the theatre in repair.
As the auditorium was filled with many thousands of lively Southerners,
who had to sit crammed together from sunrise till late in the day with
no intermission, the question of good order might seem to have been
a hopeless difficulty. It was not so. For, first, the occasion was
religious, and to use blows in the theatre was a capital crime. Next,
stewards (ῥαβδοφόροι, “rod-bearers”) were at hand to keep order among
the choristers, who were numerous, seeing that each dithyrambic chorus
consisted of fifty men. Finally, a good deal of exuberant behaviour was
allowed. Serious disturbance occasionally happened: the high-spirited
Alcibiades once had a bout at fisticuffs with a rival choregus, and
the occasion of Demosthenes’ speech against Meidias was the blow which
Meidias dealt the orator when the latter was choregus.
Though an Athenian audience had no objection, when comedy was played,
to scenes which we should have supposed likely to strike them as
blasphemous, they bitterly objected to any breach of orthodoxy in tragic
drama. Æschylus once narrowly escaped death because it was thought
that a passage in his play constituted a revelation of the mysteries.
Euripides,[203] too, incurred great trouble owing to the opening lines
of _Melanippe the Wise_. Approval and dislike were freely expressed.
If the spectators admired a passage, shouts and clapping showed it: at
times they would “encore” a speech or song with the exclamation αὖθις
(“again”). Still more often do we hear of their proneness to “damn” a bad
play. Hissing[204] was common, and there was a special custom at Athens
of kicking with the heels upon the benches to express disapproval—a
method which must have been effective in the time of wooden seats.
Playwrights were known to take vigorous means to win favour. That
distinguished writer of New Comedy, Philemon, is said to have defeated
Menander himself by securing a large attendance of supporters to applaud
his work, and it is certain that writers of the Old Comedy frequently
directed their actors to throw nuts and similar offerings among the
audience. In the _Peace_ of Aristophanes barley was thus distributed.
The spectators sometimes replied in kind. Bad performers were pelted
with fruit, at any rate in the country, and even stones were used in
extreme cases. The celebrated Æschines, during his career as a strolling
tritagonist, was nearly stoned to death by his public.[205] But the fruit
was generally used in the city itself for another purpose. Aristotle
illustrates a detail of psychology by pointing to the fact that “in
the theatre people who eat dessert do so with most abandon when the
performers are bad”.[206]
CHAPTER III
THE WORKS OF ÆSCHYLUS
The place of Æschylus in dramatic history has been discussed in the first
chapter. We have still to give some account of his seven extant plays and
of the fragments.
The SUPPLICES[207] (Ἱκετίδες, “Suppliant Women”) is no doubt the earliest
of these. The scene is laid near the sea-coast, not far from Argos. The
chorus, consisting of the fifty daughters of Danaus, enter, and in their
opening song tell how they have fled from Egypt to escape marriage with
their cousins, the fifty sons of Ægyptus. These suitors have pursued them
overseas, but they call upon Zeus, who through Io is their ancestor,
to defend them. Danaus, their father, urges them to take refuge upon
the steps of the altar.[208] This they do, becoming suppliants of the
State-deities and acquiring a claim upon the citizens. The King of Argos
enters; to him the women make their appeal. He replies that he must
consult the national assembly before facing the possibility of war with
the Egyptians; meanwhile he sends Danaus into the city to engage the
compassion of the Argives. After another song by the chorus, in which
they relate the wanderings of Io and her final peace, Danaus returns
with the news that the Argive assembly is unanimous in championing the
Suppliants; the women burst forth into lyrical blessings upon the land.
Danaus, who has been upon the watch, announces the approach of the
hostile ships; he comforts his shrinking daughters, goes to fetch help,
and does not return until the danger is over.[209] After a terrified
lyric, the Egyptian herald appears, accompanied no doubt by warriors;
he harshly bids them go to the ship and submit to their masters. They
refuse. He is on the point of dragging them away when the King enters,
rebukes the herald, and defies the power of Egypt. The intruder departs
with threats of war. Danaus returns, and with his daughters is given
lodging within the city-walls. The chorus end the drama with an ode
voicing their fear of war and oppression.
Such a close evidently implies that the story was continued in another
work, and it has been conjectured that the _Egyptians_ and the _Danaides_
(“Daughters of Danaus”) formed the second and third parts of the trilogy.
Scarcely anything of these two plays has been preserved, but there is
good reason to suppose that the Egyptians were victorious, that the
daughters of Danaus were compelled to marry their ferocious suitors,
and that on the command of their father each slew her husband on the
wedding-night. Hypermnestra alone spared her lover, by name Lynceus.
It seems that she was put on her trial for this disobedience and was
saved by the advocacy of Aphrodite, who thus foreshadows the Apollo
of the _Eumenides_. The satyric play was perhaps the _Amymone_; this
was the name of one of the Danaides, who was delivered from a satyr by
Poseidon. Viewed not historically, but æsthetically, especially by a
reader already familiar with the _Oresteia_, the play must be confessed
bald and monotonous. Many of Æschylus’ most splendid attributes, it
is true, are to be discerned, but their fire too often sinks into
smouldering grimness. The only really fine passages are those portions of
the lyrics which bear the impress of the poet’s masculine and profound
theology. Such strictures, however, are merely one way of saying that
the _Supplices_ is an early work. It would be fairer (were it only
possible) to compare it with the drama of Phrynichus rather than with
the _Agamemnon_. Here, perhaps for the first time, we have a genuinely
dramatic situation—the collision between the king and the herald. There
is little characterization. The chorus are simply distressed damsels
(save for their vivid and strong religious faith), the king is simply a
magnanimous and wary monarch, the herald simply a “myrmidon”. Danaus,
however, shows some interesting traits. He is extremely sententious and
rejoices in the fact: “Inscribe this on your hearts beside the many
other precepts of your father written there”.[210] His exhortation[211]
to chaste behaviour, though long and (as his daughters assure him)
unnecessary, is, albeit corrupt textually, one of the most striking
passages in the play. But one feels that characterization is perhaps less
needed in a work which, literally from the first word, is filled with
the name of God, Zeus,[212] the ancestor of the Danaids, the lord of the
universe, the guardian of right. “And whensoever it is decreed by nod of
Zeus that a thing be brought to fullness, it falls not prostrate, but
on its feet. Yea, through thicket and shadow stretch the paths of his
decrees, that no thoughts can spy them out.”[213] Equally majestic is the
language concerning that other Zeus[214] who judges the sins of men in
Hades. Finally, though the thought and diction are in the main stark if
dignified, a change comes over the play before the end: we get a little
“atmosphere”. Danaus already fears personal enemies (v. 1008), and the
arrangements for lodging the suppliants show a tinge of domesticity.
The PERSÆ[215] (Πέρσαι, “Men of Persia”), though perhaps twenty years
later, comes next among the surviving plays. The action takes place
before the palace of Xerxes. It opens with a song from the chorus,
who represent aged councillors of the Persian Empire. They describe
the departure of the host which is to conquer Greece, and their own
anxiety for news. Atossa, widow of Darius and mother of Xerxes, enters,
distressed by an ill-omened dream. The councillors discuss this portent
and the prospects of victory. A messenger arrives who announces the
complete overthrow of the “barbarians”. The queen speedily rallies from
her grief, learns that her son himself is safe, and hears the narrative
of Salamis and the flight of the Persians back to Asia. She determines
to offer supplications to Heaven and retires to fetch the materials of
sacrifice; the chorus pour forth a lyric lament and deplore the loss
of Darius the conqueror. Atossa returns bearing the libation which she
offers to the shade of Darius, while the chorus invoke the dead king,
praying him to appear and give counsel. In answer, the ghost of Darius
rises from his tomb. He learns the evil tidings, laments the impious
folly of his son, and foretells the coming disaster of Platæa. After
the shade has sunk back into the tomb, and Atossa has gone to meet
Xerxes,[216] the elders sing of Persia’s greatness under Darius. Finally,
Xerxes appears, plunged in despair. Amid the antiphonal wailings of the
king and his councillors the tragedy ends.
The scholiast says that “Æschylus won the prize in the archonship
of Menon, with _Phineus_, _Persæ_, _Glaucus of Potniæ_ and
_Prometheus_”.[217] This tetralogy seems (to judge from the titles
and the fragments) to have been a collection of plays which had no
relation of subject-matter. Interesting to the historian as the only
extant tragedy dealing with a contemporary subject, the _Persæ_ also
wins the highest admiration as a piece of literature not unworthy of
its theme. The muscular and majestic diction of the speeches, the
noble sweep of the lyrics, the colossal dignity of the characters,
the picturesqueness and vigour which make the story of Salamis one of
the greatest passages even in Æschylus—these are characteristics of
the poet which the _Supplices_ presents only in germ. But the noblest
feature of the whole is the manner in which Æschylus has faced his
chief obstacle. To dramatize the heroic spirit and overwhelming success
of Athens in the presence of Athenians—was this an easy task? Nothing
could be more cloying at the moment, more thin and unsatisfying to the
after-reflection. Æschylus rises clear above all this. First, he places
the scene not in Athens, but before the gates of the palace at Susa; that
dignity which elsewhere in Greek tragedy is secured by remoteness in
time, is here obtained by remoteness in space.[218] The whole incident
is held at arm’s length that it may be viewed with soberness, and as a
whole in perspective. Next, it has often been observed that on the one
hand he chronicles a host of Asiatic nobles while on the other not a
single Greek—not even Themistocles—is named. Both these facts spring from
the same source. Æschylus, it cannot be repeated too often, was a deeply
religious man. When he takes it in hand to dramatize an event of recent
history his instinct impels him, just as infallibly as if he were writing
of Heracles or Prometheus, to describe occurrences not in the language
of politics or of tactics, but of theology. Athens has been but the
instrument of Heaven; Persia has fallen, not through the brawn of oarsmen
or the skill of captains, but through the blasphemous infatuation of her
prince and the wrath of God following thereupon.
O God, thy arm was here;
And not to us, but to thy arm alone,
Ascribe we all! When, without stratagem,
But in plain shock and even play of battle,
Was ever known so great and little loss
On one part and on th’ other?
Take it, God, For it is none but thine![219]
He is little concerned with that play of human psychology on the Greek
side, which forms so brilliant a page of Herodotus. Even when he narrates
that trick by which the conflict was precipitated, the false message from
Themistocles to Xerxes, nothing is said of the reasons for sending it.
Though the antecedent “facts” are known, yet he chooses to tell what he
does indeed regard as the truth, that the whole error of the king came
from “a fiend or evil spirit,” and that he fell into the trap because “he
perceived not the guile of the Greek nor _the spite of Heaven_”.[220] On
the Greek side, then, “the creatures of a day” are lost in the vision of
eternal righteousness. But the poet has no such reason to obliterate the
mighty names of Persia. Almost the whole effect of them is for us lost;
but to an Athenian ear these barbaric polysyllables must have sounded
with all the pomp of an ancient chivalry, the waves of the boundless and
terrible Orient descending in deluge upon the tiny states of Hellas. But
the billows at their highest had been stayed and had sunk; the appalling
roll of warlike titles was changed into a proclamation of glory—but not
the glory of Greece. No Greek name is immortalized in this play, which
resounds at every moment with the name of God.
The SEVEN AGAINST THEBES[221] (Οἱ Ἑπτὰ ἐπὶ Θήβας) was produced in 467
B.C. and deals with the fratricidal quarrel of the sons of Œdipus.
Eteocles, the elder, had become King of Thebes and expelled his brother
Polynices. The latter with six comrades-in-arms and an host led by
Adrastus, King of Argos, attacked the city. The seven invading champions
were met at the seven gates by as many Theban warriors. The scene is laid
in an open space in the town. A messenger brings to Eteocles the news
that the enemy are on the point of assaulting the walls. The chorus,
consisting of Theban maidens, enter, and in a vivid lyric express their
frantic terror. Eteocles attempts to calm them, urging that their
outcries will demoralize the citizens; but soon they burst forth again
into wild forebodings. Then follows a long scene in which the messenger
describes the seven heroes who are to attack at the seven gates. As each
is described Eteocles allots one of his comrades for defence. The seventh
enemy is Polynices, the king’s own brother; Eteocles, spurred on by the
curse of his house, declares that he will himself confront Polynices. He
rushes away and the maidens lament the frightful story of Œdipus’ curse.
The messenger returns with the news that the invaders have been routed
and that the brothers have fallen by each other’s hand. After the chorus
have lamented this crime, the corpses are brought forward, accompanied
by Antigone and Ismene, sisters of the dead, who utter an antiphonal
dirge. They are interrupted by a herald who proclaims the decree of the
“people’s councillors”. Eteocles is to be honourably buried; his brother
is to be left to the dogs and birds of prey. Antigone defies the decree
and declares that she will bury Polynices. The chorus divide into two
parties, one supporting Antigone, the other giving obedience to the State.
This tragedy won the prize. The trilogy consisted of _Laius_,
_Œdipus_, the _Seven_, with the _Sphinx_ as satyric play. Aristeas and
Polyphradmon, the sons of Pratinas and Phrynichus respectively, were
second and third. Very little is known about the companion plays. The
_Laius_ contained a reference to the exposure of the infant Œdipus; the
_Œdipus_ described the death of Laius.
The _Seven_ is a magnificently vigorous and graphic presentment of war
in one of its aspects. As such it is eulogized by Aristophanes, who puts
into the mouth of Æschylus the boast that he “composed a drama full of
the War-God—my _Seven against Thebes_”.[222] The chief excellences are
the first chorus and the celebrated Choosing of the Champions. This
latter contained the best-known passage in the play, where the messenger
says of Amphiaraus:—[223]
σῆμα δ’ οὐκ ἐπῆν κύκλῳ
οὐ γὰρ δοκεῖν ἄριστος, ἀλλ’ εἶναι θέλει,
βαθεῖαν ἄλοκα διὰ φρενὸς καρπούμενος,
ἐξ ἧς τὰ κεδνὰ βλαστάνει βουλεύματα.
His buckler bore no blazon; for he seeks
Not to seem great, but to be great indeed,
Reaping the deep-ploughed furrow of his soul
Wherefrom the harvest of good counsel springs.
As these lines were declaimed in the theatre, Plutarch[224] tells us,
every one turned and gazed at Aristides the Just. The first half of
the play is in strictness not dramatic[225] at all—a merely static
presentment of the situation: a city in a state of siege, panic among the
women, resolution in the mind of the general. The later portion gives
us decisive action. The King rushes to his fratricidal duel, spurred on
by the invisible curse; but even here there is no dramatic conflict of
personalities like the altercation between the brothers in the _Phœnissæ_
of Euripides. Such a collision is, however, provided at the very end,
where Antigone defies the State.
As regards the PROMETHEUS VINCTUS (Προμηθεὺς δεσμώτης, “Prometheus
Bound”) we are in doubt as to the date, the arrangement of the cast, and
the other parts of the trilogy.
Concerning the date, we know that the play was written after 475 B.C.,
the year in which occurred that eruption of Etna described by Prometheus
(vv. 363-72). Further, it is usually regarded as later than the _Seven_
owing to the increased preponderance of dialogue over lyrics. Also, the
supposition that three actors are required has led some scholars to
believe that the _Prometheus_ belongs to the period when Sophocles had
introduced a third actor, and so to place it in the last part of the
poet’s life.[226] The static nature of the drama might seem to forbid
such a view, but possibly it formed the centre of the trilogy, the most
likely place for an equilibrium of the tragic forces. And the theological
basis of the whole series is so profound, that an approximation in
date to the _Oresteia_ is not unreasonable. On the whole, then, the
_Prometheus_ may be conjecturally assigned to about the year 465 B.C.
As for the division of the parts among the actors, we find in the opening
scene three[227] persons engaged, Prometheus, Hephæstus, and Cratos
(“Strength”). Prometheus, however, does not utter a word until his
tormentors have retired, and it has been held that only two actors are
needed here (as in the rest of the work). On this view, Prometheus would
be represented by a lay-figure, either Hephæstus or Cratos would return
unseen, delivering the later speeches of Prometheus from behind the
figure, through a mouth-piece in the head. But as there was no curtain
in the theatre, it would be necessary for the executioners to carry the
lay-figure forth in view of the audience before the action began. The
true objection to this is not its absurdity; an audience will tolerate
much awkwardness in stage-management, if only it is accustomed to such
conventions. But it would scarcely have harmed the play if the poet had
dispensed with Cratos; the actor thus disengaged could have impersonated
Prometheus from the beginning. That Æschylus saw this possibility
cannot be doubted; therefore he did not feel bound to use a lay-figure;
therefore he did not, and we must assume that he employed three actors.
Two other tragedies were associated with this, _Prometheus the
Fire-bringer_ (Προμηθεὺς πυρφόρος) and _Prometheus Unbound_ (Προμηθεὺς
λυόμενος). That the latter followed the extant play is of course
certain, but the position of the _Fire-bringer_ is doubtful. One would
naturally place it first in the trilogy: the offence, the punishment,
the reconciliation. But, say some, in that case one can hardly imagine
how Æschylus wrote the first tragedy without anticipating a great part
of the second—the noble account which Prometheus gives of the victory of
Zeus, his own offence, and the blessings it conferred upon men. Hence
arises a theory that the _Fire-bringer_ was the last play of the trilogy
in which the Titan, reconciled to Zeus, became a local deity of Athens,
the giver of fire. But this view has been discredited by evidence[228]
that there is not enough matter remaining for the _Fire-bringer_ after
the close of the _Prometheus Unbound_. These two difficulties about the
position of the _Fire-bringer_ have induced some to identify it with that
_Prometheus_ which we know as the satyric play appended to the _Persæ_
trilogy, and to suppose that Æschylus told the story in two plays only,
the present trilogy being completed by a tragedy unconnected with the
subject. The best view is that the _Fire-bringer_ was the first play;
the title suggests that it dealt with the transgression which led to
the punishment portrayed in the extant drama; and the objection as
to overlapping of the _Fire-bringer_ and the _Prometheus Vinctus_ is
illusory.
The scene is a desolate gorge in Scythia. Hephæstus, the God of Fire,
with Cratos and Bia, Strength and Violence, servants of Zeus, appear,
dragging with them the Titan Prometheus. Hephæstus nails the prisoner
to the rocks under the superintendence of Cratos; he has little liking
for his task, but Cratos rebukes his tenderness for the malefactor who
has braved Heaven in order to succour mankind. At length Prometheus is
left to his lonely agony. Hitherto he has been silent, but now he voices
his pain and indignation to the sea and sky and earth around him. His
soliloquy breaks off as he catches the sound of wings, and the chorus
enter—a band of sea-nymphs who have been startled from their cave by the
clatter of iron. They strive to comfort him, and he tells how by his
counsel Zeus was enabled to defeat the Titans. Then, consolidating his
empire, the god determined to destroy mankind and create a new race.
Prometheus, in love of men, saved them from destruction and bestowed
upon them the gift of fire, which he stole from Heaven and which has
been the beginning of civilization. At this point Oceanus enters,
riding upon a four-legged bird; he is a Titan who stood aloof from the
conflict with Zeus. An amiable but obsolete person, he wishes to release
Prometheus (without running into danger himself) and urges submission.
The prisoner listens with disdainful courtesy, refuses the advice, and
hints to Oceanus that he had better not associate with a malefactor. His
visitor soon bustles away, and the chorus sing how all the nations of
the earth mourn over the torments of their deliverer. Prometheus then
tells of the arts by which he has taught man to alleviate his misery.
The Nymphs ask if he has no hope of release himself; he hints at the
possible downfall of Zeus. Another lyrical passage hymns the power of
that god and expresses surprise at the contumacy of the Titan. Then
appears Io, the heifer-maiden, who at the request of the chorus describes
her strange ill-fortune. Beloved of Zeus, she has incurred the wrath of
his queen, Hera, who has changed her into a heifer and sent her roaming
wildly over the earth pursued by a gadfly. Prometheus prophesies her
future wanderings, which shall end in Egypt. He speaks more clearly of
the fall of Zeus, who is preparing to wed one who shall bear a child
greater than his father. Then he narrates the story of Io’s course up to
the present hour, ending with the prophecy that in Egypt she shall bear
to Zeus a son named Epaphus. He speaks of the history of this man’s line,
particularly of one “courageous, famed for archery” who shall release
Prometheus. Io, in a sudden paroxysm, rushes from the scene. The chorus
sing of the dangers which lie in union with the Gods. Prometheus again
foretells the overthrow of Zeus by his own son. Hermes, the messenger
of Zeus, enters demanding that the prisoner reveal the fatal secret.
Prometheus treats his message with defiance. Hermes warns him of still
more fell tortures: the “winged hound of Zeus” will come each day to tear
his liver; a convulsion of the earth will hurl him into Hades. The nymphs
again urge submission, but when the messenger declares that unless they
leave Prometheus they will perchance suffer too, they haughtily refuse
to listen. Amid an upheaval of the whole of Nature, the Titan, still
defiant, sinks from sight.
The _Prometheus Vinctus_ has impressed all generations of readers with
wonder and delight; in particular it has inspired poetry only less
magnificent than itself. Shelley’s _Prometheus Unbound_ is a gorgeous
amplification of its spiritual and material features. The sinister and
terrific figure which dominates the early part of _Paradise Lost_ is
but Prometheus strayed at an untoward hour into Christian mythology.
Again, this play is the noblest surviving example of the purely Æschylean
manner. The _Oresteia_ is greater, perhaps, certainly more interesting
to us; but there Æschylus has reacted to the spirit of Sophocles. Here,
the stark hauteur of the _Supplices_ has developed into a desolate
magnificence. The lyrics which, since the _Seven_, have again dwindled
in size, have yet grown in beauty, variety, and characterization. On the
other side, there is a development of the dialogue which is amazing. Long
speeches are still the rule, but line-by-line conversations are frequent.
Characters in the _Supplices_ and the _Seven_ talk as if blank-verse
dialogue were a strange and difficult art—as indeed it was till Æschylus
forged it into shape. Throughout, whether in lengthy speeches or in
conversation, the iambic metre has found a grace and suppleness which is
too often ignored by those who come to the _Prometheus_ fresh from the
_Medea_ or the _Œdipus Tyrannus_. Above all, the maturity of Æschylus’
poetic strength is to be seen in the terrific perspectives which he
brings before us—perspectives of time, as the voice of the tortured
prophet carries us down a vista of centuries through the whole history of
Io’s race to the man of destiny; perspectives of scenery, as the eye of
the Ocean-Nymphs from the summit of earth gazes down upon the tribes of
men, horde behind horde fading into the distance, all raising lament for
the sorrows of their saviour; perspectives of thought, as the exultant
history of civilization leaps from the lips of him who dies hourly
through untold years to found and uphold it, telling how that creeping
victim of his own helplessness and the disdain of Heaven goes from
weakness to strength and from strength to triumph.
No less wonderful is the strictly dramatic economy of the play. The
action is slight. Prometheus works no more; it is his part to endure.
All the secondary characters act as a foil to bring the central figure
into massive relief. Each has some touch of Prometheus: Hephæstus, pity
without self-sacrifice; Cratos, strength without reflection; the Nymphs,
tenderness without force; Oceanus, common-sense without dignity; Io,
sensibility to suffering without the vision which learns the lesson
of pain; Hermes, the power to serve without perception of the secret
of sovereignty. Most essential of all these is Io. The only human
participant in the action, she reminds us that the hand of Zeus has been
heavy upon innocent mortals as well as rebel gods, and thus gives fresh
justification to the wrath of Prometheus. Still more, she is vital to the
whole trilogy. As Hephæstus links the _Fire-bringer_ to the second play,
so does she join the second play to the _Prometheus Unbound_. It is her
descendant Heracles who after thirteen generations will free Prometheus
and reconcile him to Zeus; the hero of the last drama is brought in a
sense upon the scene in the person of his ancestress. Prometheus himself
suggests to us the thought of Christ; and yet (as has been said) the
Satan of Milton is like him too. This double kinship is made possible by
the conception of Zeus which here obtains. Under the sceptre of a god
who hates mankind it is possible for the saviour of men to be a rebel
and an outcast. Right or wrong, the Titan is godlike in his goodness,
his wisdom, his courage. At one point only does his deity show a flaw;
he endures his pangs not as a god, but as a man; he agonizes, he laments
his pains, he utters exclamations of fear. Rightly, for if the actors in
this world-drama are immortal, the spectators are not. To have portrayed
Prometheus as facing his punishment without a quiver would have been
perhaps sounder theology, but worse drama; the human audience must be
made to understand something at least of these pangs, or the greatness
of the sacrifice will elude them. A parallel on which we must not dilate
cannot escape the reader. One strange outcome of his rebellion is
generally overlooked. Zeus had wished to destroy mankind and create a new
race. That is, he meant to treat men as he treated the Titans—or would
have treated them had they been mortal. Prometheus thwarted this plan, so
that we men are a survival of that pre-moral world which the new ruler
supersedes. We are the younger brothers of the Titans and (so to put it)
have all survived the Flood. Our pettiness and futility condemned us in
the eyes of Zeus, who wished for progress; but Prometheus loved us in
spite of our miserable failings, and so insisted on carrying us over into
the new and nobler world at the cost of his own age-long agony.
The basic question must be briefly discussed—the relation of Prometheus
to the new King of Heaven. Zeus is here described as a youthful tyrant,
blind to all rights and interests save the security of his recent
conquest. This cannot have been the picture presented by the whole
trilogy. Not only is enough known of Æschylus’ religious views to make
such a theory impossible; though the _Prometheus Unbound_ is lost
we know the story in outline. Heracles in his wanderings came upon
Prometheus, now released from Hades, but still chained to his rock and
gnawed by the vulture. The hero slew the bird with an arrow, and procured
the release of Prometheus by inducing the wounded Centaur Chiron to go
down to death in his place, and by reconciling the Titan to Zeus, who
promised to free him on hearing the secret of the fatal marriage.[229]
Prometheus, to commemorate his captivity, assumed a ring of iron. The
authority of the King of Gods was thus for ever established. It is
only in a different atmosphere that any inconsistency can be felt.
For Æschylus there was a progress in the history of Heaven as in the
civilization of earth. Even Zeus in the early days of his dominion seeks
to rule by might divorced from wisdom, a severance typified by his
feud with Prometheus. He has his lesson to learn like all others; if
he will not govern with the help of law, bowing to Fate, then the hope
of the Universe is vain and the blind forces of unguided Nature, the
half-quelled Titans, will bring chaos back. But youthful and harsh as he
is, his will has a moral foundation, unlike theirs; and so perhaps it is
that Prometheus cannot but exclaim “I sinned” in opposing that will. Upon
the reconciliation between Zeus and his antagonist, Prometheus became a
local Attic deity and no more. That eternal wisdom which he embodied is
mysteriously assimilated into the soul of Zeus. This is the consummation;
omnipotence and omniscience are at one.
We arrive finally at the trilogy which bears the name ORESTEIA and
which obtained the prize in 458 B.C. This is the only instance in which
the whole series has survived; the satyric play, _Proteus_,[230] has
perished. The name _Oresteia_ was applied to the whole tetralogy.
The background of the AGAMEMNON[231] is the palace of King Agamemnon at
Argos. A sentinel is discovered upon the roof; he is watching for the
beacon which shall signify that Troy has at length fallen. While waiting
he broods, dropping hints that all is not well at home. Then the beacon
flashes forth, and he shouts the news to the Queen Clytæmnestra within
the house. On his departure the chorus enter, aged councillors of Argos,
who have not yet heard the tidings. They sing of the quarrel between
Greece and Troy and describe the sacrifice of Iphigenia, Agamemnon’s
daughter, who was offered up to Artemis in order to obtain a favourable
wind for the fleet. All the altars are blazing with incense; Clytæmnestra
enters, and they ask her the reason. Troy, she replies, was taken last
night; a system of beacons has been arranged; the signal has spread over
sea and land before dawn. She ponders over the state of the captured
city and hopes that the victors have not sinned against the gods of
Troy. The old men sing praise to Heaven and moralize on the downfall of
human pride. A herald appears, announcing that Agamemnon has landed and
will soon reach the city; he dilates on the miseries of the campaign,
till the queen sends him away with her welcome to Agamemnon. The chorus
call him back and ask news of Menelaus, the king’s brother; Menelaus,
he replies, is missing: as the Greeks were sailing home a tempest arose
which scattered the fleet. Agamemnon’s ship has returned alone. The
elders, after he has gone, sing of Helen and the deadly power of her
beauty. Agamemnon arrives, accompanied by the daughter of the Trojan King
Priam, Cassandra the prophetess, who has become his unwilling concubine.
Clytæmnestra greets him with effusiveness, to which he responds
haughtily. She persuades him against his will to walk into the palace
over rich carpets like an Oriental conqueror, and accompanies him within
doors. The chorus express forebodings which they cannot understand. The
queen comes forth and orders Cassandra within, to be present at the
sacrifice of thanksgiving, but the captive pays no heed and Clytæmnestra
in anger retires. The elders attempt to encourage the silent girl, who at
last breaks forth into incoherent cries, not of fear but of horror, and
utters vague but frightful prophecies of bloodshed and sin, punctuated
by the bewildered questions of her hearers. She tells them that they
will see the death of Agamemnon, bewails her own wretchedness, greets
her death, and prophesies the coming of an avenger. She passes into the
house. After a lyric on wicked prosperity, the voice of the king is heard
crying within that he has been mortally wounded. Another shriek follows,
and then silence. The chorus are in a tumult, when the doors are flung
open and Clytæmnestra is seen standing over the corpses of Agamemnon and
Cassandra. She has slain the king with an axe, entrapping him in the
folds of a robe while in his bath. In reply to the furious accusations
of the elders she glories in her act—she is the personification of
the ancestral curse; and she has avenged the murder of Iphigenia. The
altercation has for the moment reached something like calm, when Ægisthus
appears. He is the cousin of Agamemnon, but between the two families
there is a murderous and adulterous feud; Ægisthus himself is the lover
of Clytæmnestra and has shared in the plot. The Argives turn on him in
hatred and contempt, which he answers with tyrannical threats. They
remind him that Orestes, the king’s young son, is alive and safe abroad.
Swords are drawn, but Clytæmnestra insists that the quarrel shall cease;
she and Ægisthus must rule with dignity.
A novel theory of the plot has been put forward by the late Dr. A.
W. Verrall in his edition of the play.[232] He finds the following
difficulties in the usual acceptation: (i) Agamemnon lands in Argos on
the morning after the night in which Troy was captured, though as a
matter of course and a matter of “history” several days (at the very
least) must have elapsed before the Greek host so much as embarked; and
though a storm has befallen the fleet on its way. (ii) The story given by
Clytæmnestra about the beacons is absurd. Why has the arrangement existed
for only one year of the ten? Why make an arrangement which would depend
so entirely on the weather? How could the beacon on Mount Athos have been
seen from Eubœa (a hundred miles away) when a tempest was raging on the
intervening sea? (iii) This mystery, that Agamemnon reaches home only
two or three hours after his signal, is never cleared up: neither he nor
the queen mentions it when they meet. (iv) Thus the whole affair of the
beacons is gratuitous as well as incredible. (v) We are not told how
Agamemnon was slain. That is, though the poet is precise enough about the
details of the actual murder, we are not enlightened as to how a great
and victorious prince could be killed with impunity by his wife and her
lover, who thereupon, with no difficulty, usurp the government. (vi) What
does Ægisthus mean by claiming to have contrived the whole plot? On the
face of it he has done nothing but skulk in the background. Dr. Verrall’s
explanation, set forth with splendid lucidity, skill, and brilliance, may
be briefly summarized thus. For a year Clytæmnestra and Ægisthus have
been joined in a treasonable and adulterous league, Ægisthus knows what
is happening at Troy and has the first news of Agamemnon’s landing (at
night). He lights upon Mount Arachnæus a beacon which tells Clytæmnestra
that all is ready. (Her story of the fire-chain is a lie to deceive
the watchman and the elders.) Agamemnon thus naturally arrives only an
hour or two after the news that Troy has fallen. The assassination-plot
succeeds for various reasons. During the ten years’ war many citizens
of Argos have been alienated from the king by the enormous loss
of Greek lives. Hence the usurpers have a strong body of potential
adherents. In fact, several passages which our texts attribute to the
chorus really belong to conspirators. Next, Agamemnon by the accident
of the storm has with him, not the great host, but a single ship’s
company. Finally, though he has heard much ill of his wife—this only can
account for the brutality wherewith he greets her—he does not suspect
her resourcefulness, wickedness, and courage. Verrall’s theory should
probably be accepted.
This tragedy is beyond compare the greatest work of Æschylus. The lyrics
surpass those of any other drama. To the majesty and scope familiar
everywhere in Æschylean choric writing, and to the tenderness which
diffuses a gentle gleam through the _Prometheus_, are now added matchless
pathos and the authentic thrill of drama. The picture of Iphigenia (vv.
184-249) is not merely lovely and tearful beyond words; it is a marvel
that this gloomy colossus of the stage should for a moment have excelled
Euripides on Euripides’ strongest ground; it is as if Michelangelo
had painted Raffaelle’s “Madonna of the Grand Duke” amid the prophets
and sibyls of the Sistine Chapel. Even more poignant, because more
simple, are the brief lines (vv. 436-47) which tell how the War-God,
the money-changer of men’s bodies, sends back from Troy a handful of
charred dust, the pitiful return for a man who has departed into the
market-place of Death. Best known of all perhaps is the passage (vv.
402-26) which portrays the numb anguish of a deserted husband. Further,
these lyrics are dramatic. The choric songs do not suspend the action
by their sublime elucidations; the comments enable us to understand the
march of events, giving us the keynote of the scene which follows each
lyric. For instance, when the first stasimon dilates, not upon the glory
of conquest, but upon the fall of pride and the sorrows of war, we are
prepared for the herald and his tale in which triumph is overborne by
the memory of hardship and tempest. The misgivings which brood over
the third stasimon, in spite of the victorious entry of the king which
has just been witnessed, is a fit prelude to the terrible outbreaks of
Cassandra.
The characterization shows a marked advance on the _Prometheus_ in
variety and colour. This is not so much because three actors are needed
as against two in the earlier play; for though they are necessary,
comparatively little use is made of the increased facilities. But,
while Clytæmnestra is technically as great a creation as Prometheus,
the secondary persons are much more interesting in themselves than in
the earlier drama. They do of course form a series of admirable foils
to the queen, but they are worthy of careful study for their own sakes,
which cannot be said very heartily for the lesser personages of the
_Prometheus_. The sentinel is excellent, sketched in a few lines with a
sureness of touch which is a new thing in this poet’s minor characters.
The sense of impending trouble mixed with expected joy, the flavour
of rich colloquialism about his speech, and the hearty dance upon the
palace-roof wherewith he hails the beacon, make him live. Even more
commonplace, theoretically, is the part given to the herald, but him
again Æschylus has created a real man. The passionate joy with which he
greets his native soil, and the lugubrious relish wherewith he details
the hardships of the army before Troy, make him our friend at once, and
present us with that sense of atmosphere which is often lacking in Greek
tragedy. Agamemnon may seem a disappointing figure; very naturally, for
it is the poet’s purpose to disappoint us. To depict a great and noble
king would have spoiled the splendid effect of Clytæmnestra. Agamemnon’s
murder must be made for the moment as intelligible as may be, therefore
the dramatist shows us a conceited, heavy-witted, pompous person who none
the less reveals certain qualities which have made it possible for such a
man to overthrow Troy.
Clytæmnestra is Æschylus’ masterpiece—not indeed a masterly picture of
female character; such work was left to others—but a superb presentment
of a woman dowered with an imperial soul, pressed into sin by the memory
of her murdered child, the blind ambition of her husband, and the
consciousness of an accursed ancestry. Here, as elsewhere in these three
tragedies, the architectural skill with which Æschylus plans his trilogy
invite the closest study. In this first part, all the justification which
Clytæmnestra can claim is held steadily before the eyes. The slaughter
of Iphigenia, which killed her love for Agamemnon, is dwelt upon early
in the play and recalled by her once and again during her horrible
conversation with the chorus after the king’s death. Another wrong to her
is brought visibly upon the scene in the person of Cassandra. The sordid
side of her vengeance, her amour with Ægisthus, remains hardly hinted at
until the very end, where it springs into overwhelming prominence—but at
the very moment when we are preparing to pass over to the _Choephorœ_,
the second great stage of the action, in which the mission of Orestes is
to be exalted. Clytæmnestra has been often compared to Lady Macbeth. But
Shakespeare’s creation is more feminine than that of the Athenian. She
evinces inhuman heartlessness and cynicism till the task is accomplished;
before the play ends she is broken for ever. Clytæmnestra never falters
in her resolution, hardly a quiver reveals the strain of danger and
excitement upon her nerves while success is still unsure. When the deed
is accomplished and the strain relaxed, then, instead of yielding to
hysterical collapse, she is superbly collected.[233] Years after, she
re-appears in the _Choephorœ_, but time, security, and power have, to all
seeming, left little mark upon this soul of iron. At the last frightful
moment when she realizes that vengeance is knocking at the gate, her
courage blazes up more gloriously than ever: “Give me the axe, this
instant, wherewith that man was slain”.[234] It is a superb defiance;
for thrilling audacity this passage stands perhaps alone until we come to
the splendid “Stand neuter, Gods, this once, I do invoke you,” with which
Vanbrugh[235] rises, for his moment, into the heights where Æschylus
abode. Yet next moment the knowledge that her lover is dead brings her to
her knees.
Cassandra and Ægisthus have not yet been considered, for they belong also
to the next topic—the method in which the unity of the play is so handled
that it does not interfere with, but helps to effect, the unity of the
whole trilogy. The indescribable power and thrill of Cassandra’s scene
may easily blind us to the slightness of the character-drawing. Simply as
a character, the princess is no more subtly or carefully studied than the
herald; the extraordinary interest which surrounds her arises not from
what she is or does but from what happens to her. She is the analogue of
Io in the _Prometheus_. The mere structure of both plays allots to Io and
Cassandra precisely the same functions. Passive victims of misfortune,
they are the symbol and articulation of the background in the particular
drama; further, they are vital to the economy of the whole series, in
that they sum up in themselves the future happenings which the later
portions of it are to expound. So far, they are the same; but when we
go beyond theoretical structure and look to the finished composition,
Cassandra far outshines Io. The Argive maiden suffers, shrinks, and
laments in utter perplexity. The Trojan suffers, but she does not quail;
her lamentations are hardly lamentations at all, so charged are they with
lofty indignation, and the sense of pathos in human things. Io is broken
by her calamity; Cassandra is purified and schooled. The poet who in this
very play sings that suffering is the path to wisdom has not made us wait
long for an example. There is, too, a definite technical advance in this,
that Io merely hears the prophecy of justification and the possibility
of revenge, while Cassandra in her own person foretells the return of
Orestes.
Ægisthus also, but less obviously, is important to the progress of the
trilogy. His appearance and his speeches are no anti-climax to the
splendid scene of Clytæmnestra’s triumph. The queen and Cassandra have
talked of the Pelopid curse; Ægisthus is the curse personified. It is
through ancient wickedness that he has passed a half-savage life of
brooding exile; the sins of his fathers have turned him into a man fit to
better their instruction. Again, this last scene brings before us in full
power that aspect of Clytæmnestra which has been almost ignored—her baser
reason for the murder of her husband. This is done precisely at the right
place. To dwell on the queen’s intrigue earlier would have deprived her of
that measure of sympathy which throughout this first play she needs. Not
to have depicted it at all would have left that sympathy unimpaired, and
we should have entered upon the _Choephorœ_ fatally unable to side with
Orestes in his horrible mission.
The story of the CHOEPHORŒ[236] (Χοηφόροι, “Libation-Bearers”) is as
follows. The back-scene throughout probably represents the palace of
Argos; in the orchestra[237] is the tomb of Agamemnon. Something like
ten years have elapsed since the usurpation of Ægisthus. Orestes, son
of the murdered king, accompanied by his friend Pylades, enters and
greets his father’s grave, laying thereon a lock of his hair in sign of
mourning; they withdraw. The chorus (led by Electra) enter—attendants
of Electra carrying libations, to be poured in prayer upon Agamemnon’s
tomb. Their song expresses their grief, hints at revenge, and explains
that they have been sent by Clytæmnestra herself, who is terrified by a
dream interpreted to signify the wrath of Agamemnon’s spirit. Electra
discusses the situation with her friends, and pours the libations over
the mound in her own name, not on behalf of her mother, calling upon
the gods and Agamemnon’s spirit to bring Orestes home and punish the
murderess. Electra discovers the tress of hair left by Orestes. That
it has come from him she knows, as it resembles her own;[238] he must
have sent it. In the midst of her excitement, she perceives footprints;
these, too, she recognizes as like her own. Suddenly Orestes appears and
reveals himself. She still doubts, but he exhibits a piece of embroidery
which she herself worked long ago. Electra falls into his arms; Orestes
explains to his friends that Apollo has sent him home as an avenger. In
a long lyrical scene (κομμός), the chorus, Electra, and Orestes invoke
Agamemnon to assume life and activity in aid of his avenger.[239] The
chorus leader tells Orestes of Clytæmnestra’s vision. She dreamed that
she gave birth to a snake, which drew blood from her breast. He expounds
this as foretelling the death of the queen at his hands. Explaining that
he and his followers will gain admission to the palace as travellers,
he departs. The maidens raise a song of astonishment at the crimes of
which mortals are capable, dwelling especially upon the treachery of an
evil woman. Orestes comes back accompanied by his followers, and tells
the porter that he brings news for the head of the house. Clytæmnestra
appears, and receives the feigned message that Orestes is dead. The queen
is apparently overwhelmed, but bids the visitors become her guests.
While the chorus utter a brief prayer for success, the aged nurse of
Orestes comes forth, in grief for the loss of her foster-son. She tells
the chorus she has been despatched by Clytæmnestra to summon Ægisthus
and his bodyguard, that he may question the strangers. They persuade her
to alter the message; let Ægisthus come unattended. When she has gone,
they raise another lyric in passionate encouragement of Orestes. Ægisthus
enters and goes into the guest-wing of the house; in a moment his scream
is heard; the chorus retire.[240] A servant of Ægisthus bursts forth,
proclaiming the death of his master. He flings himself upon the main
door, desperately shouting for Clytæmnestra, who in a moment appears. His
message, “The dead are slaying them that live,” is clear to her: doom is
at hand, but she calls for her murderous axe. Orestes rushes out upon her
with drawn sword. His first words announce the death of Ægisthus, and she
beseeches him piteously for mercy. Orestes, unnerved, asks the counsel
of Pylades, who for the first and last time speaks, reminding the prince
of his oath and the command of Heaven. Clytæmnestra is driven within to
be slain beside her lover. After a song of triumph from the chorus, the
two corpses are displayed to the people; beside them stands Orestes who
brings forth the blood-stained robe wherein Agamemnon was entangled.
The sight of it brings upon the speaker a perturbation strange even in
such circumstances. It is the coming of madness. He sees in fancy the
Furies sent by his mother’s spirit, and rushes away to seek at Delphi the
protection which Apollo has promised. The play ends with a few lines from
the chorus lamenting the sinful history of the house.
The _Choephorœ_ is less popular with modern readers than either of its
companions. This is owing partly to the difficulty of perusal, for
the text of the lyrics is often corrupt; it is still more due to no
accident, but to technique. The second play of a trilogy was usually more
statuesque than the other two. There is, of course, a progress of events,
not merely a Phrynichean treatment of a static theme; but the poet
carefully retards his speed. Thus the _Choephorœ_ should be compared
rather with the _Prometheus_ than with the _Agamemnon_. We then observe
an improvement—if we wish to call it so—in construction. The great Commos
keeps the play almost[241] at a standstill; but the rest of the work is
full of dramatic vigour.
It is true that none of the characters has the arresting quality of those
in the _Agamemnon_. The nurse is a worthy companion to the watchman—her
quaint and explicit references to the trouble caused her by Orestes when
a baby are the most remarkable among the few comic touches found in our
poet; and the part of the slave who gives the alarm, minute indeed, is
yet the finest of its kind in Greek tragedy. But the persons of greater
import—Electra, Ægisthus, and Pylades—would not have taxed the skill of
a moderate playwright. Clytæmnestra is magnificent, but less through
her present part than through the superb continuation of her rôle in
the _Agamemnon_; her scenes are brief, like the glimpse of a fierce
sunset after a lowering day. She is the only person characterized,
except, indeed, Orestes, and even he through most of the drama is not
a character, but a purpose and a few emotions speaking appropriate
sentences. This is true even of the scene where he condemns his mother.
The only touch of genuine drama is the instant where he quails before her
entreaty; but though this is real enough, it is not great. The undoubted
power of the scene is due not to dramatic skill, but to the intrinsic
horror of the situation, Æschylus has given us almost as little as we
could expect. But turn the page and study Orestes’ address to the Argive
state—the increase in dramatic force is appalling. He begins by stately,
vigorous, and impassioned eloquence equal to almost anything in the
_Agamemnon_. The blood-stained robe is displayed, and the hideous sight
seems to eat into his brain. His grip on what he means to say slips;
he struggles to recapture it; one can see his failing mind stagger from
the mother of whom he strives to speak to the garment of death before
him. A word rises to the surface of his thoughts, he snatches at it, but
it brings up with it the wrong phrase. The horror passes into us; this
half-madness is not lunatic incoherence but the morbidly subtle coherence
of a masterful mind struggling against insanity. The deadly net entangles
his brain as it entangled his fathers body. By a final effort he collects
himself and declares that he goes to Delphi to claim the protection and
countenance of Heaven. Then his doom settles upon him; the Furies arise
before him and he flees distraught.
That such immense force should be manifested only at the end of the
play, that until and during the crisis Æschylus exerts only sufficient
dramatic energy to present his situations intelligibly, is the most
significant fact in the _Choephorœ_. This is deliberate in an artist who
has composed the _Agamemnon_ and the _Eumenides_. In the opening stage
it is human sin and courage which provide the rising interest; in the
third the righteousness and wisdom of the Most High unloose the knot and
save mankind; at both periods personality is the basis of action. But
in the middle stage the master is not personality, but the impersonal
Fury demanding blood in vengeance for blood, a law of life and of the
universe, named by a name but possessing no attributes. This law may be
called by a feminine title Erinys; it is called also by a phrase: “Do and
Suffer”;[242] it is the shade of Agamemnon, thirsting—is it for blood as
a bodily drink or for death as expiation?—and sending the dark progeny
of his soul up from Hades. This fact, then, and no person, it is which
dominates the play, and that is why the persons concerned are for the
time no magnificent figures of will or valour or wisdom, but the panting
driven thralls of something unseen which directs their movements and
decides their immediate destiny.
The plot of the third play, the EUMENIDES[243] (Εὐμενίδες, “the Kindly
Ones,” an euphemistic name of the Furies) is as follows. Outside the
shrine at Delphi, the Pythian priestess utters a prayer to all the
deities connected with the spot, after which she enters the sanctuary.
Almost instantly she returns in horror, and tells how she has seen a
blood-stained man seated upon the _Omphalos_ and round him a band of
sleeping females, loathly to the sight. She departs. From the temple
the god appears[244] with his suppliant Orestes, whom he encourages
and sends forth (led by the god Hermes) on his wanderings, which are
to end in peace at Athens. When the two have disappeared, the ghost of
Clytæmnestra rises and awakens the sleeping Furies. They burst forth
from the temple in frenzy at the escape of their victim. In the midst
of the clamour Apollo, with words of contemptuous hatred, bids them
begone. The scene now changes to Athens, where Orestes throws himself
upon the protection of the goddess Athena, whose statue he clasps. In
a moment the chorus of Furies enter in pursuit; they discover Orestes
and describe the horrible doom which he must suffer. He defies them and
calls upon the absent Athena. But they circle about him chanting their
fearful “binding-song”—the proclamation of their office and rights as the
implacable avengers of bloodshed and every other sin. As their strains
die away Athena enters. She hears the dispute in outline, the Furies
insisting that for matricide there can be no pardon, Orestes declaring
that he has been purified ritually by Apollo who urged him to his deed.
The goddess determines that the suit shall be tried by a court of her
own citizens. Meanwhile the Furies sing of the danger to righteousness
which must result if their prerogatives are withdrawn: “terror _has_ a
rightful place and must sit for ever watching over the soul”.[245] The
court of justice is now assembled on the Areopagus. Athena presides; with
her are the jurymen (generally supposed to number twelve); before her are
the Furies and Orestes; behind is a great crowd of Athenian citizens. A
trumpet blast announces the opening of the session, and Apollo enters
to aid Orestes. The trial begins with a cross-examination of Orestes
by the Furies, in which he is by no means triumphant. Apollo takes his
place and gives justification for the matricide, under three heads: (i)
it was the command of Zeus; (ii) Agamemnon was a great king; (iii) the
real parent of a child is the father, the mother being only the nurse.
To prove this last point Apollo instances the president herself, Athena,
born of no mother but from the head of Zeus. He ends by promising that
Orestes, if acquitted, will be a firm and useful ally to Athens. The
goddess now declares the pleading at an end, but before the vote is taken
she delivers a speech to the jury, proclaiming that she now and hereby
founds the Areopagite Court which shall for ever keep watch over the
welfare of Athens by the repression of crime. The judges advance one by
one and vote secretly; but before the votes are counted Athena gives her
ruling that if an equal number are cast on either side Orestes shall be
acquitted, for she gives her casting vote in his favour.[246] The votes
are counted and found equal, and the goddess proclaims that Orestes is
free. Apollo departs, and Orestes breaks forth into thanksgiving and
promises that Argos shall ever be the friend of Athens. He leaves Athena
and her citizens confronted by the Furies, who raise cries of frantic
indignation, turning their rage upon Athens and threatening to blight
the soil, the flocks, and the people. Athena seeks to placate them by
offering a habitation and worship in Attica. For a time they refuse to
listen, but after their fourth song of vengeance they relent. Athena
promises that they are to become kindly earth-deities[247] domiciled in
Attica, blessing the increase of crops, of herds, and of the family. The
citizens, with torches in their hands, form a procession led by Athena,
and conduct the new divinities to their dwelling in a cave beneath the
Acropolis.
It remains to deal with the literary and religious aspects of the play.
The poet sketches Orestes in but a rudimentary style. There is, indeed,
hardly any character-drawing in him; he is simply any brave, sensitive,
religious man. The “human interest” is almost confined to the gods,
without our forgetting that they are surrounded by human auditors. Athena
and the Furies are made to live by a few noble sweeping strokes; Athena,
the majestic presentment of Olympian wisdom and the visible head of her
favoured city; the Furies majestic in their rage, unanswerable in their
claim that punishment of crime cannot be done away if the world is to
endure. Apollo is a curious study, less sublime than we expected. His
manner under cross-examination by the Furies is a little too human;
indeed he loses his temper. The fact is that, though Æschylus has no
desire to treat Apollo irreverently, he is by no means concerned to
depict a perfect being; and for two reasons. Firstly, he insists on
reminding us that Apollo is but the minister of Zeus; it is Zeus only
whom he is bent on exalting. Secondly, he knows well that his audience,
as between the Furies and Apollo, have a strong bias in favour of the
latter. The poet does acquit Orestes, but it is of the deepest importance
in his eyes that we should not complacently regard the Furies as mere
malicious fiends, routed by a gloriously contemptuous Olympian; the
Furies may be wrong, perhaps, but _prima facie_ they have a terribly
strong case. Therefore in the scene of the pleadings they at least hold
their own. Apollo may be more right than they; he is emphatically not
their superior, his personal fiat is not a spiritual sanction profounder
than theirs. Neither party has got to the root of things. The Furies say:
“This man shed the blood of a kinswoman; he must be for ever damned”.
Apollo says: “He has not sinned, for Zeus bade him act thus”. The
acquittal of Orestes is not the solution of this disagreement, it is but
the beginning; we can hardly understand the dispute as yet.
We thus come to the religious aspect of the _Eumenides_. Æschylus is
of course too sincere to be satisfied, or to allow us to be satisfied,
with the fact that Orestes actually escapes. His pursuers attack not
the Argive prince only; much of their language is an indictment of
Apollo, and ultimately of Zeus. It is very well for Apollo to revile
them as “beasts detested by the gods,”[248] but the gods are themselves
arraigned. The earth-powers stand for the principle that sin, especially
bloodshed, must be punished; this demand is recognized as just by
Athena,[249] and is not repudiated by Apollo. Yet Zeus, the Sovereign of
all things, extends his hand over the man who has fallen under their sway
by his act. How shall these claims be reconciled?
The solution of Æschylus is not unlike that which (it appears) he offered
at the end of the Prometheus-trilogy. We are to imagine that we witness
the events of a time when Zeus himself has not attained to full stature.
His face is set towards the perfection of righteousness, but development
awaits even him. In the instance of Orestes, the jar between Furies and
Apollo, or more ultimately between the earth-powers and Zeus, shows
that neither party is perfectly right. None the less, it is essential
that there should be but one master of the universe, and the Furies are
compelled to submit. But Æschylus does not lay down his pen at this
point; nothing does he avoid more carefully than an ending which might
appear as desirable as obvious to a vulgar playwright, some showy tableau
of grovelling fiends and triumphant goddess. The Furies themselves look
for nothing less than moral annihilation[250] as the result of defeat.
But something of which they have never dreamed—of which, probably, no
Greek in the theatre has dreamed—is in store for them; neither victory
nor defeat, but recognition by the power to which they have been
forced to bow, assimilation to that religion from which they have kept
themselves so jealously sundered. They are still to be mighty powers of
earth, yet their function is to be cursing no more, but blessing only.
But is this a solution at all? Is it enough to hint at the thunderbolt,
to offer a bribe of power and worship that the Furies may forget their
rage against Attica?[251] What is to become of their function as
inflexible champions of righteousness, which has been the moral safeguard
of men? This duty the goddesses leave as a legacy to the newly-formed
court of chosen Athenians:—[252]
τὸ μήτ’ ἄναρχον μήτε δεσποτούμενον
ἀστοῖς περιστέλλουσι βουλεύω σέβειν
καὶ μὴ τὸ δεινὸν πᾶν πόλεως ἔξω βαλεῖν.[253]
“Loyalty and worship do I urge upon my citizens for a polity neither
anarchic nor tyrannical; fear must not be banished utterly from the
State.” These are the words of Athena; they are also the words of
Æschylus—a solemn warning to his fellow-citizens; finally, they are the
words of the Furies themselves—the very phrases which they have used are
here borrowed—and go far to explain why they consent to relinquish their
prerogative. First they have regarded the Areopagus with misgiving as a
possibly hostile tribunal; then with hatred as an enemy; at the last they
look upon it with benevolence as their heir to those stern duties which
must not be suffered, under whatever ruler of the world, to fall into
oblivion. It is true at the same time that the poet wished, for reasons
of contemporary politics, to impress upon his countrymen the sacredness
of this ancient court, then threatened with curtailment of its powers and
prestige at the hands of the popular party led by Pericles and Ephialtes;
and the manner in which he weaves this consideration of temporal
interests into the fabric of a vast religious poem is magnificently
conceived. What in a smaller man would have been merely a vulgar
dexterity is sanctified by religious genius. It is not the degradation of
religion, but the apotheosis of politics. The close of the _Eumenides_
is anything but an anti-climax. It is closely knit to the body of the
whole trilogy, showing the manner in which the playwright supposes the
necessary reconciliation between Zeus and the Furies to be made possible
and acceptable. The King of Heaven is mystically identified now and for
ever with Fate.[254] The joyful procession of προπομποί is the sign not
only that the moral government of the world has been set at last upon
a sure basis, but also that this government is already in operation and
sanctifying human institutions.
* * * * *
These seven plays are all that survive complete of the eighty[255]
tragedies and satyric dramas written by Æschylus. Our knowledge of the
lost works rests upon some hundreds of fragments and scattered mention or
comment in ancient writers.
Most interesting and important are those plays which were associated
with the extant dramas; these have been already discussed. Next in
attractiveness is the _Lycurgea_ (Λυκουργεία, or trilogy of Lycurgus), to
which the _Bacchæ_ of Euripides had close affinity in subject. Lycurgus
was a king of the Edoni, a Thracian people, who opposed the religion
of Dionysus when it entered his realm, and was punished with death.
The first play, the _Edoni_ (Ἠδωνοί), depicted the collision between
Dionysus and his enemy. There was an interview in which Lycurgus taunted
the god with his effeminate looks,[256] and which apparently closed with
the overthrow of his palace by the might of the god.[257] The longest
fragment gives an interesting account of the instruments of music used
in the bacchic orgies. The name of the second play is not certain; it
was either _Bassarides_ (Βασσαρίδες) or _Bassaræ_ (Βασσάραι)—the _Women
of the Fawn-Skin_. Here the anger of Dionysus fell upon Orpheus the
musician, who neglected the new deity and devoted himself to Apollo. He
was torn to pieces by the Bacchantes and the Muses gathered his remains,
to which they gave sepulture in Lesbos. The _Youths_ (Νεανίσκοι) formed
the last piece of the trilogy; practically nothing is known of it. It
was the chorus which gave its name to the play in all three cases. The
satyric drama was called _Lycurgus_; if we may judge from one of the
three fragments the tragic treatment of wine was transformed into a
comic discussion of beer.[258]
Another celebrated trilogy had for its theme the tale of Troy. The
_Myrmidons_ (Μυρμιδόνες), named from the followers of Achilles who formed
the chorus, dealt with the death of Patroclus. Achilles, withdrawn from
battle because of his quarrel with Agamemnon, is adjured by the chorus
to pity the defeat of the Greeks. He allows Patroclus, his friend, to go
forth against the Trojans. After doing valiantly, Patroclus is slain by
Hector. The news is brought by Antilochus to Achilles, who gives himself
up to passionate lament. This play was a favourite of Aristophanes, who
quotes from it repeatedly. In this drama occurred the celebrated simile
of the eagle struck to death with an arrow winged by his own feathers,
which was cited throughout antiquity and which Byron paraphrased in one
of his most majestic passages.[259] The story was apparently continued
in the _Nereides_ (Νηρηίδες). Achilles determined to revenge Patroclus.
The magic armour made for him by Hephæstus was brought by his mother
Thetis, accompanied by her sisters, the sea-nymphs, daughters of Nereus,
who formed the chorus. The last play was the _Phrygians_ (Φρύγες) or
_Ransom of Hector_ (Ἕκτορος Λύτρα) in which Priam prevailed upon Achilles
to give up the corpse of Hector for burial. It appears likely that in
the two preceding plays Æschylus followed Homer somewhat closely. But in
the _Ransom_ he did not. Besides the detail to which Aristophanes[260]
makes allusion, that Achilles sat for a long time in complete silence,
no doubt while the chorus and Priam offered piteous and lengthy appeals,
there are differences of conception. In Homer, one of the most moving
features of the story is that Priam goes to the Trojan camp practically
alone. He is met by the God Hermes who conducts him to the tent of
Achilles. Then, solitary among his foes, he throws himself upon the mercy
of his son’s destroyer. No such effect was to be found in Æschylus. The
chorus of Phrygians accompanied their king, and we find in a fragment of
Aristophanes[261] a hint of much posturing and stage-managed supplication.
The _Women of Etna_ (Αἰτναῖαι) was produced in Sicily at the foundation
of Hiero’s new city. In the _Men of Eleusis_ (Ἐλευσίνιοι) Æschylus
dealt with the earliest struggle of Athens—the war with Eleusis, his
own birth-place. More ambitious in its topic was the _Daughters of the
Sun_ (Ἡλιάδες) which dealt with the fall of Phaethon. A pretty fragment
alludes to that “bowl of the Sun” so brilliantly described by Mimnermus,
in which the god travels back by night from West to East. It seems that
the geographical enumerations prominent in the Prometheus-trilogy were
found here also, tinged less with grimness and more with romance. In the
_Thracian Women_ (Θρῇσσαι) Æschylus treated the same theme as Sophocles
in the _Ajax_. It is significant that the death of the hero was announced
by a messenger. Possibly, then, it was a desire for novelty which caused
the younger playwright to diverge so strikingly from custom as to depict
the actual suicide. The _Cabiri_ (Κάβειροι) was the first tragedy to
portray men intoxicated. In the _Niobe_ (Νιόβη) occurred splendid lines
quoted with approbation by Plato:—
Close kin of heavenly powers,
Men near to Zeus, who upon Ida’s peak
Beneath the sky their Father’s altar serve,
Their veins yet quickened with the blood of gods.[262]
The _Philoctetes_ is the subject of an interesting essay by Dio
Chrysostom.[263] All the three great tragedians wrote plays[264] of this
name, and Dio offers a comparison. Naturally, but for us unfortunately,
he assumes a knowledge of these works in his readers; still, certain
facts emerge about the Æschylean work. Men of Lemnos—the island on which
Philoctetes had been marooned—constituted the chorus. To them the hero
narrated the story of his desertion by the Greeks, and his wretched life
afterwards. Odysseus persuaded him to come and help the Greeks at Troy
by a long recital of Hector’s victory and false reports of the death
of Agamemnon and Odysseus. Neither Neoptolemus nor Heracles (important
characters in Sophocles) seems to have been introduced by Æschylus.
Dio comments on the style and characterization. The primitive grandeur
of Æschylus, he remarks, the austerity of his thought and diction,
appear appropriate to the spirit of tragedy and to the manners of the
heroic age. Odysseus is indeed clever and crafty, but “far removed from
present-day rascality”; in fact he seems “absolutely patriarchal when
compared with the modern school”. That the play is named after one of the
persons and not the chorus, leads one to attribute it to a comparatively
late period in the poet’s life. Finally, the _Weighing of the Souls_
(Ψυχοστασία) is remarkable for the scene in Heaven, modelled upon a
passage in the _Iliad_, where Zeus, with Thetis, mother of Achilles, on
one hand, and Eos, mother of Memnon, on the other, weighed in a balance
the souls or lives of the two heroes about to engage in fight before Troy.
* * * * *
In attempting a general appreciation of this poet one should avoid making
the error of judging him practically by the _Agamemnon_ alone. Otherwise
we cannot hope to understand the feeling of fifth century Athens towards
him. Most of his work has vanished, but the collection we possess seems
fairly representative of his development; if we give weight to his
comparatively inferior plays we may understand the feeling of two such
different men as Aristophanes and Euripides. Incredible as it may seem,
by the end of that century Æschylus was looked on as half-obsolete.
Euripides thought of him much as Mr. Bernard Shaw now thinks of
Shakespeare; Aristophanes, lover of the old order as he was, seems to
have felt for the man who wrote the _Agamemnon_ a breezy half-patronizing
affection; while putting him forward in the _Frogs_ to discomfit
Euripides, he handles the older poet only less severely than he handles
the younger. He and his contemporaries viewed Æschylus as a whole, not
fixing their eyes exclusively on his final trilogy.
Let us consider him first as a purely literary artist, a master of
language, leaving his strictly dramatic qualities on one side. We find
that his three great notes are grandeur, simplicity, and picturesqueness.
To describe the grandeur of Æschylus is a hopeless task; some notion of
it may be drawn from the account of his individual works just given,
but the only true method is of course direct study of his writings. The
lyrics, from the _Supplices_ to the _Eumenides_, touch the very height
of solemn inspiration and moral dignity; as it has been often said, his
only peers are the prophets of Israel. The non-lyrical portions of his
work, stiff with gorgeous embroidery, are less like the conversations
of men and women than the august communings of gods; that majestic poem
which has for auditors the Sun himself, the rivers, the mountains, and
the sea, and for background the whole race of man, is not merely written
about Prometheus: it might have been written by Prometheus. But such
magnificence has its perils. The mere bombast for which Kyd and even
Marlowe are celebrated, and which has given us such things as
The golden sun salutes the morn
And, having gilt the ocean with his beams,
Gallops the zodiac in his glistering coach,[265]
was not unknown to Æschylus, as his wayward supporter Aristophanes
with much relish demonstrates. It seems that such extravagances, “the
beefy words, all frowns and crests, the frightful bogey-language,”[266]
occurred entirely in the lost plays. But in those which survive we have
much bombast of phrase, if not of words; the “thirsty dust, sister and
neighbour of mud,”[267] Zeus, “chairman of the immortals,”[268]
Typhos, who belcheth from fire-reeking mouth
Black fume, the eddying sister of the flame,[269]
“drill these words through thine ears with the quiet pace of thy
mind,”[270] “breathe upon him the gale of blood and wither him with the
reeking fire of thine entrails”.[271] Æschylus, indeed, like all poets,
understood the majesty of sounding words, apart from their meaning.
As Milton gloried in the use of magnificent proper names, so does the
Athenian delight in thunderous elaboration. Therefore, not possessing
the chastity of Sophocles, he is occasionally barbarous and noisy;
Aristophanes[272] jests at his lyrics for their frequent exhibition of
sound without sense.
Oddly combined with this occasional savagery of phrase is the second
quality of simplicity. Æschylus, so far as we know, was the creator of
tragic diction. However greatly his successors improved upon him in
flexibility, grace, and subtlety, it was he who first worked the mine of
spoken language, strove to purify the ore, and forged the metal into an
instrument of terror and delight. But even the creator needed practice
in its use. He has a giant’s strength, and at times uses it like a
giant, not like a gymnast. In his earlier work he seems muscle-bound,
clumsy in the use of his new-found powers. He wields the pen as one more
familiar with the spear; the warrior of Marathon does fierce battle with
particles and phrases; he strains ideas to his breast and wrestles with
elusive perfection; we seem to hear his panting when at last he erects as
trophy some noble speech or miraculous lyric. This stiffness of execution
persists faintly even in the _Oresteia_. The earlier tragedies, both
in the characters and in the language, are rough-hewn, for all their
glory. In the _Supplices_ this stark simplicity is actually the chief
note. Here, more than elsewhere, the poet has a strange way of writing
Greek at times as if it were some other language. The opening words of
the Egyptian herald—σοῦσθε σοῦσθ’ ἐπὶ βᾶριν ὅπως ποδῶν[273]—can only be
described as barbaric mouthing. Throughout this play the complete absence
of lightness and speed, the crude beginnings of greatness, a certain
bleak amplitude, are all typical of a new art-form not yet completely
evolved. The poet, himself the beginner of a new epoch, fills us with an
uncanny impression of persons standing on the threshold of history with
little behind them but the Deluge. In the _Persæ_ and the _Septem_ there
is the same instinct for spaciousness, but the canvas shows more colour
and less of the bare sky, for we are now more conscious of background,
the overthrow of Persia and the operations of human sin.
The third characteristic, picturesqueness, is the most obvious of all.
The few instances of bombastic diction noted above are but the necessary
failures of a supreme craftsman. Homer does not stay to embroider his
language with metaphor, which belongs to a more reflective age; Pindar’s
tropes are splendid and elaborate, a calculated jog to the attention.
For Æschylus, metaphor seems the natural speech, unmetaphorical language
a subtlety which requires practice. Danaus in his perplexity ponders
“at the chess-board”;[274] when the assembly votes, “heaven bristles
with right hands”;[275] an anxious heart “wears a black tunic”;[276]
heaven “loads the scales”[277] to the detriment of Persia; the trumpet
“blazes”;[278] misfortune “wells forth”;[279] Amphiaraus “reaps the
deep furrow of his soul”;[280] “the sea laughs in ripples without
number”;[281] the snow descends “with snowy wings”;[282] for an intrepid
woman “hope treads not the halls of fear”;[283] “Fate the maker of swords
is sharpening her weapon”;[284] Anarchy in the State is the “mixing
of mud with water”.[285] The best example of all is the celebrated
beacon-speech in the _Agamemnon_: “The flame is conceived as some mighty
spirit.... It ‘vaults over the back of the sea with joy’; it ‘hands its
message’ to the heights of Macistus; it ‘leaps across’ the plain of
Asopus, and ‘urges on’ the watchmen; its ‘mighty beard of fire’ streams
across the Saronic gulf, as it rushes along from peak to peak, until
finally it ‘swoops down’ upon the palace of the Atreidæ.”[286]
Allied to this picturesqueness of phrase is a picturesqueness of
characterization: Æschylus loves to give life and colour even to his
subordinate persons. Attic literature is so frugal of ornament that
the richness of this writer gains a double effect. The watchman of the
_Agamemnon_ has the effect of a Teniers peasant; Orestes’ nurse in the
_Choephorœ_ is a promise of the nurse of Juliet; the Egyptian herald
conveys with amazing skill the harem-atmosphere—one seems to see that
he is a negro; Hermes in the _Prometheus_ is the father of all stage
courtiers. Again, direct appeals to the eye were made by various quaint
devices—the winged car of the Ocean Nymphs, their father’s four-legged
bird, and the “tawny horse-cock” (whatever it was) which so puzzled
Dionysus.[287] Such curiosities were meant merely as a feast for the idle
gaze, at first; but the serious mind of the poet turned even these to
deeper issues. The red carpets of the _Agamemnon_, and the king treading
upon them in triumph, provided a handsome spectacle to the eye; but the
mind at the same instant fell into grimmer bodements as the doomed man
seemed to walk in blood. So, too, the word-pictures which please the
ear are raised by genius to an infinitely higher power, as in that same
scene, when Agamemnon complains of the waste of purple stuffs, and the
queen seems but to say that there is dye enough left in the sea: “There
is a sea, and who shall drain it dry?” The meaning of the words is as
inexhaustible as the ocean they tell of, revealing abysses of hatred and
love hellishly intertwined, courage to bear any strain, an hereditary
curse whose thirst for blood is never sated, a bottomless well of life.
If we now consider Æschylus on his purely dramatic side, as a builder of
plays, we find again the three distinctive notes, grandeur, simplicity,
and picturesqueness. The grandeur of his architecture is an authentic
sign of his massive genius—it by no means depends on his selection of
divine or terrific figures; the _Persæ_ and the _Septem_ are witnesses.
It is the outcome of his conception of life as the will of God impinging
upon human character. Æschylus knows nothing about “puppets of fate.”
Around and above men is a divine government about which many things may
be obscure, but of which we surely know that it is righteous and the
guardian of righteousness. Man by sin enters into collision with the law.
The drama of Æschylus is his study of the will and moral consciousness
of man in its efforts to understand, to justify to itself, and to obey
that law. Supreme justice working itself out in terms of human will—such
is his theme. Another source of grandeur lies in the perspectives which
his works reveal. This, perhaps most evident in the _Prometheus_, runs
through the other plays; and a technical result of this power is the
skill with which the whole trilogies are wrought. To compose trilogies
rather than simple tragedies shows indeed the instinct for perspective
working at the very heart of his method. Again, if this instinct likens
his work to painting, still more are we led by historical considerations
to make a comparison with sculpture. It has been said[288] that the
earliest play is “like one of those archaic statues which stand with
limbs stiff and countenance smiling and stony.” This brilliant simile
is full of enlightenment. Just as those early Greek statues which
seem to the casual observer merely distressing are to be contrasted,
not with the achievement of Praxiteles but with non-Hellenic art, the
winged bulls of Assyria and the graven hummocks which present the kings
of Egypt, whereupon we perceive the stirrings of life and beauty; so
should the _Supplices_, were it only in our power, be compared to the
rigid declamations from which, to all seeming, tragedy was born. In the
_Supplices_ tragedy came alive like the marble Galatea. Dædalus was
reputed to have made figures that walked and ran; it is no fable of
Æschylus, but the history of his art.
Simplicity, the second note of Æschylus, needs little demonstration after
the detailed account of his plots. The four earlier works contain each
the very minimum of action. The characterization is noble, but far from
subtle. All the persons are simply drawn, deriving their effect from
one informing concept and from the circumstances to which they react.
Euripides in the _Frogs_[289] fastens upon this, remarking, “You took
over from Phrynichus an audience who were mere fools”. A later generation
demanded smartness and subtlety; Æschylus was anything but artful, and
so the same critic accuses him of obscurity in his prologues.[290] The
_Oresteia_ exhibits a marked advance in construction. Leaving on one side
the vexed question of the plot in the _Agamemnon_,[291] we observe in the
_Choephorœ_ what we may call intrigue. Orestes has a device for securing
admission to the palace; the libations by which Clytæmnestra intends to
secure herself are turned into a weapon against her; the chorus intercept
the nurse and alter her message so as to aid the conspiracy. This
ingenuity is perhaps due to the influence of Sophocles.
Thirdly, what may be termed picturesqueness in structure is a matter
of vital import for Æschylus. To write dramatically is to portray life
by exhibiting persons, the vehicles of principles, in contact and
collision. For an artist of the right bent, it is not difficult to select
a scene of history or an imagined piece of contemporary life which under
manipulation and polishing will show the hues of drama. But the earliest
of dramatists turns aside in the main from such topics. His favourite
themes are the deepest issues, not of individual life, but the life of
the race, or the structure of the universe. What is the relation between
Justice and Mercy? Why is the omnipotent omniscient? May a man of free
will and noble instincts escape a hereditary curse sanctioned by heaven?
Such musings demand surely a quiet unhurried philosophic poem, not the
decisive shock of drama. Æschylus devoted himself, nevertheless, not to
literature in the fashion of Wordsworth, but to tragedy. How was he to
write a play about Justice and Mercy, to discuss a compromise between
the rigidity of safe government and the flexibility of wise government?
Justice and Mercy are both essential to the moral universe, says the
theologian—but they are incompatible. Friendship and strife are both
essential to the physical universe, says Empedocles—but how can they be
wedded? This impossibility is everywhere, and everywhere by miracle it is
achieved. This union of opposites pervades the world, from the primitive
protoplasm which must be rigid to resist external shock but flexible to
grow and reproduce itself, to the august constitution of the eternal
kingdom in which “righteousness and peace have kissed each other”. Where,
then, is the playwright to find foothold? His innumerable instances
merge into one another. Æschylus, with noble audacity, lifts us out of
the current of time and imagines a special instance, an instance which
presents the problem in dual form—for example the human tangle of the
Atridean house and the superhuman conflict between Zeus and the powers of
earth. It is assumed that there has been no earlier, less decisive, jar.
In the future, there will be no more. The great question is raised once
for all in its completest, most difficult form. The gradual processes
of time are abolished. Thus Atlas[292] is punished by condemnation to
the task of upholding heaven for ever; how it was sustained before his
offence is a question we must not raise. Hypermnestra[293] is put on
trial for disobeying her father that her husband may live. She is saved
by Aphrodite; and the innumerable cases of conflicts of duty which have
broken hearts in days past are summed up (rather than disregarded) by
this ultimate example. In the _Oresteia_ a man is hunted well-nigh to
death by fiends because he has obeyed the will of God. Why? It can only
be said that until the judgment in the _Eumenides_ all is nebulous,
the world is being governed desperately as by some committee of public
safety; morals, justice, and equity are still upon the anvil. After this
one case no man will ever again be tortured like Orestes; nor indeed, we
may conjecture, will the oracles of Zeus issue behests so merciless as
that which he received.
Finally, something should be said about Æschylus’ views on religion.
Other subjects had an interest for him, geography, history, and
politics,[294] but his never-failing and profound interest in religion
overshadows these. Not only was he interested in the local cults of
Athens, as were his great successors; he is at home in the deepest
regions of theology. Even more than this, he brings back strange messages
from the eternal world, he seeks to purify the beliefs of his fellows by
his deep sense of spiritual fact; he writes the chronicles of Heaven and
bears witness to the conquests of the Most High. Among Greek writers he
is the most religious, and, with Plato and Euripides, most alive to the
importance of belief to the national health. He is not ashamed of the
traditional gospel when he thinks it true: “the act comes back upon him
that did it; so runs the thrice-old saw”.[295] Still less is he ashamed
to denounce false maxims: “From of old hath this hoary tale been spread
abroad among men, that when prosperity hath grown to its full stature it
brings forth offspring and dies not childless; yea, that from good hap
a man’s posterity shall reap unendingly a harvest of woe. But I stand
apart from others, nor is my mind like theirs.”[296] This originality and
sincere mood is shown everywhere. Already we have noted how earnestly
just he is towards the claims of the Furies. The case was no foregone
conclusion for him. To realize how terrible the quarrel was in his eyes
we have only to imagine our feelings had Apollo been defeated. And
defeated he nearly is; the human judges vote equally.
The poet’s clear thinking and ethical soundness are shown in his
treatment of the hereditary Curse or Até (ἄτη). Some great sin brings
this curse into being, and it oppresses the sinner’s family with an
abnormal tendency to further crime. But the descendants are not forced
to sin. The action of the curse, according to Æschylus, is upon their
imagination. When some temptation to wrong-doing occurs to them, as to
all men, they may suddenly remember the curse and exclaim in effect: “Why
struggle against this temptation? our house is ridden by an Até which
drives us to sin”. Thus they rush upon evil with a desperate gusto and
abandon. So Eteocles[297] cries:—
Since Heav’n thus strongly urges on th’ event,
Let Laius’ race, by Phœbus loathed, all, all
Before the wind sweep down the stream of Hell!
But the curse can be resisted. The house of Atreus fed its curse from
generation to generation by criminal bloodshed. But Orestes shed blood
only at the behest of Heaven, and so combined necessary vengeance with
innocence. Thus the curse was laid to rest.[298]
The revision to which he subjected the myths of popular religion is
therefore characteristic. There were four leading phenomena which it
was necessary somehow to co-ordinate if a consistent faith was to be
possible. First, there was the Olympian hierarchy, the object of the
State-religion at Athens as elsewhere. Secondly, there was Chthonian
religion or the worship of earth-powers. Thirdly, there was the vague,
less personal, power called Fate. And lastly, there was conscience,
the feeling that sin polluted the soul, not merely the hands of the
wrong-doer.[299] None of these four conceptions was by itself adequate
in the eyes of Æschylus. The Olympians, though the rulers of men and
on the whole their friends, were according to universal report stained
with all the crimes of humanity. The earth-deities ruled only by fear;
they punished but they did not inspire; nor was it clear that their
power was not somehow subordinate to that of Heaven. Fate was impersonal
and had no moral aspect on which men could base their understanding of
its law. The conception of personal righteousness had no visible basis
in the scheme of things; there was no power outside man who guaranteed
the authenticity of his thirst for holiness. When once Æschylus set
out on his self-appointed path, he brooked no obstacle. First, as to
the Olympian gods, he explains away the difficulties. Most of them are
frankly ignored,[300] edifying accounts being substituted for them; some
few are accepted with a shrug.[301] Zeus is no longer the head of a
turbulent confederacy; he has become the father and lord of powers who
obey him implicitly and derive their prerogatives from his will. The
earth-deities, as has been shown, surrender their moral functions and
become mere spirits of fertility, localized, in the case of the Furies,
upon Attic soil. Nothing, even in this writer, is more audacious than
the monotheistic fervour which transforms these terrific beings into a
species of fairy. Fate, again, is mysteriously assimilated to Zeus; the
unvarying laws of the universe are invested with a moral tendency and a
personal will. And lastly, the conception of human holiness finds its
sanction in that will. Zeus bids us be righteous, and our faith affirms
that he will punish the guilty and reward the good.
CHAPTER IV
THE WORKS OF SOPHOCLES
Of more than a hundred plays written by Sophocles, only seven
survive entire. These shall now be discussed in what is probably the
chronological order.
The AJAX[302] (Αἴας, sometimes called Αἴας μαστιγοφόρος, from his
scourging of the cattle) cannot be dated. It is generally agreed that
this work and the _Antigone_ are the two earliest extant plays; which
of the two was produced first it is difficult to say.[303] Perhaps an
important feature of technique settles this—both tragedies need three
actors, but the _Ajax_ in this respect is more tentative than the
_Antigone_.
The scene is laid before the tent of Ajax on the plain of Troy. Enraged
by the action of the Greeks in awarding to Odysseus instead of to himself
the arms of the dead Achilles, Ajax sought to slay Agamemnon, Menelaus,
and others in their sleep. The goddess Athena sent madness upon him so
that he slaughtered cattle in their stead. Coming to himself he realizes
his shame, and eluding his friends—the chorus of Salaminian sailors and
the Trojan captive, Tecmessa (who has borne him a son),—he retires to
a lonely spot by the sea and falls upon his sword. His brother Teucer
returns too late to save him, but in time to confront and defy Agamemnon
and Menelaus, who have decreed that Ajax’ body shall be left unburied.
At length Agamemnon is induced by Odysseus to forgo his purpose.
No Greek play gains so much by re-reading as the _Ajax_. The character
of the hero steadily grows on us; it is not that we admire him more, but
that we feel a deeper sympathy. As he gains in clearness, he lifts the
other characters into the light. Ajax is a man dowered with nobility,
sensitiveness, and self-reliance, but ruined by the excess of those
qualities. His nobility has become ambition, his sensitiveness morbidity,
his self-reliance pride. He offends Heaven by his haughtiness, and is
humbled; then, rather than accept his lesson, he shuns disgrace by
suicide. This resolution is strong enough to overbear the appeals of
Tecmessa and the silent sway of his little son; he faces death calmly and
even thoughtfully. Grouped round the central figure are first Tecmessa
and Teucer, and on a lower plane Odysseus, Menelaus, Agamemnon, and the
chorus. Athena stands apart.
Tecmessa is one of the loveliest creations of Sophocles; there clings
about her a silvery charm which is strangely refreshing amid the turbid
grandeur of the play. Tenderness, patience, courage—these are commonplace
enough upon the stage; yet Sophocles has made of them something frail but
indestructible, and touched her with his own greatest charm—an unearthly
eloquence of which we shall speak later:—
ἀλλ’ ἴσχε κἀμοῦ μνῆστιν. ἀνδρί τοι χρεὼν
μνήμην προσεῖναι, τερπνὸν εἴ τί που πάθοι.[304]
When Ajax is dead, it is she, not Teucer (as Ajax had hoped) who finds
the body, and this marvel of quiet tenderness gleams forth again. She
hardly laments at all; the chorus who accompany her are more moved.
So accustomed is she to sorrow and self-repression that grief is her
natural element; she utters a few quiet words of noble pity, and when
the sailors press forward to view the dead she gently says “ye must not
look on him,” and covers the body with a robe. Her self-command is so
absolute that it can bend; she will even say “Alas! What shall I do?”
when confronted with a mere perplexity about the removal of the corpse.
Teucer is Ajax himself without the madness and the illumination; he
stands in the same relation to his half-brother as Mark Antony in
Shakespeare to Julius Cæsar; he is an ideal presenter of Ajax’ claims if
they are to be presented at all to people like Menelaus and Agamemnon.
Menelaus is more active in debate, more brilliantly vulgar, than his
brother, who wisely takes his stand upon general principles, and hardly
mentions at all the decision not to bury Ajax. Agamemnon is conscious
of his weak position; finally, he succeeds in retiring without complete
loss of dignity. Odysseus is apparently intended as the antithesis to
Ajax—discreet, forgiving, and impressed by the power of Heaven. Though
but a sketch, he is a striking figure; after all the anguish and outcry,
it is the normal man who emerges as the pivot of events and saves the
situation.
The Salaminian sailors offering no special features, there remains
only Athena, who dominates the “prologue”. In contrast with the
fully-developed beings whom we have studied in the _Oresteia_ she
is amazingly crude. The fact is that we ought not to consider her
“character” at all. She is simply divine punishment roughly (but not
casually) personified and given the name Athena. She gloats over the
madman whom even the mortal standing beside her pities, and the only
lesson she draws for him is that men must shun pride. It is natural,
but useless, to call her a fiend; she serves merely as the visible and
audible symbol that Heaven punishes haughty independence of spirit. That
instead of mere evolutions of puppets we have a striking drama is due
simply to the fact that Sophocles is interested far more in Ajax than in
the goddess.
Two real or apparent defects must be noted. Firstly, we are shocked, or
we should be shocked, by the actions (if not the character) of Ajax—a
point often disregarded, probably through an idea that his bloodshed
was caused by madness. But the goddess, by so deluding him, turned his
rage from man to beast. He makes a deliberate attempt to murder the
Atridæ in their sleep, together with an indefinitely large number of
their followers, and this in the course of a campaign. It can hardly
be doubted that the doom pronounced by the general, that such a man
(to ignore his personality for the moment) shall not be buried, would
have met with faint reprobation, either at the time supposed or among
the contemporaries of the poet. Again, the indifference with which Ajax
treats Tecmessa amounts to sheer brutality. Many readers have supposed
that the prince cherishes affection for her, but conceals it under a show
of roughness to avoid “breaking down”. This is a mere fancy. Nothing in
Ajax’ conduct, and practically[305] nothing in his words, betrays any
interest whatsoever in Tecmessa. The man is absorbed almost entirely by
his sense of wounded dignity. He bids an affectionate farewell to his
child, he speaks lovingly of his own parents and of Teucer; but nothing
can prevent him from escaping disgrace by self-destruction. When about to
fall upon his sword he mingles with his farewells a fierce behest to the
Furies to destroy the whole Greek host which has slighted him. So far as
the first part of this tragedy is concerned, Ajax is a magnificent brute;
he is better dead.
The second difficulty is that Ajax dies at v. 865, but the play continues
for five or six hundred lines more. This great space is occupied by a
long dispute about his burial, which modern readers find tedious. But the
difficulty arises from a mischievous idea that the culmination of every
tragedy is the hero’s death. Often it is only a step towards the real
crisis. In _Ajax_ the theme is not his death, but his rehabilitation: the
disgrace, the suicide, the veto on his burial, Teucer’s defiance, the
persuasions of Odysseus, are all absolutely necessary. The culminating
point is the dispute about his burial, especially since Ajax was one of
the Attic “heroes,” and the centre of a hero’s cult was his tomb.[306]
This explanation enables us to regard the whole play as an organic unity.
It helps, moreover, to meet the first difficulty—the character of Ajax.
It must be remembered that a man became a “hero” not necessarily through
any nobility or holiness of his life. It was rather the fact that he had
passed through strange, unnatural experiences, had even committed morbid
crimes, so long as those offences were purged by strange sufferings and
death, violent, superhuman, or pitiable. Such was Œdipus, and such is
Ajax. Greek feeling would have made a “hero” of Lear, of Hamlet, perhaps
of Othello. Ajax is a man of essentially noble mould—this the speeches of
Teucer express admirably—who sins deeply and suffers strangely. That he
happens to evoke less admiration from us than the other tragic figures
just mentioned matters little. Lack of tenderness towards women was the
rule at Athens; and hatred of enemies, which Ajax carried to such insane
length, was commoner still. But what of the lowered tone which marks the
end of the tragedy? Teucer’s speech on the warlike achievements of his
brother is, indeed, beyond praise; but much of his other remarks, and of
the language held by the Atridæ, is mere brawling. But these quarrels
bring into relief the proud nobility of the man who lies between the
disputants, dead because he would not stay to rehabilitate himself by
such bickering.
The ANTIGONE[307] (Ἀντιγόνη) was produced about 441 B.C. The scene is
laid before the palace at Thebes, on the morning after the repulse of
the Argives who had come to restore Polynices. Creon, King of Thebes,
publishes an edict that no one shall give burial to the corpse of
Polynices on pain of death. Antigone, sister of the dead man, despite
the advice of her sister Ismene, performs the rite and is haled before
Creon. She insists that his edict cannot annul the unwritten primeval
laws of Heaven. The king, disregarding the admonitions of his son Hæmon,
betrothed to Antigone, sends her to the cave of death. The prophet
Tiresias warns him that the gods are angered by the pollution which comes
from the unburied corpse. Urged by the chorus, Creon relents, and hastens
first to bury Polynices, then to release Antigone, who has, however,
already hanged herself. Hæmon stabs himself by her body. On hearing of
his death his mother Eurydice, wife of Creon, commits suicide. The play
ends with Creon’s helpless grief.
This play is perhaps the most admired of Sophocles’ works. But the
admiration often rests on a misunderstanding. It is customary to regard
Antigone as a noble martyr and Creon as a stupidly cruel tyrant, because
of an assumption that she must be what a similar figure would be, and
often has been, in a modern play. Memories of Cordelia confronting Lear,
of Dorothea in _The Virgin Martyr_ of Massinger and Dekker, beguile us
so that we read that character into the play. The principle upheld by
Antigone, and that upheld by Creon, are _prima facie_ of equal validity.
The poet may, possibly, agree with Antigone rather than with the king,
but the current belief, that the princess is splendidly right and her
oppressor ignobly wrong, stultifies the play; it would become not tragedy
but crude melodrama. In judging Attic literature there is nothing which
it is more vital to remember than the immense importance attached by
Athenians to the State and its claims. We are alive to the sanctity
of human life, but think far less of the sanctity of national life.
An English reader, therefore, regards Creon with all the reprobation
which his treatment of Antigone can possibly deserve; but whatever
justification is inherent in the case he almost ignores.
The truth is that Creon commits a terrible act owing to a terrible
provocation. His act is the insult to Polynices’ body, which he maintains
at the cost of Antigone’s life; his justification is the fact that the
dead man, though a Theban, was attacking Thebes and would have destroyed
the State. Antigone stands for respect to private affection, Creon for
respect to the community. It is impossible to say at the outset which
is the more important, and the problem may well be insoluble. But it is
precisely because of this that the _Antigone_ is a tragedy. To accept
the customary view, and yet insist that Sophocles is a great dramatist,
is mere superstition; the work becomes the record of an insane murder.
On _a priori_ grounds, then, we may believe that Sophocles by no means
condemns Creon off-hand. It is not satisfactory to argue that Thebes
should have been satisfied with the death of the invader. Since he was a
Theban his attack was looked on as the foulest treachery, which merited
extreme penalty, both by way of revenge and as a warning to others.
(Just the same view is held by the authorities in the _Ajax_.) The play
presents a problem both for the king and for his kinswoman: “I am right
to punish this traitor’s corpse; am I justified in killing others who
thwart the punishment?” “I am right to show love and pity for my dead
brother; am I justified in flouting the State?” Antigone is only Creon
over again with a different equipment of sympathies. That one loves his
country with a cold concentration which finds enemies and treachery
everywhere, while the other passionately loves her dead brother, should
not blind us to the truth that Antigone has all Creon’s hardness and
narrowness, and especially all his obstinacy. That tenderness and womanly
affection which we attribute to the princess are amiable inventions of
our own, except the love which she bears Polynices. This love is not
to be in any sense belittled, but it is simply an instinct, like that
of Creon in matters of State, an instinct to which she will, like him,
sacrifice all else. If Creon sacrifices Antigone for his ideal, she
sacrifices Hæmon for hers. He shows brutality to his son, she to her
sister. That a compromise between the demands of the State and private
conscience is, however unwelcome, necessary, never occurs to either
party, and those who, like Hæmon and Ismene, urge such a thought upon
them are insulted. This blindness to the psychology of Antigone has led
to actual meddling with Sophocles’ text. In her last long speech occurs
a celebrated “difficulty,” namely, her statement[308] that if the dead
man had been a child or husband of hers, she would not thus have given
her life; but the case of Polynices is different, since (her father and
mother being dead) she can never have another brother. These lines are
generally bracketed as spurious because unworthy of Antigone’s character
and inconsistent with the reason for her act which she has already[309]
given, namely, the “unwritten and unshaken laws of Heaven”. Any idea that
the passage was inserted in “later times” is rendered impossible by the
fact that Aristotle[310] quotes it (about 340 B.C.) and the presumption
is that the words are the poet’s own. Indeed, the “difficulty” exists
only in the minds of those who attribute inconsistency in a character to
incompetence in the playwright. But while illogical people exist it is
hard to see why a dramatist should not depict them. Antigone’s “reason”
is stupid, no doubt, but what could be more dramatic? It is no novelty
that a person capable of courageous action cannot argue well about it;
there is a logic of the heart that has little to do with the logic of the
brain. Antigone _has_ no reasons; she has only an instinct. Here, and
here only, Sophocles has pressed this point home, and the popular view
has no resource but to reject the passage.
Whom does Sophocles himself approve, the king or his opponent? Neither.
Attention to the plot will make this clear. The _peripeteia_ or “recoil”
is the revelation that the gods are angered by the pollution arising from
the body, and that owing to their anger grave peril threatens Creon’s
family. It is this news which causes his change of purpose. Polynices
is therefore buried by the king himself despite his edict. These facts
show that ultimately both Antigone and Creon are wrong. Heaven is
against Creon, as he is forced at last to see—Antigone’s appeal to the
everlasting unwritten laws is in this sense justified. But Antigone is
wrong also. She should have left the gods to vindicate their own law.
Such a statement may seem ignobly oblivious of religion, human nature,
and the courage which she shows. But it is not denied that Antigone is
noble and valiant: she may be both, yet mistaken and wrong-headed. One is
bound to consider the facts of the plot. Why is she at first undetected
yet compelled by circumstances to perform the “burial”-rites twice?
Simply to remind us that, if Creon is resolved, she _cannot_ “bury”
Polynices. The king has posted guards, who remove the pious dust which
she has scattered; and this gruesome contest could continue indefinitely.
She throws away her life, _and with no possible confidence that her
brother will in the end be buried_. It is precisely this blindness of
hers which makes the tragedy—her union of noble courage and unswerving
affection with inability to see the crude facts of a hateful situation.
Her obstinacy brings about the punishment of Creon’s obstinacy, for
Eurydice’s death is caused by Hæmon’s, and Hæmon’s by Antigone’s. Had she
not intervened all these lives would have been saved. The whole action
might have dwindled to a mere revolting incident: the king’s barbarity,
the anger of the gods, and the king’s submission. The tragedy would have
disappeared: it is Antigone’s splendid though perverse valour which
creates the drama.
A difficulty of structure has been found[311] in the fact that Creon,
despite his haste to free Antigone, tarries for the obsequies of
Polynices. Why does he not save the living first? This “problem” arises
merely from our insistence on the overwhelming importance of Antigone
and our disregard of the real perspective. The explanation is simply
that Creon has just been warned of the grave danger to the whole State
and his family from the anger with which the gods view his treatment of
Polynices—an offence which Tiresias emphasizes far more than that against
Antigone; and the community, nay, even the several persons of Creon’s
family, are more important than one woman.
The lyrics of this play are among the finest in existence. The first
ode expressing the relief of Thebes at the destruction of the ravening
monster of war, the third which describes the persistence of sorrow from
generation to generation of the Theban princes, the brief song which
celebrates the all-compelling influence of love, with its exquisite
reminiscence of Phrynichus,[312] the last lyric, a graceful invocation
to the God Dionysus, and above all, the famous ode upon man and his
quenchless enterprise, all these are truly Attic in their serene,
somewhat frigid, loveliness.
The ELECTRA[313] (Ἠλέκτρα) has by most[314] critics been regarded as
next in time to the _Antigone_. The scene shows the palace of Agamemnon
now inhabited by his murderers, Clytæmnestra and her lover Ægisthus.
Orestes, son of Agamemnon, returns to avenge him by slaying his own
mother Clytæmnestra; he is accompanied by Pylades, his friend, and
by an old slave. Chrysothemis, daughter of Agamemnon and sister of
Electra, is sent by Clytæmnestra to appease the ghost of Agamemnon, but
is persuaded by Electra to pray his help for Orestes. The slave of
Orestes brings false news to the palace that Orestes has been killed in
a chariot-race at Delphi, so that the queen is relieved from fear of
vengeance. Chrysothemis returns, joyfully announcing Orestes’ arrival—she
has seen a lock of his hair on the tomb; but her sister replies that he
is dead. While Electra mourns for her brother he himself brings in an
urn, pretending to be a messenger who has conveyed home the ashes of
Orestes. Electra’s lamentation over it reveals who she is, and Orestes
makes himself known. Then the men go inside to slay Clytæmnestra, while
Electra remains watching for Ægisthus. After the slaughter he arrives and
triumphantly orders the body to be carried forth, but when he uncovers it
he finds the corpse of Clytæmnestra. He is then driven within to death.
The _Choephorœ_, the _Electra_ of Sophocles, and the _Electra_ of
Euripides supply the only surviving instance in which the three
tragedians handled the same story; at present it is enough to note the
differences between the method of Sophocles and that of the _Choephorœ_.
For Æschylus the slaying of Clytæmnestra is a question of religion and
ethics, for Sophocles it is a matter of psychology, the emotional history
of Electra. He is content to take the religious facts for granted, and
then to proceed with no misgivings to a purely human drama. The play
begins amid the bright, cheerful surroundings of dawn and ends with
happiness. When Orestes comes forth, his sword wet with his mother’s
blood, he is entirely satisfied and untouched by any misgivings, simply
because the question of matricide has been settled for him by Heaven.
He is a personified theory of Olympian religion. His words to Electra
after the queen is dead: “In the house all is well, if Apollo’s oracle
spoke well,”[315] are the summary of Sophocles’ religious point of view.
Carefully and confidently referring the question of this matricide to a
higher judge than Man, he proceeds to his actual business. Equally marked
is the difference between the closing sentence of the _Choephorœ_,
“Where then will end the fatal fury, when pass into closing calm?”[316]
and that of the later work: “O house of Atreus, through how many
sufferings hast thou come forth at last in freedom, crowned with good by
this day’s enterprise!”[317] For Sophocles the deed is done and behind
us; for Æschylus it lives to beget new sorrows.
Electra dominates the action, scarcely leaving the scene after her first
entry. Though not a great character-study, she impresses us by the
pathos of her situation and by the splendid expression of her emotions;
her lament over the funeral urn is perfect in the rhetoric of sorrow.
Almost motionless throughout the long and varied action; the mark for
successive onslaughts of insult, misery, surprise, grief, hatred, and
joy, she is thrown into relief by all who approach her, especially
Chrysothemis, whose princely robes add emphasis to the heroic meaning of
the sordid dress worn by her royal sister. She is a simple character and
needs little ornament; her devotion, patience, and courage are plain to
behold. But we should note the masterly, yet unobtrusive way in which her
feelings towards Clytæmnestra are portrayed. Hating her steadily as the
slayer of Agamemnon, she cannot quite forget (as does Euripides’ heroine)
that Clytæmnestra is her mother. After her outburst of reproach against
the queen she has enough flexibility of mind to own[318] that she is in
a way ashamed of it—a simple touch which shows Sophocles a master, not a
slave, of his own conceptions. A more subtle indication of her spirit is
shown in Electra’s speech to Chrysothemis urging her to aid in the deed
of vengeance. All she proposes is that they should slay Ægisthus. But
there is an undercurrent of emphasis which shows[319] that she intends
the death of Clytæmnestra also.
The other personages are mostly well-drawn. Orestes is commonplace,
but the other four are distinctly imagined. The tiny part of Ægisthus
admirably reveals the malicious upstart; Chrysothemis is another Ismene,
with more energy and lightness. The Pædagogus reminds one of the guard in
the _Antigone_ by his quaint witticisms—“if I had not been watching at
the door from the first, your plans would have entered the house before
your bodies”.[320] Clytæmnestra, too, is admirable. More closely akin
to an Euripidean than to an Æschylean character, she defends herself
elaborately and gives way to fits of ill-temper and petty rancour; but
she has some maternal feeling left—witness the confusion of emotions with
which she greets the news of Orestes’ death.
The sorrows and character of Electra form one of the two great features
of this tragedy. The other is the stage-craft. First there is a distinct
element of intrigue, that is, of plot as contrived not by the poet but
by the characters. Not only do the avengers gain access to the house
by a false story; this much is to be found already in the _Choephorœ_.
There are two distinct visitors to the house: the Pædagogus with his tale
of the fatal race, and Orestes bringing the funeral urn. It is to this
duplication—for otherwise Clytæmnestra would have been present when the
urn was brought—that we owe the splendid scene of the Recognition, with
its introductory lament by Electra. Again, as in Æschylus the nurse sent
by Clytæmnestra is induced to change her message to Ægisthus in a way
vital to the conspirators, so here Chrysothemis is caused by her sister
to invoke the aid of Agamemnon against the queen instead of seeking to
assuage his wrath. Further, whereas Ægisthus might have entered the
house and been slain without more ado, Electra, by telling him that the
messengers have brought the very body of Orestes home, induces the
king to summon them forth with the corpse; thus the end of the play is
rendered vigorous (indeed melodramatic) by his triumphant unveiling of
the body which proves to be that of the queen.
Besides these admirable strokes of a rather sophisticated “sense of
the theatre” there are powerful effects which arise naturally from the
circumstances. Clytæmnestra offers a prayer to the very god who has sent
the avenger. Electra’s wonderful address to the ashes of her brother
gains greatly by the fact that he stands living beside her. A splendidly
dramatic effect is obtained by the return of Chrysothemis—the most
“modern” point of the whole work. She has been sent away for a certain
purpose, but in the stress of later happenings we forget her. Suddenly
she re-appears with news—the result of her mission—news startling in
itself, but ten times more so because of the events which (without her
knowledge) have just occurred. Again, it is quite natural that Electra
should come forth while Clytæmnestra is being slain, since some one must
be on the alert for Ægisthus. This gives opportunity for the terrible
little passage where the queen’s agonized appeals inside the house are
answered by the tense answers or comments of this tragic figure rigid
before the gate.
The ŒDIPUS TYRANNUS[321] (Οἰδίπους Τύραννος), often called _Œdipus Rex_
or _Œdipus the king_, is a play of uncertain date, but it seems later
than _Electra_ and earlier than _Philoctetes_.
The plot is rather intricate and must be given at greater length. The
scene shows the palace of Œdipus at Thebes. The people are smitten by a
pestilence; and all look to the king, who has already sent his wife’s
brother, Creon, to ask advice from the Delphic oracle. Creon enters,
bringing tidings that Thebes will be freed if the city is purged of
those who killed Laius, the former king. Œdipus asks for particulars,
and learns that Laius was killed by some robbers. Only one man escaped.
The king calls upon the slayer to declare himself, promising no worse
treatment than exile; he asks also any man who knows the guilty one
to speak. If no one confesses, he denounces civil and religious
excommunication against the unknown. The chorus-leader suggests that the
prophet Tiresias should be consulted; Œdipus replies that he has been
already summoned. The coryphæus remarks casually that some say Laius
was slain by certain wayfarers. Tiresias enters, but shows a repugnance
even to discuss the problem, till Œdipus in a rage accuses Tiresias of
complicity in the murder. An altercation follows in which the prophet
accuses Œdipus of having killed Laius. The other, filled with wrath,
proclaims that Tiresias and Creon are plotting to make Creon king in his
stead. Tiresias threatens the king with mysterious horrors and downfall.
Œdipus bids him begone, and rates him for a fool. “Foolish, perhaps,
in your eyes,” says the old man, “but thought wise by the parents that
begat thee.” Œdipus is startled. “Parents? Stay! What man begat me?”
The answer is: “This day shall show thy birth and thy destruction”. The
king again bids him go. As he turns away, Tiresias utters his farewell
speech. The murderer of Laius is here, supposed an alien, but in reality
Theban-born. Bereft of his sight and his riches he shall go forth into a
strange land, and shall be found brother and father of his children, son
and husband of his wife, murderer and supplanter of his father. Creon
enters, dismayed by the charges of Œdipus, when the king appears, heaps
reproaches upon the supposed traitor, and insists that Creon shall die.
The noise of their dispute brings from the palace Jocasta, sister of
Creon and wife of Œdipus; she brings about a half-reconciliation between
the two princes, and asks the cause of the quarrel. Œdipus tells of the
accusation pointed at himself by Tiresias. Jocasta seeks to console him
by a proof that soothsaying is not trustworthy. “An oracle once came to
Laius that he should be slain by a son of his and mine. None the less,
he was slain by foreign robbers at a place where three roads meet; and
the child, not three days old, was cast out upon a mountain, his ankles
yoked together.” This speech, so far from comforting the king, fills
him with alarm. The phrase “a place where three roads meet” has struck
him. He anxiously asks for a description of Laius and the number of his
followers. The replies disturb him still more, and he asks that the
single survivor, now a herdsman far from the city, should be sent for.
Jocasta asks the reason. He tells the story of his early manhood: he is
the son of Polybus, King of Corinth, but one day a man insulted him by
saying he was no son of Polybus. The youth asked the Delphic oracle of
his birth, but the god, instead of answering directly, announced that
he was fated to marry his mother and kill his father. Œdipus cheated
the oracle by never seeing his parents again. On his way from Delphi he
met a body of men such as Jocasta has described, and after a quarrel
slew them all. It seems that he is himself the slayer of Laius and is
subject to the curses which he has himself uttered. His only hope lies
in the survivor who, it is understood, always spoke of robbers, not of
a single assailant. If this is accurate, Œdipus is not meant by the
recent oracle. A messenger from Corinth enters, bringing news that the
people of that city intend to make Œdipus their king; Polybus is dead.
Jocasta exclaims that Polybus was the man whom Œdipus feared he must
slay. She mocks at the oracle and summons Œdipus, who shares her relief,
but reminds her that his mother still lives. The messenger asks what
woman they are discussing. “I can free you from that fear,” he exclaims;
“Œdipus is not the son of Polybus and Merope.” Further questioning from
Œdipus brings forth the explanation. The present messenger gave Œdipus,
when a babe, to Polybus. He was found in the glens of Cithæron, where the
man was tending flocks, his ankles fastened by an iron thrust through
them. Who did this the Corinthian cannot say, but the man who gave him
to the Corinthian should know—another herdsman brought him, one of the
household of Laius. Œdipus asks if this man can be found. The chorus
answer that probably he is the person already summoned, and that perhaps
the queen can tell. Œdipus turns to Jocasta, who flings him a few words
of agony and sorrow and rushes into the house. Œdipus turns away in
contempt, for he believes that Jocasta’s distress springs from a fear
that he will be found of ignoble birth. The aged servant of Laius now
approaches, and is recognized by the Corinthian as the man who gave him
the child. A conversation of intensest thrill follows between the two
herdsmen, in which the Corinthian is eager, while the Theban is utterly
reluctant, only answering under the direst threats from the king. At
length it becomes plain that the babe Œdipus is the son of Laius and
Jocasta. The king with a cry of horror rushes into the palace. A slave
enters and tells how Jocasta has hanged herself, and how Œdipus has
destroyed his own sight. After an interval Œdipus staggers forth, a sight
of ghastliness and woe. Creon now appears as ruler of the city and bids
Œdipus be hidden in the house. The wretched man asks that he be cast
forth to dwell upon Cithæron; Creon replies that the oracle must first be
consulted. Œdipus bids a heart-broken farewell to his little daughters,
and Creon takes them all into the palace.
The _Œdipus Tyrannus_ has been universally admired as a masterpiece,
ever since the time of Aristotle, who in his _Poetic_ takes this play
as a model of tragedy. The lyrics are simple, beautiful, and even
passionately vigorous; the dialogue in language and rhythm is beyond
praise; and the tragic irony, for which this poet is famous, is here at
its height. But the chief splendour of the work is its construction,
its strictly dramatic strength and sincerity. The events grow out of
one another with the ease of actual life yet with the accuracy and the
power of art. We should note the two great stages: first, the king fears
that he has slain Laius; second, that he has slain _his father Laius_.
This distinction, so vital to the growing horror, is kept admirably
clear and is especially pointed by the part of the aged Theban. When he
is summoned, it is to settle whether Laius was slain by one man or by
a company; by the time he arrives, this is forgotten, and all wait to
know from whom he received the outcast infant. Equally wonderful is the
skill with which almost every stage in the discovery is made to rise from
the temperament of Œdipus. He is the best-drawn character in Sophocles.
Not specially virtuous, not specially wise—though full of love and pity
for his people and vigorous in his measures for their safety, he is too
imperious, suspicious, and choleric. His exaggerated self-confidence,
dangerous in a citizen, is almost a crime in a prince. The only notable
virtue in his character is the splendid moral courage with which he
faces facts, nay, more, with which he insists on unearthing facts which
he might have left untouched. And the core of the tragedy is that this
virtue of Œdipus, his insistence on knowing the truth, is the source of
his downfall. Had he not sent for Tiresias, Tiresias would not have come
forward. Had he not urged the prophet to reply, Tiresias would not have
uttered his accusations. By these apparently mad charges, Œdipus is stung
into accusing Tiresias of plotting with Creon. This in turn brings Creon
to the palace. The anger with which he reviles Creon causes a dispute
which draws Jocasta from the house. Then, to calm Œdipus, she gives him
the dreadful “consolation”—that oracles have no weight—which first makes
the king fear he may have done the deed which is plaguing Thebes. And so
to the end. One exception to this sequence should be noticed. The arrival
of the Corinthian messenger at this moment is purely accidental. Without
it, the witness of the old retainer would have fastened upon Œdipus the
slaying of Laius (not known to be the king’s father); and he would have
gone forth from the city, but not as a parricide; moreover, the relation
between him and the queen would have remained unknown. Judged by the
standard of the whole play, this fact constitutes a flaw in construction.
Why did not the poet contrive that the news of Polybus’ death should
arrive, and arrive now, as the direct result of something said or done
by Œdipus, just as the arrival of the old Theban, with his crushing
testimony, is due to the king’s own summons? No doubt this occurrence is
meant to mirror the facts of life, which include accidents as well as
events plainly traceable to character.
At this point should be mentioned other possible faults, whether inherent
in the drama or antecedent to it. Some of the preliminary facts are
to a high degree unlikely. These points are three. First, Œdipus and
Jocasta, though each separately has received oracular warning about a
marriage, make no kind of inquiry at the time of their own wedding.
Secondly, Œdipus all these years has never heard or inquired into the
circumstances in which Laius was killed. Third, Jocasta has never yet
been told of the incident at Corinth which sent Œdipus to Delphi;
indeed she has apparently not even heard that he is the son of the
king and queen of Corinth.[322] Within the play itself is the strange
feature that when Tiresias accuses Œdipus of slaying Laius and hints
darkly at greater horrors—hints which in spite of their obscurity might
surely (one would think) have united themselves in the mind of Œdipus
with the oracle of long ago—Œdipus is merely moved to fury, not to
misgiving.[323] Now of the first three difficulties it must be owned that
despite the palliatives suggested, they are irritating. These things
are “impossible,” or, if not, they are oddly irrational, which is the
same thing so far as the enjoyment of dramatic art is concerned. They
are, however, to be explained thus. The unquestioning marriage of Œdipus
and Jocasta is a _datum_ of the legend with which the poet could not
tamper. All that the dramatist could do he did—he placed the unlikely
fact “outside the plot”[324] and dwelt on it as little as possible.
Indeed, he hints at some sort of excuse—the confusion in Thebes owing to
the oppression of the Sphinx.[325] Next, the postponement of explanations
about the death of Laius and the exile of Œdipus from Corinth is a direct
result of dramatic treatment. Just as Æschylus,[326] in order to handle
dramatically a religious question, the bearings of which fill the whole
of time, insists on contracting the issue to a single great instance, so
Sophocles forces into the compass of one day’s happenings the life of
years. In actuality, this tragedy would have been spread over a great
lapse of time. The climax and the horror would have been much the same
essentially, but the poet presents the whole in a closely-knit nexus of
occurrence, so as to make the spectator feel the full impact undissipated
by graduations.
The difficulty concerning Tiresias is of another sort. Œdipus’ apparent
madness is not so great as it seems. Not only is he by his rank and
superb self-confidence shielded from misgivings, not only is he already
suspicious that the murderer must be some treacherous Theban,[327] but
he has now lost his temper, and has just been furious enough to accuse
Tiresias himself of complicity in the deed. It is therefore easy for him
to assume that the prophet in his turn is only uttering his accusations
as a wild insult.
It might also be asked, why is not the scene with Jocasta, in which she
fortifies the king against soothsayers and oracles, not placed at the end
of the Tiresias-episode? This question leads one to suppose that there is
great importance in the quarrel with Creon which intervenes between the
departure of Tiresias and the queen’s appearance. Its importance clearly
is, partly to depict Œdipus more plainly, by contrast with his equable
kinsman, but most of all to give force and impressiveness to the end of
the play, in which Creon appears as king. After the appalling climax
of the play, and the frightful return of the blind Œdipus, there is
danger that Creon’s entry will fall flat.[328] But with faultless skill
Sophocles has prepared the ground so well that when the agony is at its
worst our interest is not indeed increased, but refreshed and relieved by
the appearance of this man whom we have forgotten, but whom we recognize
in a flash as being now the pivot of events. This admirable stroke
reminds one of the return of Chrysothemis in the _Electra_, but it is far
more powerful.
Another feat of dramatic power must be noted, marvellous even where all
is masterly: the re-appearance of Œdipus after the climax. Nothing in
Greek tragedy is more common than for a person after learning frightful
news to rush within the doors in despair. But he does not return; a
messenger tells the news of his fate. In this play news is indeed brought
of the bloody deeds that have befallen. Then comes a sight almost too
appalling for art: the doors open and the man of doom staggers into the
light of day once more. Spiritually he is dead, but he may not destroy
himself since he cannot go down to Hades where his father and mother
dwell. He must live, surviving himself, as it were a corpse walking
the upper earth. The waters of doom have closed over his head, but he
re-appears.
Jocasta is more slightly drawn than Œdipus, yet what we have suffices.
Two features are stressed by the poet—her tenderness for Œdipus and
her flippant contempt in regard to the oracles. This last is clearly
a dramatic lever of great power; through it the king is first brought
to suspect that he is the guilty man. It has a strong and pathetic
excuse. Because of the oracle, she was robbed of her child and yet all
in vain—the infant not yet three days old was cast away, but none the
less Laius was killed. It is precisely her rage against the oracle for
cheating her which brings to Œdipus the knowledge that it has been
fulfilled. Further than this Sophocles has not characterized the queen;
he places an ordinary woman in a situation of extraordinary horror and
pathos, leaving us to feel her emotions, without any elaboration of his
own. To read the conversation between Œdipus and the Corinthian, with
the short colloquy of Œdipus and Jocasta which follows, is to experience
as perhaps nowhere else can be experienced that “purgation of pity and
terror” which is the function of tragedy. It all centres for the moment
in Jocasta, yet she says very little. We are required to imagine it
for ourselves—the intertwined amazement, joy, loathing, despair, which
fill the woman’s heart during the few minutes for which she listens in
silence to the king and the messenger. To have lost her child at birth,
then after mourning his death for many years at length to find that he
lives, that he stands before her, mature, strong, and kingly, but her
own husband; then to realize that not now but long ago did she recover
him, yet did not know him but loved him otherwise—this even Sophocles has
not put into speech. Only one hint of it comes to us in the queen’s last
words:—
ἰοὺ, ἰού, δύστηνε· τοῦτο γάρ σ’ ἔχω
μόνον προσειπεῖν, ἄλλο δ’ οὔποθ’ ὕστερον.
First she screams at his ignorance and would tell all in one word “Son!”
But she cannot say it, nor dare she use again the name “husband”. All
dear titles have been forfeited by being all merited together; and with
the cry “Unhappy one!” she goes to death.
The two herdsmen are perfect in their degree. Instead of mere machines
for giving evidence we have a pair of real men, subtly differentiated
and delightful. The Corinthian, as befits a man coming from a great
centre of civilization to the quieter town of dull Bœotians, is polite,
rhetorical,[329] ready of tongue, and conscious of his address; eager and
inquisitive, he increases his importance by telling the tale piecemeal,
and will even tell it wrongly[330] for that purpose. The Theban herdsman
is an excellent foil to his brisk acquaintance; quiet and slow, with
the breeding and dignity often found in the lowly members of a backward
community, he does his best to recall the memories on which a king and
a nation are hanging in suspense, until he begins to see whither the
questions tend; then, only the fiercest threats can drag the truth
from his stubborn loyalty. Sophocles loved this character; long before
he appears we have a charming little description of him from hints of
Jocasta[331] and the chorus;[332] the poet has even given him one[333] of
those magical lines to which we shall come again later:—
λέγεις ἀληθῆ, καίπερ ἐκ μακροῦ χρόνου.
THE WOMEN OF TRACHIS[334] (_Trachiniæ_, Τραχινίαι) is, perhaps, the
next play in chronological order. The scene is before a house in the
state of Trachis not far from Eubœa. Deianira, the wife of Heracles, is
troubled by his absence because of an oracle which says that in this last
enterprise he shall either die or win untroubled happiness. Hyllus, her
son, goes off to help him in his attack on the city of Eurytus in Eubœa.
The messenger Lichas brings news of Heracles’ triumph; with him are
certain captive girls, one of whom, Iole, daughter of Eurytus, is beloved
by Heracles. Deianira learns this fact after a pathetic appeal to Lichas;
then she sends him back with a gift to Heracles—a robe which she has
anointed with the blood of the Centaur Nessus as a charm to win back her
husband’s love. After Lichas has gone she finds by an accident that the
robe is poisoned. Then Hyllus returns with news that his father is dying
in torments, and reproaches his mother. She goes into the house and stabs
herself. Hyllus learns the truth, and when the dying hero is carried in,
cursing his false wife, he explains her error. Heracles gives orders that
his body is to be burnt on Mount Œta and that Hyllus must marry Iole.
It is customary to regard the _Trachiniæ_ as the weakest extant play
of Sophocles. The picture of Heracles’ physical agony near the close
seems wearisomely elaborate; and in the second place we are utterly
dissatisfied with him. He does not seem worthy of the trepidation, awe,
and grief which he has excited throughout the play. All that follows
the suicide of Deianira appears empty or offensive. This objection may
be put[335] thus, that there are two tragedies, that of Deianira and
that of the hero. Now though it is quite true that one can point to a
thought which unifies the play—the passion of Heracles for Iole, or
more fundamentally, the destructive power of love, this does not meet
the difficulty, which will then simply be restated thus, that the poet
has not maintained a due perspective; the story of Deianira’s emotions
and of her plan bulks too largely and impedes what should have been the
climax. But it is a fundamental law in the criticism of Greek Tragedy,
and especially in the study of Sophocles, that we must ponder it until
we find some central thought which accounts for the whole action and for
the perspective in which the details are placed. Such a central thought
is, after all, not lacking in the _Trachiniæ_. It is the character of
Deianira, her instincts, and her actions. This play is in structure very
similar to the _Ajax_. In the earlier work Ajax’ death occurs far from
the end, but the latter portion is no anti-climax. So here: the topic is
not especially the death of Deianira or the end of Heracles; it is the
heroine’s love for her husband and the attempt she makes to win him back.
The poet’s interest in her does not vanish at the moment of her silent
withdrawal. Her act, her love, survive her. What is the result of her
pathetic secret wooing of Heracles? She has longed for two things, his
return and a renewal of his affection. To both these purposes is granted
a dim painful phantom of success. Instead of tarrying in Eubœa Heracles
hastens home, though every movement of his litter is torment; Deianira’s
passion has brought him back, though not as she meant. As for her plan to
regain his love, it is true that when he learns her innocence not a word
of pity or affection falls from him; he never mentions her again. It may
be that he is merely stupid and callous; it may be that he is ashamed to
recant his bitter words; it may be that he is at once engrossed in the
sudden light which is thrown upon his own fortunes. However this may be,
the promise of Nessus on which she relied is fulfilled: “This shall be
to thee a charm for the soul of Heracles, so that he shall never look
upon any woman to love her more than thee!”[336]—the hero’s passion for
Iole is quenched. This conception gives a wonderful beauty to what is
otherwise a mere brutality of the dying man. In forcing his son to marry
Iole he outrages our feelings as well as the heart of Hyllus—unless we
have understood. But this is his reparation to Deianira. The charm of
Nessus has been potent indeed; the maiden is nothing to him: he “loves no
woman more” than Deianira. But this act is more than cold reparation; it
is a beautiful stroke of silent eloquence. Heracles not only relinquishes
Iole, he gives her to his son, to one many years his junior. This is an
unconscious reply to the touching complaint[337] made by the wronged
wife:—
The flower of her age is in its spring,
But mine in autumn. And the eyes of men
Still pluck the blossom, shunning withered charms.
For him his wife was the true mate; let Iole wed a man of her
own years.[338] Thus the hope of Deianira is in a terrible way
half-fulfilled. Just as Heracles was mistaken in his reading of the
oracle which promised him “rest” at the end of his toils, so was
she mistaken in the meaning she put upon the Centaur’s promise. The
oracles of heaven, by their own power and still more by the terrible
misinterpretation of man, help to mould the play, as they mould the
_Œdipus Tyrannus_. Thus the _Trachiniæ_ becomes a real unity. Deianira’s
fate is now no over-developed episode, for in a spiritual sense it fills
the tragedy. The doom of Heracles is no anti-climax or tedious addendum;
it is the exposition before our eye of the havoc which can be wrought
by sincere love misled. A great structural danger lies herein, that the
picture of Heracles’ torment may eclipse the tragedy of his wife. But
the poet has surmounted this by making the agony-scene not too long, and
above all by reminding us of Deianira through the repeated allusion to
her made by Heracles and through the explanation of Hyllus.
Certain peculiarities of detail in the plot strongly support the view
that Deianira is the subject of the whole drama. First is the conduct of
Lichas. This part is carefully constructed so as to lead up to the great
appeal in which the heroine describes the might of Love. If Lichas had
really kept his secret instead of tattling to the townsfolk, Deianira
would not have known it and so appealed to Lichas. If, on the other hand,
Lichas had not tried to deceive his mistress, she would not have needed
to offer any appeal. His conduct has been devised solely to portray her
character by means of this marvellous speech. A second point is the
way in which Hyllus learns his mother’s innocence. After his speech of
denunciation she goes without a word into the house. The Trachinian
maidens know the truth and have heard from Deianira[339] herself that she
will not survive her husband, but they say nothing to Hyllus. Yet the
playwright who is here so strangely reticent allows the prince to learn
the facts in a few minutes “from the people in the house” as he casually
phrases it. The reason is that if Hyllus were informed at once he would
prevent his mother’s suicide. This would have destroyed the dramatic
treatment without altering events. For Deianira is not concerned in
being proved innocent; she wishes to die now that Heracles is destroyed.
Hyllus’ intervention would only mean procrastination of death.[340] In
the interests of drama, it must happen now. Further he must learn the
truth as soon as she is dead, for some one must confront Heracles with
a defence of the dead woman, if her fate and her love are, as we said,
dominant throughout the play. Here, too, there is a resemblance between
the _Trachiniæ_ and the _Ajax_; Hyllus, in this last scene, resembles
Teucer championing the fame of Ajax.
The character-drawing is here as admirable as elsewhere. Lichas,
well-meaning but foolish and shifty, is contrasted with the messenger
who is perfectly honest though spiteful. Hyllus is a character of a
type which we have often discussed already—he has no personality, and
we are interested in him not because of what he is but because of what
happens to him. The women of the chorus are simply a band of sympathetic
friends. Heracles, on the customary reading of the tragedy, is the most
callously brutal figure in literature. One need not labour the proof;
his treatment of Deianira, of Iole, of Hyllus, of Lichas, of every one
whom he meets,[341] is enough. The poet has taken the only possible
course to make us witness the hero’s pangs at the close with a certain
satisfaction. But the other possible theory does away with this sham
“tragedy”. Heracles as a coarse stupid “man of action” who is yet capable
of reflection and a touch of “the melting mood” shown by his giving Iole
to Hyllus when the secret of his wife’s heart is at last irresistibly
pressed upon him, is dramatic indeed.
But the glory of this work is Deianira. A comparison of the _Trachiniæ_
with the _Ajax_ illustrates the development of ideas in the poet’s mind.
Tecmessa’s character and position have been analysed, and we find,
instead of one woman, two—Iole and Deianira. Iole is mute; it is not her
conduct, but her involuntary influence, which contributes to the tragedy.
In Deianira, however, we meet the Trojan princess once more, older and
with more initiative—tenderer she could not be. It is this union of
gentleness with force of mind, of love and sad knowledge of the world,
which makes her character so appealing and gracious. A smaller poet would
have made her haughty or abject, revengeful or contemptible; Sophocles
has portrayed a noble lady, who will bend, but not kneel. Her interview
with Iole and the later conversations in which first she excuses her
husband and then on reflection finds that she cannot share his home with
the newcomer—these scenes, painted with quiet mastery, are the greatest
work of Sophocles in the portraiture of women.
There can be no doubt that the _Trachiniæ_ is the work of Sophocles;
considerations of style, hard to describe but overwhelming, settle
the case beyond dispute. None the less we cannot ignore the influence
of another school of drama—the Euripidean. The features more or less
certainly due to this influence are: (i) The subject itself. Sophocles
has studied a woman’s love and its possibilities of unintended mischief
in a way which recalls many plots[342] of Euripides. (ii) The “prologue,”
especially the explanatory speech of Deianira, is not in the usual manner
of the playwright, but quite in that of Euripides. (iii) The last lines,
with their reproach against the hardness of the gods who neglect their
children, and the total silence about the deification of Heracles, which
was the most familiar fact of this story, a silence emphatic throughout,
are in spirit Euripidean. (iv) The chorus is almost negligible as a
dramatic factor, and one of its songs—the first stasimon—is literally
“commonplace”; it would fit any kind of joyous occasion. (v) The turns of
expression occasionally recall those of the younger poet. The colloquial
ποίαν δόκησιν[343] cannot be paralleled in tragedy except in his work.
One line[344] seems borrowed almost without change. Deianira’s homely,
almost coarse, words, “and now we two await his embrace beneath one
rug,” are not what one expects from the stately Sophocles. The prosaic
φαρμακεύς[345] and the allusion[346] to Heracles’ unheroic side (ἡνίκ’
ἦν ᾠνωμένος, “when he was deep in wine”) are on the same level. But
most Euripidean of all is the description[347] Deianira gives of her
dreadful suitor. There is nothing unlike Sophocles in this acceptance
of the legend that Deianira was wooed by a river-god. But the studied
nonchalance of the first line “my suitor was a river, Acheloüs that is,”
and the absurdity of the second, in which the divine wooer is represented
as applying (with a punctilio strange to river-gods of legend) to the
lady’s father for her hand, and “calling” (φοιτῶν) on different occasions
as a different animal—all this mixture of horror and comedy is absolute
Euripides. The fact appears to be that Sophocles deliberately took up the
attitude of Euripides, for two reasons—firstly, for the sheer delight of
a strange and difficult feat of artistry; secondly, in order to show how
Euripides, even from his own standpoint, ought to have written.[348]
PHILOCTETES[349] (Φιλοκτήτης) was produced in the spring of 409 B.C.,
when the poet was eighty-seven years old, and won the first prize. The
hero Philoctetes was one of the chieftains who sailed for Troy. When
the fleet touched at Chryse, he was stung in the foot by a snake. The
wound was incurable and its noxious odour, together with the cries of
the sufferer, were so troublesome to the Greeks that they deserted him
when asleep upon the island of Lemnos, leaving with him a little food and
clothing, and his bow and arrows, the last a legacy from Heracles. In the
tenth year of the war the Greeks learned that Troy could only be taken
by help of Philoctetes and the weapons of Heracles. Two men were sent to
Lemnos with the purpose of bringing the maimed warrior to Troy—Odysseus
because of his craft, Neoptolemus because he was unknown to Philoctetes.
The scene is a desolate spot on the island, in front of the cliff-face
in which is the cave inhabited by Philoctetes. Neoptolemus wins the
confidence of the sufferer while Odysseus keeps in the background, though
by a subtle device of a false message he aids the plot greatly. But when
the fated weapons are secured and Philoctetes (who supposes he is to be
conveyed back to Greece) is ready to accompany Neoptolemus, the latter
tells him the truth. Philoctetes’ misery, rage, and reproaches induce the
youth to restore the weapons despite Odysseus’ opposition, and to promise
Philoctetes a passage home. But at the last moment Heracles appears in
glory above their heads and commands Philoctetes to proceed Troywards. He
willingly consents, and bids farewell to the scene of his long sorrow.
In structure this play is perhaps the most interesting extant work
of Sophocles. As elsewhere, we find a great simple character of vast
will-power exposed to a strong temptation—Philoctetes confronted by
the chance of healing, happiness, and glory, if only he will meet in
friendship men whom he is determined to hate. But for once there is a
secondary interest which is not purely secondary. Many will even find
the development of Neoptolemus more impressive than the situation of
Philoctetes. While the latter shows the heroic character as it appears
after the experience of life, strong, reflective, sad, a little fierce
if not soured, the other is the hero before such experience, eager and
noble but too responsive to suggestion. Neoptolemus has just begun life,
and his first task is to betray—for the public good, no doubt, but still
to betray—a noble stranger who merits not only respect but instant pity
and tendance. “Oh! that never had I left Scyros!” he exclaims. Life after
all is not a blaze of glorious war as his father Achilles found it, but a
sordid affair of necessary compromises. One of the most charming things
in the drama is the clearness with which Philoctetes, in the midst of his
rage, sees the tragedy of his youthful captor.[350] Confronted by the
kindness of the youth, he reveals himself not as a mere savage, living
only on thoughts of revenge; he becomes more flexible, open-hearted,
almost sociable. So revealed, he is the direct cause of the change in
Neoptolemus’ purpose.
Beside these stands Odysseus, only less striking and equally
indispensable. For a chief note of this drama is the skill with which the
poet avails himself of the three actors, whose possibilities are here
for perhaps the first time fully employed. It is easy, but mistaken, to
label Odysseus as “the villain”. In reality he is the State personified.
There is no modern reader who does not hate and contemn him, but it
remains true that whereas Philoctetes whom we pity and Neoptolemus whom
we love both take a strictly personal view, Odysseus at the risk of his
life insists on pressing the claim of the community. It is necessary to
Greece that Troy should fall. She can only fall through the arrows of
Heracles. The man who owns them will assuredly not consent. It follows
that he must be compelled to help, by force or guile. A conquering
nation must have its Philip as well as its Alexander; Odysseus stands
for facts which twenty years of the Peloponnesian war had driven home
into Athenian minds. Neoptolemus is the type of many a young warrior who
has learned with aching disgust that the knightly exploits which tales
of Marathon had fired him to perform must be thwarted unceasingly by the
politic meanderings of Nicias, by considerations of corn-supply, or the
“representations” of some remote satrap.
And in the end Odysseus gets his way. As the two friends start for
home, leaving the Greeks at Troy to defeat and the oracles of Heaven to
non-fulfilment, a god appears to command from the sky that self-sacrifice
shall be revoked and hate forgotten. What are we to think of this
intervention of Heracles? Is he not an extreme instance of the _deus
ex machina_? Is not mere compulsion employed to change a settled
resolve? This is the most striking and the most difficult feature of
the construction: rather it seems the negation of structure. Why is it
employed? Some[351] have been content to suggest Euripidean influence—of
course no answer at all. Some[352] have thought that Heracles is
personified conscience, rising to remind Philoctetes of his duty to
Greece; a suggestion ruled out by the fact that his duty has been urged
clearly by Neoptolemus. A more attractive idea[353] is that the genuine
_peripeteia_ of the play consists in Neoptolemus’ change of front; in
this way an inner dramatic unity is secured, while the external change
induced by Heracles is a mere concession to the data of legend. This in
its turn is vitiated by the fact that for the dramatist Philoctetes, and
not Neoptolemus, is the central figure: this is proved by the work as a
whole and by the title which the poet himself gave it. If the _deus ex
machina_ is not to be condemned utterly, it follows from the basic law
of Attic art that the play up to the moment of Heracles’ appearance,
however complete it seemed to us a moment ago, is not complete—that
some coping-stone is still needed. And if we consider the action up to
that point we cannot really be content. To disregard the oracles which
tradition said were fulfilled, the action, as Sophocles depicts it, is
unsatisfactory. Philoctetes is to get the revenge which seems rightly
his, and we approve his young companion who aids him at such cost. But
by this time we feel a little dubious about the sufferer. There has
been perhaps too much detail in his outcries and his account of his
sufferings. Hatred which will refuse both health and fame, without any
loss but that of aged intentions, has begun to seem a moral falsetto.
But who can say, without misgiving, that (on pagan principles) he is
wrong? One person only in Heaven and earth—Heracles. Every ordinary
consideration of public and personal interest has been put before
Philoctetes in vain. But there is another thought which neither the
victim himself nor Odysseus nor Neoptolemus has strength enough to
suggest, or even to remember. One character alone in Greek story rises
above the conception of personal injury or personal benefit as a motive
to action; Heracles is the great reminder, not so much that wrongs to
oneself should be forgiven, as that life is too short and precious to
be wasted on revenge. Heracles would return a blow with vigour, but a
vendetta, in the light of his career, seems a childish folly. One does
not forget that some pictures of his character (that, for instance, in
the _Trachiniæ_) belie this conception; but Sophocles here sees fit
to choose a different, and the more usual, view. Suddenly the husk of
selfish spite falls away from the sufferer’s soul. He who has just
promised[354] to use the weapons of Heracles in a private quarrel and
has already attempted[355] so to use them, at last remembers that they
are the rightful instrument of well-doing, and that it was for such a
reason[356] that he received them from the hero at his passing into
glory. Heracles then is introduced as the only person who can press upon
Philoctetes an argument which the cunning of Odysseus and the candour of
Neoptolemus have alike ignored. That he appears as a _deus ex machina_
is in part accident—he is not selected by the poet for that reason.
But it is a happy accident, for the glory which envelops him is the
visible warrant of his inspiring behests—anything rather than the sign
of overwhelming might summoned to break a reasonable human resolve. Thus
the close of this play is a real ending, not a breakdown; it is the pagan
analogue of the _Quo Vadis_ legend.
The whole play is an example of intrigue. The episode of the
pseudo-merchant[357] is the most brilliant feat of Sophocles in this
department. It reveals to Philoctetes that he is being pursued by the
Greeks, without arousing his suspicion of Neoptolemus, and so gives
occasion for the transfer of the bow when the sufferer’s fit seizes him;
it conveys a strong reminder of urgency to Neoptolemus; and it enables
Odysseus to learn how his plot progresses. Odysseus merely by telling
of his promise to capture Philoctetes is in a fair way to fulfil it,
as it throws his prey into the arms of Neoptolemus. One apparent fault
of construction is of a type which we have already noted. It is vital
that Philoctetes, before his first consent to leave the island, should
know his friend’s real purpose of taking him to Troy. But why is he told
of it? The merest beginner in duplicity would surely postpone such a
revelation until the victim was at sea. But Sophocles chooses to tighten
his plot up in order to give the situation in one picture.
Dio Chrysostom in one of his most valuable essays[358] sets up a
comparison between the plays on Philoctetes composed by the three
tragedians. The work of Sophocles is the latest, and two peculiarities
help us to see how far his originality went. Firstly, as a companion to
Odysseus he introduces, not Diomedes as Euripides had done, but a figure
new to the Trojan war, an ingenuous lad whose sympathy brings out what
gentleness remains in the sufferer’s heart. Secondly, the chorus consists
of Greek sailors, not of Lemnian natives as in the two other playwrights.
Sophocles will have no Lemnian visitors because for him it is a cardinal
fact that Philoctetes all these years has been alone save for a chance
ship. Thus we gain for a moment a glance into the actual thoughts of
Sophocles: he has made up his mind that his Philoctetes must be quite
solitary. So essential is this that he falsifies known facts. Lemnos, he
says in the second line of his play, is “untrodden, uninhabited by men,”
whereas, both in the times supposed and in the poet’s own day, it was a
populous place. This, then, gives an invaluable indication of the extent
to which Sophocles felt himself free to re-model his subject-matter. On
the play itself it throws light. The question is to be studied not from
the point of view of the Greek army, but from that of their potential
helper, soured as he is by a more extreme suffering than Æschylus and
Euripides had imagined.
The picture thus conceived is painted with splendid power. Romantic
desolation makes itself felt in the opening words of Odysseus, and this
sense of the frowning grandeur of nature to which Philoctetes in his
despair appeals[359] is everywhere associated with the pathos of lonely
suffering. “While the mountain nymph, babbling Echo, appearing afar,
makes answer to his bitter cries.”[360] All that he says, from his first
exclamation of joy at hearing again the Greek language to the noble
speech in which he bids farewell to the bitter home which use has made
something like a friend, is instinct with this mingling of romance and
pathos. Deserted by all men he has yet found companions whom in his
misery he addresses; his hands, his poisoned foot, his eyes, his bow, and
the familiar landscape, vocal with the “bass roar of the sea upon the
headland”.[361] Closer even than these is his eternal unseen companion,
Pain, whom he found at his side on first awakening after the departure
of the Greek host: “When my scrutiny had traversed all the land, no
inhabitant could I find therein save Sorrow; and that, my son, could be
met at every turn”.[362]
It has been suspected that the play contains allusions to contemporary
politics, that the poet is thinking of Alcibiades’ return from exile.
In 410—the year before this play was produced—he had gained credit from
the naval victory of Cyzicus. Some, moreover, have seen in Odysseus the
cynical politician of the day. Other passages read like criticism of the
public “atmosphere” at Athens in the closing years of the great war.
The dramatist is making deliberate comments on contemporary Athenian
politics, but he assuredly did not choose the whole theme of Philoctetes
merely because of Alcibiades’ restoration.[363]
THE ŒDIPUS COLONEUS[364] (Οἰδίπους ἐπὶ Κολωνῷ) or _Œdipus at Colonus_
was according to the customary view produced in 401 B.C., three years
after the poet’s death, by his namesake and grandson. The background
represents the grove of the Furies at Colonus, a village near Athens.
Œdipus, exiled from Thebes, an aged blind wanderer, enters led by his
daughter Antigone. They obtain the favour of King Theseus and the
citizens, Œdipus promising that after his death his spirit shall defend
Athens. Ismene, his daughter, brings news that an oracle has said that
in the struggle between Thebes and the Seven led by Polynices, son of
Œdipus, that side shall win which has possession of Œdipus. Both parties
are now eager for his support, but he curses both his sons. Creon, King
of Thebes, enters, and failing to gain aught but reproaches, carries off
the two girls, and is about to seize the father also when he is checked
by the arrival of Theseus, who rescues the maidens. Polynices next comes
to beg his father’s aid, but is sent to his doom with curses. Then a peal
of thunder announces to Œdipus that the moment of his passing is at hand.
He bids farewell to his daughters, and, watched only by Theseus, descends
to the underworld; the place of his burial is to be known to none save
Theseus and his successors. Ismene and Antigone in vain beg to be shown
the spot, and finally Antigone resolves to seek Thebes that she may
reconcile her brothers.
This play is simple in structure, superbly rich in execution. Œdipus
dominates all the scenes, which reveal with piercing intensity his
physical helplessness and the spiritual might which, marked at the
opening, is overwhelming at the close. The poet’s task is not merely
to portray the last hours of a much-tried man, but the novitiate of a
superhuman Power. Œdipus at last reaches peace and a welcome from the
infernal gods—he becomes a δαίμων. The terrific feature is that even in
the flesh he anticipates his dæmonic qualities. In the interview between
him and Polynices, the implacable hatred, the strength, the prophetic
sight of the father, and the hopeless prayers, the wretchedness, the
despair and moral collapse of the doomed son, are nothing but the
presentation in human life of the actual dæmon’s power as prophesied
for future generations. Before the close we feel that the aged exile’s
sufferings, sombre wisdom, and simple burning emotions have already
made him a being of unearthly powers, sundered from normal humanity;
his strange passing is but the ratification of a spiritual fact already
accomplished. But this weird climax is preceded by an equally wonderful
study of the human Œdipus. The king who appears in the _Œdipus Tyrannus_
can here still be recognized. Passionate anger still directs much of his
conduct, as friend and foe alike remind[365] him. But even his faults are
mellowed by years and contemplation; his very anger shows some gleam of
a profounder patience. Throughout, the temper of Œdipus is like that of
the heavens above him—gloom cleft by flashes of insight, indignation, and
love. Unlike other aged sufferers, he does not dwell in the past; unlike
the saint and martyr whom a Christian dramatist might have portrayed, he
does not lean upon a future of glory or happiness. Nor again has he sunk
into a senile acquiescence in the present; he is far from being absorbed
by the loving tendance of his daughters. The centre of his life has
shifted, but not to any period of time—rather to another plane of being.
Still in the flesh, his human emotions as essential as ever, his life is
growing assimilated to the non-human existence of the whole earth. And
so it is that Œdipus meets “death” with cheerfulness; he is departing to
his own place. At the last moment the blind man leads those who see to
the place of his departure. What to them is dreadful and secret is to him
the centre of his longing; the terrific figures who inhabit his new home
are welcome friends—at the beginning of the play he addresses the Furies
themselves as “_sweet_ daughters of primeval Night”.[366] The whole drama
at the end is full of this sense. In the farewell song of the chorus
which commends the wanderer to the powers of Earth, there is an eerie
precision and picturesqueness in the description of the lower world; the
“infernal moor”[367] and the guardian hound gleam forth for an instant
into strange familiarity.
The other characters are carved, though in lower relief, yet with
richness and vigour. Theseus is the ideal Athenian gentleman,[368]
suddenly called to show pity to a pair of helpless wanderers, then
unexpectedly involved in battle with a neighbour state, and finally
confronted with the most awful mysteries of divine government, without
ever losing his courage or his discretion. Creon and Polynices, such is
the immense understanding of the aged poet, share too in this nobility
of mind. They can face facts; and whether villains or not, they are
men of breeding. The “stranger” who first accosts Œdipus is a charming
embodiment of that local patriotism to which we shall return in a
moment. The two sisters are beautifully distinguished by the divergent
experiences of years. Antigone’s wandering and hardship have made her
the more intense and passionate; Ismene’s life in Thebes have given her
comprehension of more immediate issues. It is through Antigone, moreover,
who declares that she will seek Thebes and attempt to save her brothers,
that the poet obtains one of his noblest effects. Overwhelming as is the
story of Œdipus, his end does not close all; life goes on to further
mysteries of pain and affection.
On the purely literary side the _Œdipus Coloneus_ is certainly the
greatest and the most typical work of Sophocles. The most celebrated
lyric in Greek is the splendid ode in praise of Colonus—“our white
Colonus; where the nightingale, a constant guest, trills her clear note
in the covert of green glades, dwelling amid the wine-dark ivy and the
god’s inviolate bowers, rich in berries and fruit, unvisited by sun,
unvexed by wind of any storm; where the reveller Dionysus ever walks the
ground, companion of the nymphs that nursed him,”[369]—and of the whole
land with its peculiar glories, the olive of peace and the steed of war.
To this should be added that address of Œdipus to Theseus concerning the
fickleness of all things earthly which is less the speech of one man
than the voice of Life itself.[370] Noblest of all is the account of
Œdipus’ last moments, a passage which in breathless loveliness, pathos,
and religious profundity is beyond telling flawless and without peer.
It is curious that Sophocles in this work which, more than any other,
reveals his own poetic mastery should have definitely drawn attention to
the power of language. At various crises in the play he speaks of the
“little word”[371] and its potency. Œdipus reflects how his two sons for
lack of a “little word” in his defence have suffered him to be thrust
forth into exile; the nobility of Theseus, the sudden hostility of Thebes
in days to come, the appearance of Polynices, are all matters of the
“little word” which means so much. And in his marvellous farewell to his
daughters, Œdipus speaks of the “one word” which has made all his sorrows
vanish—“love”.
Every master-work of literature has a prophetic quality, and sending
its roots down near to the deepest wells of life is instinct with
unconscious kinships. The _Œdipus Coloneus_ is rich in this final glory
of art. The whole conception of the sufferer, aged and blind but gifted
with spiritual sight, recalls the blind Milton’s sublime address to the
Light which “shines inward”; and the thought adds charm to Sophocles’
description of the nightingale[372] which
Sings darkling, and in shadiest covert hid
Tunes her nocturnal note.
Again, just as the whole scheme suggests _King Lear_, so does the simple
vigour of Theseus’ words,[373] when he enters at the terrific close amid
the bellowing of the unnatural tempest:—
πάντα γὰρ θεοῦ
τοιαῦτα χειμάζοντος εἰκάσαι πάρα,
recall the “pelting of this pitiless storm”.[374] So too the divine
summons[375] which comes “many times, and manifold” to Œdipus brings to
mind the call “Samuel! Samuel!” The mystery of Œdipus’ tomb suggests the
passing of another august soul: “No man knoweth of his sepulchre unto
this day,”[376] and of Joseph, named among the faithful, who “when he
died, made mention of the departing of the children of Israel; and gave
commandment concerning his bones”.[377]
This play is deeply religious in the very details of its theme as well as
in its tone. Besides the usual orthodox background there is the lovely
presentation of a minor local worship—the cult of the Eumenides at
Colonus, Sophocles’ native village. The aged poet in his last years seems
to have returned with special affection to the simple observances which
he had learnt as a boy, and which evoke one of his most characteristic
phrases:—[378]
τοιαῦτά σοι ταῦτ’ ἐστίν, ὦ ξέν’, οὐ λόγοις
τιμώμεν’, ἀλλὰ τῇ ξυνουσίᾳ πλέον,
the piercing simplicity of which, as well as the theme, suggests
Wordsworth. The lustral bowls, he is careful to tell us, are “the work
of a skilled craftsman”;[379] he is almost on the point of telling us
his name—one can imagine the boy of eighty years ago gazing on these
cups, and his first sense of beauty in workmanship. Those who would
offer sacrifice will find dwelling on the spot a sacristan to instruct
and aid them.[380] Everything on this ground is both familiar and
hallowed; the mysterious “brazen threshold,” the statues of local deities
and heroes, the hollow pear-tree, and the other local sanctities are
carefully particularized, so that the calm beauty of the country-side
and the terrors of religion are strangely and beautifully interwoven.
As for religion in the broader, profounder sense, we have as elsewhere
a reference of human suffering merely to an inscrutable, divine
purpose.[381] But the dramatist indicates carefully the contribution of
human nature to the fulfilment of the oracles; Polynices[382] becomes
subject to his father’s curse because his own sense of honour forbids him
to relinquish his foredoomed enterprise. Œdipus himself has attained to
a wiser conception of sin[383] than that which rules him at the close of
the _Tyrannus_. He has acted wrongly, therefore his suffering is just;
but he is morally innocent, and his past actions afflict him as sorrows,
not as crimes.[384]
* * * * *
The fragments of the lost plays are on the whole disappointing; a large
proportion are single rare words quoted by ancient lexicographers, and
most of the rest are short sentences or phrases. There remain the few
longer fragments, to which in recent years important additions have been
made.
It seems that the _Triptolemus_ was his first play, produced in 468
B.C. when the poet was twenty-eight. It would then be one of the works
with which he won his victory[385] over Æschylus, and it bore marks of
the older writer’s influence. The theme is the mission of Triptolemus,
who traversed the earth distributing to men corn, the gift of Demeter,
and founded the mysteries at Eleusis. This topic gave room for a long
geographical passage which recalls those of the _Prometheus_. Other
early dramas were the _Thamyras_ in which the dramatist himself took the
name-part and played the cithara, and the _Nausicaa_ or _Women Washing_
wherein Sophocles acted the part of that princess and gained applause by
his skill in a game of ball. The satyric drama _Amphiaraus_ contained a
curious scene wherein an illiterate man conveyed some name or other word
to his hearers by a dance in which his contortions represented successive
letters. Another satyric play _The Mustering of the Greeks_ (Ἀχαιῶν
Σύλλογος) or the _Dinner-Party_ (Σύνδειπνοι) earned the reprobation of
Cicero[386] apparently for its coarseness, which can still be noted in
the fragments. In _The Lovers of Achilles_ (Ἀχιλλέως ἐρασταί) there was
a passage describing the perplexity of passion, which in its mannered
felicity recalls Swinburne or the Sonnets of Shakespeare:—
Love is a sweet perplexity of soul,
Most like the sport of younglings, when the sky
In winter-clearness scatters frost abroad:
They seize a glittering icicle, filled a while
With joy and wonder; but ere long the toy
Melts, and they know not how to grasp it still,
Tho’ loth to cast it from them. So with lovers:
Their yearning passion holds them hour by hour
Poised betwixt boldness and reluctant awe.
The _Laocoon_, which dealt with a famous episode in the capture of
Troy, supplies a fragment describing Æneas’ escape from the city with
his father upon his shoulders; one or two other passages[387] besides
this recall Vergil’s treatment. Another tragedy from the same cycle
of stories, the _Polyxena_, is praised by “Longinus”[388] in the same
terms of eulogy as the culmination of the _Œdipus Coloneus_ itself. The
_Tereus_,[389] to judge from the number of fragments, was very popular;
it dealt with the frightful fable of the Thracian King Tereus, his wife
Procne, and her sister Philomela, all of whom were at last changed into
birds. Aristophanes[390] has an obscure series of jests about this play
and the beak-mask with which Sophocles “outraged” the Thracian monarch. A
solitary relic of the _Orithyia_ tells how the maiden was carried off by
the wind-god Boreas
Unto Earth’s verge, beyond the farthest sea,
Vistas of Heaven, and well-springs of the dark,
To the Sun’s ancient garden.
In 1907 there came to light at Oxyrhynchus in Egypt considerable
fragments[391] of two Sophoclean dramas.
Most of these once formed part of the _Ichneutæ_ (Ἰχνευταί) or
_Detectives_. Formerly we had only two brief and obscure fragments, and
one word quoted by Athenæus; it was known that the play was satyric. The
theme was quite uncertain; and conjecture[392] is now shown to have gone
quite astray. Sophocles, we find, has dramatized the myth so admirably
treated in the Homeric _Hymn to Hermes_. A considerable portion of the
work can now be read. The god Apollo announces that his cattle have been
stolen and that he cannot trace them; he offers a reward to anyone who
catches the thief. Silenus and the chorus of satyrs undertake the quest;
they are the “trackers” from whom the play is named. After a time they
spy the footprints of oxen and exclaim that “some god is leading the
colony”. A noise[393] which they cannot understand is heard behind the
scenes. The numerous tracks now give them trouble; they point backwards
here and there—“an odd confusion must have possessed the herdsman!” Next
the satyrs fall on their faces, to the amazement of Silenus who likens
this “trick of hunting on your stomach” to the position of “a hedgehog in
a bush”. They bid him listen; he importantly replies that they are not
helping “my investigation,” loses his temper, and roundly reviles their
cowardice. They recover themselves and soon arrive at a cave. Silenus
kicks at the door until the nymph Cyllene comes forth. She protests
against their boisterous behaviour, but is appeased by their apologies.
When they ask the meaning of the strange sound, Cyllene reports the birth
of the god Hermes whom she is tending within, and his amazingly rapid
growth. The noise is produced by the babe from “a vessel filled with
pleasure made from a dead beast”. The “detectives” are still perplexed;
what is this creature? The goddess describes the creature in riddling
language. They make laughably divergent guesses: a cat, a panther, a
lizard, a crab, a big-horned beetle; and at last they are told that the
beast is a tortoise. She describes the delight[394] which the child
draws from his playing. The satyrs inform Cyllene that her nursling is
the thief; she indignantly denies that a son of Zeus can have so acted,
and takes the accusation as a joke. They vigorously repeat their charge,
and begin to quarrel with Cyllene. From this point onwards practically
nothing can be made of the papyrus-scraps, except that Apollo re-appears,
and seems to be giving the “detectives” their reward.
The papyrus which contained the other play, the _Eurypylus_,[395] is
in tiny fragments, but some of these, combined with our independent
knowledge of the story, enable us to give an outline of the plot.
Astyoche, mother of Eurypylus, was induced by Priam to allow her son to
help the Trojans against the Greeks. He met Neoptolemus, son of Achilles,
in battle and was slain. A messenger related the encounter to (it seems)
his mother Astyoche. The body was received by Priam with lamentation as
if for a son of his own. This fragment is much the most striking of the
collection.
Sophocles’ position in literary history has already been indicated.[396]
We shall here discuss his mind and his art in general outline. Of his
political opinions little is known. Though his work abounds in saws of
statecraft, these are of quite general application;[397] and it would be
dangerous to declare which side, if any, he took in the political crises
which were so numerous and so grave in fifth-century Athens; there is
perhaps one hint[398] that he did not approve the ascendancy of Pericles.
As for religion, he seems to have accepted both the orthodox cults of
his country and the current beliefs of the ordinary Athenian with little
reserve or none. This brings us at once to a fact which must not be
ignored—the feeling among readers of our own day, that Sophocles for
all his merits is a little too complacent, too urbane, lacking somehow
in profundity and real grip upon the soul. The answer is that we come
to Sophocles pre-occupied by the religious questionings which fill our
own time and which, moreover, interest both Æschylus and Euripides; but
there is no reason why Sophocles should share our disquiet or that of
his fellow-craftsmen. That which for Æschylus is the foreground of his
work, forms for Sophocles only the background. He is not especially
interested in religion itself, but in humanity. For Æschylus religion
is an affair of the intellect; for Euripides it is an affair of morals;
for Sophocles it belongs to the sphere of emotion. And the two great
instruments with which he constructs his plays are human emotions and
human will. For all the plays which we possess the same genesis exists:
the chief character experiences some mighty appeal to the emotions—the
feeling of self-respect in Ajax and Œdipus at Athens, of family love
in Antigone and Electra, of revengefulness in Philoctetes, of wifely
dignity and affection in Deianira, of pity in Œdipus at Thebes; and then
creates drama by the magnificent pathetic staunchness wherewith the will,
taking its direction from the emotion so aroused, presses on ruthlessly
in its attempt to satisfy this impulse. Nothing seems so dear to him
as a purpose which flaunts cold reason, the purpose of any others, and
indeed every other emotion save that which has started the action upon
its course. He sets before us a person determined on some striking act,
and subjects him to all conceivable assaults of reason and preachments
on expediency, showing him unbroken throughout. The onslaughts upon
Ajax, Antigone, Philoctetes, Œdipus, are not mere stage-rhetoric; they
are “sound common-sense,” “appeals to one’s better self”; and no logical
denial can be opposed to them. Only one power in man is able to withstand
them—the will, taking its stand once for all upon some instinct for
clear, simple action. If we never listen to reason we are lost; but if
we always listen we are lost equally. That these heroes of the will so
often come to misery or death matters little; they have saved their
souls alive instead of sinking themselves in a sordid acceptance of a
second-hand morality. Over against these figures, to emphasize their
defiant grandeur, the poet loves to set persons admirable indeed, but
more commonplace, who emerge in the dread hour when the haughty will has
brought ruin, and approve themselves as the pivot of the situation. The
hero is great and strikes the imagination, but it is on the shoulders of
men like Creon in the _Œdipus Tyrannus_, Odysseus, Hyllus, Theseus in
the _Œdipus Coloneus_, that the real burden of the world’s work may be
safely cast. None the less he loves Antigone better than he loves Ismene,
Œdipus rather than Theseus. In one place at least, in his dislike for the
“reasonable” spirit of compromise, he suffers himself a malicious little
_reductio ad absurdum_. When Chrysothemis finds Electra uttering her
resentment at the palace gate she says:—[399]
Sister! Again? Why standest at the door
Holding this language? Will no span of years
Teach thee at length to grudge thy foolish spleen
Such empty comfort? Yet mine own heart too
Knows how it sorrows for our present state....
I avow
That in thy spirit dwelleth righteousness
Not in my words. _Yet, if I would be free_
_I must in all things bend to those in power._
As for the plots themselves, their main feature is that deliberate
complexity which we have called intrigue and which was made possible by
the poet’s use of a third actor. After the great achievements of Æschylus
it became necessary to add some fresh kind of interest; this Euripides
found in a readjustment of sympathies, Sophocles in an increase of
dramatic thrill. It is an exciting moment in the _Trachiniæ_ when, just
as Deianira is about to re-enter the palace, the messenger mysteriously
draws her apart and reveals the truth about the captive Iole. The
magnificent death-scene of Ajax is the outcome of the cunning wherewith
he has thrown his friends off the scent. The _Electra_ is full of this
method; the mission of Chrysothemis is turned into a weapon against the
murderess who sent her, and the episode of Orestes’ funeral-urn is a
magnificent piece of dramatic artistry. In the _Œdipus Tyrannus_ the king
brings about his own fatal illumination by sending for the herdsman.
The _Philoctetes_, above all, is filled with the deliberate plotting of
Odysseus. The marked increase in complexity which Sophocles’ work thus
shows as compared with that of Æschylus is undoubtedly the chief (perhaps
the only) reason for his desertion of the trilogy form.[400] Side by
side with this attention to mechanism is that curious indifference to
the fringes of the plot which we have had occasion to notice in several
places.
Another characteristic of Sophocles is that famous “tragic irony” by
which again he imparts new power to old themes. It turns to magnificent
profit a circumstance which might seem to vitiate dramatic interest—the
fact that the spectator knows the myth and therefore cannot be taken
by surprise. Between an audience which foresees the event, and the
stage-personages who cannot, the playwright sets up a thrilling interest
of suspense. He causes his characters to discuss the future they expect
in language which is fearfully and exquisitely suitable to the future
which actually awaits them. Ajax, while his madness still afflicts
him, stands amid the slaughtered cattle and proclaims his triumph over
the Greek chieftains, just before he awakes to the truth that by his
“triumph” he has ruined himself. More elaborate is the scene in which
Deianira explains her stratagem of the robe which is to bring back the
love of Heracles. But the _Œdipus Tyrannus_ provides by far the finest
instance. As the king in scene after scene accumulates horror upon his
own unconscious head, the spectator receives, always at the right moment
and in full measure, the impact of increasing disaster. Yet since his
perception is a discovery which he himself has made, horror is tempered
by an intellectual glow, a spiritual exaltation.
In the art of iambic verse Sophocles stands beyond all other Greeks
unrivalled. Beside him Æschylus sounds almost clumsy, Euripides glib,
Aristophanes vulgar. Only Shakespeare has that complete mastery over
every shade of emphasis, every possibility of grandeur and simple
ease alike. The iambic line in Sophocles’ hands can at will display a
haunting romantic loveliness, the profoundest dignity, the sharpest edges
of emotion, or the quiet prose of every day. Consider the following
lines,[401] which begin near the end of Electra’s long speech of
complaint to the chorus:—
ΗΛ. ἐγὼ δ’ Ὀρέστην τῶνδε προσμένουσ’ ἀεὶ
παυστῆρ’ ἐφήξειν ἡ τάλαιν’ ἀπόλλυμαι.
μέλλων γὰρ ἀεὶ δρᾶν τι τὰς οὔσας τέ μου
καὶ τὰς ἀπούσας ἐλπίδας διέφθορεν.
ἐν οὖν τοιούτοις οὔτε σωφρονεῖν, φίλαι,
οὔτ’ εὐσεβεῖν πάρεστιν· ἀλλ’ ἔν τοι κακοῖς
πολλή ’στ’ ἀνάγκη κἀπιτηδεύειν κακά.
ΧΟ. φέρ’ εἰπέ, πότερον ὄντος Αἰγίσθου πέλας
λέγεις τάδ’ ἡμῖν, ἢ βεβῶτος ἐκ δόμων;
ΗΛ. ἦ κάρτα μὴ δόκει μ’ ἄν, εἴπερ ἦν πέλας,
θυραῖον οἰχνεῖν· νῦν δ’ ἀγροῖσι τυγχάνει.
ΧΟ. ἦ κἂν ἐγὼ θαρσοῦσα μᾶλλον ἐς λόγους
τοὺς σοὺς ἱκοίμην, εἴπερ ὧδε ταῦτ’ ἔχει;
ΗΛ. ὡς νῦν ἀπόντος ἱστόρει τί σοι φίλον.
Electra’s speech is solemn poetry. The large number of spondees[402]
(there are three in the last line), the slow elaboration of the ideas—an
elaboration admirably pointed by τοι, which brings the rhythm almost to
a standstill—make a strong contrast with the following conversation.
There the relaxation of the rhythm is unmistakable; φέρ’ εἰπέ is almost
casual in its lightness, and it is at once followed by a tribrach. The
rather odd use of the bare dative ἀγροῖσι is a delightfully neat tinge
of colloquialism, supported by τυγχάνει. The _Philoctetes_ will repay
special study from this point of view. There is a remarkable tendency
to divide[403] lines between speakers in order to express excitement;
this device is elsewhere very uncommon. From this play we may select one
example[404] of amazing skill in rhythm. Philoctetes is explaining how he
contrives to crawl to and fro in quest of food and the like:—
γαστρὶ μὲν τὰ σύμφορα
τόξον τόδ’ ἐξηύρισκε, τὰς ὑποπτέρους
βάλλον πελείας· πρὸς δὲ τοῦθ’, ὅ μοι βάλοι
νευροσπαδὴς ἄτρακτος, αὐτὸς ἂν τάλας
εἰλυόμην δύστηνος ἐξέλκων πόδα
πρὸς τοῦτ’ ἄν.
The dull repetition of πρὸς τοῦτο and of ἄν; the extremely slow movement
of the penultimate line with its three spondees and the word-ending at
the close of the second foot; above all, the manner in which the whole
dragging sentence leads up to the monosyllable ἄν, so rare at the end
of a sentence, and there stops dead, is a marvellous suggestion of the
lame man’s painful progress and of the way in which at the end of his
endurance he falls prone and spent upon the object of his endeavour.
Specially striking phrases are not common. Sophocles obtains his effect
not by brilliant strokes of diction, but by the cumulative effect of a
sustained manner. There are such dexterities of course, like Antigone’s
πόθος τοι καὶ κακῶν ἄρ’ ἦν τις,[405] and the cry of Electra to her
brother’s ashes:—[406]
τοίγαρ σὺ δέξαι μ’ ἐς τὸ σὸν τόδε στέγος
τὴν μηδὲν εἰς τὸ μηδέν.
A poet who can, by that infinitesimal change from τὸν μηδέν to τὸ μηδέν,
indicate the very soul of grief, may claim to be one of the immortal
masters of language.
Modern readers find one great fault in this poet—colourlessness,
coldness, an absence of hearty verve; he seems a little too polished
and restrained. The truth is that in Sophocles the Attic spirit finds
its literary culmination. Æschylus lives in the pre-Periclean world;
Euripides is too restless and cosmopolitan to reflect the spirit of one
nation only; Plato and Demosthenes belong to the age of disillusionment
which came after Ægospotami; and Thucydides, though he shows many Attic
qualities, is without limpidity. Anyone, then, who would understand the
Athenian genius as embodied in letters must read Sophocles. He will find
the most useful commentary in the Parthenon and its friezes, and in
the remains of Greek statuary. One of the most marvellous and precious
experiences in life is to gaze upon works like the so-called Fates in
the British Museum, the Venus of Melos, or the Ludovisi Hera. Many a
casual visitor has glanced for the first time at these works and known
strong disappointment. A mere piece of marble accurately worked into a
female face or figure; majestic to be sure—but is this all? If he will
look again he at last perceives that the stone has put on, not merely
humanity, but immortality. An invisible glow radiates from it like the
odour from a flower. We have never found any name for it but Beauty.
It is indeed the quintessence of loveliness, delicate as gossamer yet
indestructible as granite. So with the tragedies of Sophocles: it is
possible to read the _Œdipus Tyrannus_ in certain moods and find it mere
frigid elegance. But, as with the beauties of Nature, so with the glories
of art, it is the second glance, the lingering of the eye beyond the
careless moment, that surprises something of the ultimate secret.
For reticence is one of the notes of Athenian art. No writer ever
effected so much with so scanty materials as Sophocles; he carries the
art of masterly omission to its extreme. Shakespeare attempts to express
everything; the mere exuberance of his phraseology is as wonderful as
anything else in his work. But even _King Lear_ or _Hamlet_, being
written by a man, share the weakness of humanity and leave the foundation
of life undisclosed. Such a disability may daunt the scientist; it is the
salvation of the artist; for the effect of all art rests on co-operation
between the maker and the spectator of the work. In literature, then, the
author knows that he must omit, and the reader or hearer must supply for
himself the contributions of his own heart and experience. How much then
is he to omit? On the varying answers to that question rest the different
forms of literature and the divergent schools of each form. Sophocles
has left more to his hearer than any other writer in the world. Another
note of Athenian art is simplicity. It is not crudeness, nor _naïveté_,
nor baldness of style. In a thousand passages of Sophocles, Thucydides,
and Plato, the line between savourless banality and the words they have
written is fine indeed, but that little means a whole world of art. Many
a fine author—Marlowe is a conspicuous example—writes nobly because
he writes violently, or with a conscious effort to soar. But let him
once trip, and he sprawls in bombast or nerveless garrulity. Simplicity
without baldness is the most difficult of all literary excellences,
and is yet achieved everywhere by Sophocles except when he rises to a
different level, of which we shall speak later.
Such then is the cause of Sophoclean frigidity and lack of colour.
He is led to write so by his Attic frugality and economy of effect,
by his knowledge that his audience can follow him into his rarefied
atmosphere, and by another cause. In our own time men have looked to art
for a “message” from more exciting or more lovely spheres. We talk of
“the literature of escape”; for us art must be an expanding influence.
The Athenian sought in it a concentrating influence. Each citizen who
witnessed the _Antigone_ was a member of a sovereign assembly; he
understood foreign policy at first hand; war or peace depended upon his
voice. Many came to watch the _Ajax_ who had but a while ago fought at
Œnophyta or in Egypt. Such men did not need “local colour” and exciting
technicalities. Their own lives were full of great events. What they
asked of art was serenity, profundity, to blend their own scattered
experiences into one noble picture of life itself, life made beautiful
because so wonderfully comprehended. This was the function of Sophocles
and his brother-craftsmen.
Beyond the normal lucid beauty of lyrics and dialogue, and beyond the
frequent outpourings of splendid eloquence in long speeches, there is a
still higher level of poetry which should be noted. Now and again his
pages are filled with an unearthly splendour. Reference has been made
before to certain isolated lines which combine utter simplicity with
bewildering charm.[407] But here and there the poet has given us whole
speeches in this divine manner. They are always a comment on the matter
in hand, but they are conceived in the spirit of one who “contemplates
all time and all existence,” who stands apart from man and sees him
in his place amid the workings of the universe. One of these ethereal
utterances is the speech[408] of Œdipus to Theseus who has expressed
his doubt whether Thebes will ever desert the friendship of Athens; it
begins:—
Fair Aigeus’ son, only to gods in heaven
Comes no old age nor death of anything;
All else is turmoiled by our master Time.
The earth’s strength fades and manhood’s glory fades,
Faith dies, and unfaith blossoms like a flower.
And who shall find in the open streets of men
Or secret places of his own heart’s love
One wind blow true for ever?
More personal, but instinct with the same glow of imaginative beauty is
the soliloquy[409] of Ajax when at the point of death. It is in passages
like these that one realizes the value of the restraint which obtains
elsewhere; when the author gives his voice full scope the effect is
heartshaking. Ajax’ appeal to the sun-god to “check his gold-embossed
rein” fills with splendour at a word the heavens which were lowering with
horror. It recalls Marlowe’s lines of the same type and effect though
in different application, which suffuse the agony of Faust with bitter
glory:—
Stand still, you ever-moving spheres of Heaven
That time may cease, and midnight never come!
The greatest achievement of Sophocles was, however, reserved till the
close of his life. The messenger’s speech,[410] narrating the last
moments of Œdipus, is the culmination in Greek of whatever miracles
human language can compass in exciting awe and delight. The poet has
bent all his mastery of tense idiom, of varied and haunting rhythm, all
his instinct for the pathos of life and the mystery of fate, to produce
one mighty uplifting of the hearer into the region where emotion and
intellect are no longer opposed but mingle into something for which we
have no name but “Life”.
CHAPTER V
THE WORKS OF EURIPIDES
Of nearly one hundred dramas composed by Euripides nineteen[411] have
survived. These are now discussed in the approximate chronological order;
the precise date of production is, however, known in but few cases.
The ALCESTIS[412] (Ἄλκηστις), acted in 438 B.C., when the poet was
already forty-two years old, is the earliest. It formed the fourth play
of a tetralogy which contained the lost works _Women of Crete_, _Alcmæon
at Psophis_, and _Telephus_. Euripides obtained the second prize, being
vanquished by Sophocles—with what play is not known. The scene is laid
at Pheræ and presents the palace of Admetus, King of Thessaly. The god
Apollo relates how he has induced the Fates to allow Admetus to escape
death on his destined day, if he can find some one to die in his stead.
All refused save his wife, Alcestis, whose death therefore is to happen
this very day. Thanatos (Death) enters and Apollo in vain asks him to
spare the queen; a quarrel follows, and Apollo departs with threats. The
chorus of Pheræan elders enter and hear, from a servant, of Alcestis’
courageous leave-takings. Next the queen is borne forth and dies amid
the lamentations of her husband and little son. All save the chorus
retire to prepare for the funeral, when Heracles enters. Admetus comes
forth and insists on making the hero his guest, pretending that it is a
stranger who has died. Heracles is taken to the guest-chamber and the
elders reproach Admetus for his unseasonable hospitality. The funeral
procession is moving forward when Pheres, father of Admetus, enters to
pay his respects to the dead. His son with cold fury repels him: why did
he, an aged man, not consent to die, and so save Alcestis? A vigorous
and coarse altercation follows. When all have gone the butler enters,
complaining of Heracles’ drunken feasting; the latter soon follows, and
is quickly sobered by learning the truth. He proclaims his intention
of rescuing Alcestis from Thanatos, and hurries away. Admetus returns
followed by the chorus, expressing his utter grief and desolation.
Heracles arrives with a veiled woman, whom he says he has won as a
prize at some athletic contest; he must now depart to fulfil his next
“labour”—the capture of Diomedes’ man-eating steeds—and requests Admetus
to take care of the woman till his return. The king reluctantly consents,
and Heracles unveils her, whereupon Admetus recognizes his wife. She does
not speak, being (as Heracles explains) for three days yet subject to
the infernal deities.[413] The play ends with the joy of Admetus, a dry
remark of Heracles on true hospitality, and a few lines[414] from the
chorus expressing wonder at the mysterious ways of Heaven.
The Greek introductions to this play contain interesting criticisms:
“the close of the drama is somewhat comic”; “the drama is more or less
satyric, because it ends in joy and pleasure”. These remarks, coupled
with the fact that the _Alcestis_ (as the last play of the tetralogy)
occupied the place of the customary satyric drama, have caused much
discussion. It is enough to say here: first, that the _Alcestis_ is in
no sense a satyric play;[415] second, that it undoubtedly presents comic
features; third, that none the less the work belongs to the sphere of
tragedy. It is sometimes difficult, and often undesirable, to label
dramatic poems too definitely; but we must certainly avoid the impression
that this play is a comedy. It deals poignantly with the most solemn
interests of humanity; the comic scenes merely show, what is almost as
obvious elsewhere, that Euripides imitates actual life more closely than
his two great rivals. Nothing is gained, however, by ignoring the comic
element. The altercation between Apollo and Thanatos contains much that
surprises us—the wit[416] and the eager, wrangling, bargaining tone of
the dispute. Again the quarrel between Pheres and his son, admirable in
its skilful revelation of character, jars terribly when enacted over the
body of Alcestis. Heracles’ half-tipsy lecture to the slave shocks us in
a demigod about to wrestle with Death himself. But the whole situation
as between Alcestis and Admetus, Admetus and Heracles, is handled with
dignity and extraordinary pathos. The death scene, especially Admetus’
despairing address to his wife; the even finer passage when the king
returns but shrinks from the cold aspect of his widowed house; the
magnificent and lovely odes, above all the song which describes the
wild beasts of Othrys’ side sporting to the music of Apollo—these are
thoroughly suited to tragedy.
The plot is apparently[417] quite simple, but one fact should be
mentioned. The rescue of Alcestis is due directly to the drunkenness of
Heracles. He is prevented from learning the facts in an ordinary way
by Admetus; had he behaved normally, he would have left Pheræ still
unenlightened, since Admetus has forbidden[418] his slave to speak. It is
his intoxication alone which goads the butler to explain.
The character-drawing is skilful, often subtle. Heracles, good-hearted
but somewhat dense, sensual and coarse-fibred, is half-way between
the demigod of the _Heracles Furens_ and the boisterous glutton of
comedy. Capable of splendid impulses, he is yet a masterpiece of breezy
tactlessness, as when with hideous slyness he suggests to Admetus (in
the presence of the restored wife) that the king may console himself
by a new marriage. Pheres and Admetus are an admirable pair. Both are
selfish, Admetus with pathetic unconsciousness, his father with cynical
candour. Pheres is quite willing to give elaborate honour to the dead
woman so long as it costs little; Admetus—is it true of him that he is
ready to utter splendid heroic speeches so long as the sacrifice is made
to save him? Not so; he feels terribly. But the comparison between father
and son reminds us how easily sentiment can become aged into etiquette.
At present, however, he is a man of generous instincts—“spoiled”. He
needs a salutary upheaval of his home: from afar he prophesies of
Thorvald Helmer in _A Doll’s House_. Alcestis herself is a curious study.
Innumerable readers have extolled her as one of the noblest figures in
Euripides’ great gallery of heroines; this in spite of the fact that
she is frigid and unimaginative, ungenerous and basely narrow, in her
spiritual and social outlook. One great and noble deed stands to her
credit—she is voluntarily dying to preserve Admetus’ life. Our profound
respect Alcestis can certainly claim, but the love and pity of which
so much is said are scarcely due to her. They are extorted, if at all,
by the elaborate exertions of the other characters, who vie with one
another in painting a picture of the tenderness which has illumined
the Pheræan palace like quiet sunshine. But a dramatist cannot build
up a great character by a series of testimonies from friends. He has
undoubtedly portrayed an interesting personality, as he always does,
but to put her beside creations like Medea and Phædra is merely absurd.
From the beginning of her first intolerable speech[419] we know her for
that frightful figure, the thoroughly good woman with no imagination,
no humour, no insight. One hears much of the failures of Euripides;
this is perhaps a real failure. For we are not to suppose that the
rigidity and coldness of Alcestis are a dexterous stroke of art; it is
not his intention to give a novel, true, and unflattering portrait of a
traditional stage favourite, as he so often delighted to do. Everything
indicates that he wished to make Alcestis sublime and lovable. But there
is a fatal difference between her and the later women. Euripides has
realized her from the outside. He has given us in the mouths of the other
characters warm descriptions of her charm, but he has not succeeded in
drawing a charming woman. She has not “come alive” in his hands.
The plot of the _Alcestis_ has been studied by the late Dr. Verrall
in an essay[420] of extraordinary skill and interest. He lays special
emphasis on certain peculiar features in the treatment. First, Heracles
is represented as in no way the sublime demigod who ought to have been
depicted, in view of the amazing exploit which awaits him; the only
heroic language put into his mouth is uttered when he is intoxicated, and
the account—if it can be called such—which he gives later of Alcestis’
deliverance shows a studied lack of impressiveness. Second, Alcestis is
interred with unheard-of speed; Admetus, seeing her expire, instantly
makes ready to convey her body to the tomb. From these facts in chief
and from many details Dr. Verrall deduces his theory that Alcestis
never dies at all. Her expectation of death (founded on the story about
Apollo’s bargain) and the atmosphere of mourning which hangs over
Admetus’ house and capital on the fatal day, have so wrought upon the
queen that she finally swoons. Later Heracles visits the tomb, finds
Alcestis recovering, and restores her to the king. His annoyance with
Admetus, which leads him to allow his host to “think what he pleases,”
coupled with his own rodomontade at the palace gate, gave rise to the
legend that Heracles fought with Death for a woman who had actually
quitted life. Finally, the quasi-theological prologue, in which Apollo
and Thanatos appear and give warrant to the orthodox rendering of the
story, is a mere figment, revealed as such to the discreet by its utterly
ungodlike tone, and only tacked on to a quite human drama in order to
save the poet from legal indictment as an enemy of current theology.
This superb essay has met with wide-spread admiration, some adhesion,
much opposition, but no refutation. If we are to judge of the existing
plays as one mass, the examination of outstanding specimens of
rationalism such as the _Ion_ will convince us that the _Alcestis_ is
what Dr. Verrall thought it. But this play does stand apart from the
rest, as do the _Rhesus_ and the _Cyclops_. However close it may lie to
the _Medea_ in date, it is very early in manner; a capital instance of
this, the character of Alcestis, has already been mentioned. The best
view is, perhaps, that curious features which in other works might appear
so bad as to be evidently intended for some other than the ostensible
purpose, are in this case due to inexpertness.[421] For example, the
extraordinary fact that Alcestis’ rescue is due to nothing but the
drunkenness of Heracles, is perhaps a mere oversight on the poet’s part.
Similarly the poorness of the last scene may be no cunning device, but
comparative poverty of inspiration. It is a tenable view that Euripides
intended to write a quite orthodox treatment of the story, but has only
partially succeeded in reaching the sureness and brilliance of his later
compositions.[422]
The MEDEA (Μήδεια) was produced in 431 B.C. as the first play of a
tetralogy containing also _Philoctetes_, _Dictys_, and the satyric play
_The Harvesters_ (Θερισταί). Euripides obtained only the third prize,
and even Sophocles was second to Euphorion, son of Æschylus. The scene
represents the house of Medea at Corinth. She has come there with her
two young sons, and her husband Jason, whom she helped to gain the
Golden Fleece in Colchis. Jason has become estranged from Medea, owing
to his projected marriage with Glauce, the daughter of King Creon. At
this point the play opens. The aged nurse of Medea comes forth and, in
one of the most celebrated speeches in Euripides, laments her mistress’
flight from Colchis and her subsequent troubles; she fears that Medea
will seek revenge. The two boys return from play, attended by their old
“pædagogus,” who informs his fellow-servant that King Creon intends to
banish Medea and her children. The nurse sends them within. The chorus
of Corinthian women enter and inquire after Medea, who comes from the
house in the deepest distress. She speaks with deep feeling about the
sorrows and restraints which society puts upon women,[423] and after
a pathetic description of her own forlorn state, begs her visitors
to aid by silence if she finds any means of revenge. They have just
consented, when Creon appears and orders her to leave the land on the
instant, with her children. When she expostulates, he explains that he
fears her: she is well known as a magician; moreover, she has uttered
threats against himself, his daughter, and Jason. Medea in vain seeks
to escape her reputation for “wisdom”; in spite of her offer to live
quietly in Corinth, Creon repeats his behest. By urgent pleading, she
obtains from him one day’s grace. When the king has departed, Medea
addresses the chorus with fierce triumph: she now has opportunity for
revenge. After considering possible methods, she decides on poison.
But first, what refuge is she to find when her plot has succeeded? she
will wait a little, and if no chance of safe retirement shows itself,
she will attack her foes sword in hand. The chorus, impressed by her
spirit, declare that after all the centuries during which poets have
covered women with infamy, now at last honour is coming to their sex.
They lament the decay of truth and honour, as shown in Jason’s desertion.
Jason enters, reproaching Medea for her folly in alienating the king,
but offering help to lighten her banishment. Medea falls upon him in
a terrible speech, relating all the benefits she has conferred and
the crime she has committed in his cause. Jason replies that it was
the Love-God which constrained her to help him, nor is he ungrateful.
But she has her reward—a reputation among the Greeks for wisdom. He
is contracting this new marriage to provide for his children; Medea’s
complaints are due to short-sighted jealousy. After a bitter debate, in
which Medea scornfully refuses his aid, he retires. The chorus sing the
dread power of Love, and lament the wreck which it has made of Medea’s
life. A stranger enters—Ægeus, King of Athens, who has been to Delphi for
an oracle which shall remove his childlessness. Medea begs him to give
her shelter in Athens whenever she comes thither from Corinth; in return
for this, she will by her art remove his childlessness. He consents, and
withdraws. Sure of her future, Medea now triumphantly expounds her plan.
She will make a pretended reconciliation with Jason and beg that her
children be allowed to remain. They are to seek Jason’s bride, bearing
presents in order to win this favour. These gifts will be poisoned;
the princess and all who touch her will perish. Then she will slay her
children to complete the misery of Jason. The chorus in vain protest;
she turns from them and despatches a slave to summon Jason. The choric
ode which follows extols, in lines of amazing loveliness, the glory of
Attica—its atmosphere of wisdom, poetry, and love. But how shall such a
land harbour a murderess? Jason returns, and is greeted by Medea with
a speech of contrition by which he is entirely deceived. She calls her
children forth, and there is a pathetic scene which affects her, for
all her guilty purpose, with genuine emotion. She puts her pretended
plan before Jason, and watches the father depart with the two boys and
their pædagogus carrying the presents. The ode which follows laments the
fatal step that has now been taken. The pædagogus brings the boys back
with news that their sentence of exile has been remitted, and that the
princess has accepted the gifts. Medea addresses herself to the next
task. Now that her plot against Glauce is in train, the children must
die. The famous soliloquy which follows exhibits the sway alternately
exerted over her by maternal love and the thirst for revenge; after
a dreadful struggle she determines to obey her “passion” and embrace
vengeance. The children are sent within. The next ode is a most painfully
real and intimate revelation of a parent’s anxiety and sorrows. A
messenger hurries up, crying to Medea that she must flee; Creon and his
daughter are both dead. Medea greets his news with cool delight, braces
herself for her last deed, and enters the house. The chorus utter a
desperate prayer to the Sun-god to save his descendants; but at once
the children’s cries are heard. Scarcely have they died away when Jason
furiously enters, followed by henchmen. His chief thought is to save his
children from the vengeance of Creon’s kinsmen. The chorus at once tell
him they are dead, and how. In frenzy he flings himself upon the door.
But he suddenly recoils as the voice of Medea, clear and contemptuous,
descends from the air. She is seen on high, driving a magic chariot given
to her by the Sun-god. There breaks out a frightful wounding altercation,
Jason begging wildly to be allowed to see and to bury his children’s
bodies, Medea sternly refusing; she will herself bury them beyond the
borders of Corinth. She departs through the air, leaving Jason utterly
broken.
The literary history of this play is extremely interesting, though
obscure. First, is it later, or earlier, than the _Trachiniæ_? One
general idea is common to the two tragedies; but the treatment is utterly
dissimilar, and one may not unreasonably believe that Sophocles has
sought to reprove Euripides, to paint his own conception of a noble
wronged wife, and to show how a woman so placed should demean herself.
Secondly, there is some reason[424] to believe that two editions of
the _Medea_ where for a time in existence. Euripides almost certainly
himself remodelled the work, presumably for a second “production,” but
to what extent it is hard to say. Thirdly, and above all, there is the
question of his originality. The longer Greek “argument” asserts that he
appears to have borrowed the drama from Neophron and to have introduced
alterations. This interesting problem has been discussed elsewhere.[425]
Neophron’s play, if one is to judge by the style and versification of his
brief fragments, should be regarded as written early in the second half
of the fifth century.
The dramatic structure of the _Medea_ calls for the closest attention.
In Sophocles we have observed how that collision of wills and emotions,
which is always the soul of drama, arises from the confrontation of two
persons. In the present drama that collision takes place in the bosom of
a single person. Sophocles would probably have given us a Jason whose
claim upon our sympathy was hardly less than that of Medea. Complication,
with him, is to be found in his plots, not in his characters. But here
we have a subject which has since proved so rich a mine of tragic and
romantic interest—the study of a soul divided against itself. Medea’s
wrongs, her passionate resentment, and her plans of revenge do not merely
dominate the play, they _are_ the play from the first line to the close.
Certain real or alleged structural defects should be noted. First, we
observe the incredible part taken by the chorus; they raise not a finger
to stay the designs of Medea upon the king and his daughter; and we are
given no reason to suppose that they are unfriendly to the royal house.
The episode of Ægeus, moreover, is puzzling. Though quite necessary in
view of Medea’s helpless condition and prepared for by her remarks as to
a “tower of refuge,”[426] it is quite unneeded by one who can command
a magic flying chariot. Moreover, this chariot itself has been often
censured, notably by Aristotle,[427] who regards it as to all intents and
purposes a _deus ex machina_, and on this ground very properly objects to
it.
Dr. Verrall’s[428] theory meets all these difficulties. He supposes
that several of Euripides’ plays were originally written for private
performance. The _Medea_, so acted, had no obtrusive chorus, and no
miraculous escape of the murderess. To the episode of Ægeus corresponded
a _finale_ in which Medea, by allowing her husband to bury the bodies of
his children, and by instituting the religious rites referred to in our
present text,[429] induced both Jason and the Corinthians to allow her
safe passage to Athens. This view, or a view essentially resembling it,
must be accepted, not so much because of the absurdity involved (as it
appears to us) by the presence of the chorus, as the utter futility of
the Ægeus-scene in the present state of the text.
The characterization shows Euripides at his best. In the heroine he
gives us the first and possibly the finest of his marvellous studies in
feminine human nature. Alcestis he viewed and described from without;
Medea he has imagined from within. Her passionate love, which is so
easily perverted by brutality into murderous hate, her pride, will-power,
ferocity, and dæmonic energy, are all depicted with flawless mastery and
sympathy. Desperate and cruel as this woman shows herself, she is no
cold-blooded plotter. Creon has heard of her unguarded threats, and his
knowledge wellnigh ruins her project. Her first words to Jason, “thou
utter villain,” followed by a complete and appalling indictment of his
cynicism[430] and ingratitude, are not calculated to lull suspicion. But
however passionate, she owns a splendid intellect. She faces facts[431]
and understands her weaknesses. When seeking an advantage, she can hold
herself magnificently in hand. The pretended reconciliation with Jason is
a scene of weird thrill for the spectators. Her archness in discussing
his influence over the young princess is almost hideous; and while she
weeps in his arms we remember with sick horror her scornful words after
practising successfully the same arts on the king. Above all, there
is here no petulant railing at “unjust gods,” or “blind fate”. Her
undoing in the past has come from “trust in the words of a man that is a
Greek”;[432] her present murderous rage springs from no _Até_ but from
her own passion (θυμός). The dramatist has set himself to express human
life in terms of humanity.
Jason is a superb study—a compound of brilliant manner, stupidity, and
cynicism. If only his own desires, interests, and comforts are safe,
he is prepared to confer all kinds of benefits. The kindly, breezy
words which he addresses to his little sons must have made hundreds of
excellent fathers in the audience feel for a moment a touch of personal
baseness—“am I not something like this?” That is the moral of Jason and
countless personages of Euripides: they are so detestable and yet so like
ourselves. Jason indeed dupes himself as well as others. He really thinks
he is kind and gentle, when he is only surrendering to an emotional
atmosphere. His great weakness is the mere perfection of his own egotism;
he has no power at all to realize another’s point of view. Throughout
the play he simply refuses to believe that Medea feels his desertion
as she asserts. For him her complaints are “empty words”.[433] To the
very end his self-centred stupidity is almost pathetic: “didst thou _in
truth_ determine on their death for the sake of wifely honour?”[434] One
of the most deadly things in the play hangs on this blindness. Medea has
just asked him, with whatever smile she can summon up, to induce “your
wife” to procure pardon for the children. Jason, instead of destroying
himself on the spot in self-contempt, replies courteously: “By all
means; and I imagine that I shall persuade her, _if she is like the rest
of women_”.[435] Considering all the circumstances, this is perhaps
unsurpassed for shameless brutality. Medea, however, with a gleam in her
eye which one may imagine, answers with equal urbanity, even with quiet
raillery. She has perhaps no reason to complain; it is precisely this
portentous insensibility which will secure her success.
The minor characters are, in their degree, excellently drawn—Creon above
all. His short scene is unforgettable; it is that familiar sight—a weak
man encouraging himself to firmness by exaggerating his own severity.
His delicious little grumble, “my chivalrous instincts have got me into
trouble more often than I like to think of,”[436] stamps him as the peer
of Dogberry and Justice Shallow.
As a piece of Greek, the _Medea_ is perhaps the finest work of Euripides.
The iambics have a simple brilliance and flexible ease which had been
unknown hitherto, and which indeed were never rivalled afterwards. Such
things as
σὺ γὰρ τί μ’ ἠδίκηκας; ἐξέδου κόρην
ὅτῳ σε θυμὸς ἦγεν,[437]
in Medea’s appeal to Creon, or Jason’s rebuke to her:
πᾶν κέρδος ἡγοῦ ζημιουμένη φυγῇ,[438]
or the expression of her “melting mood”:
ἔτικτον αὐτούς· ζῆν δ’ ὅτ’ ἐξηύχου τέκνα,
εἰσῆλθέ μ’ οἶκτος εἰ γενήσεται τάδε,[439]
are in their unobtrusive way masterpieces of language. But it is in
vain to quote specimens; the whole work is as novel and as great in
linguistic skill as in dramatic art. In particular the speeches of the
nurse at the opening, of Medea when rebuking and again when conciliating
Jason—above all, her fearful soliloquy and address to her children, touch
the summit of dramatic eloquence. The lyric passages are on the whole
less remarkable, but the mystic loveliness of the ode[440] celebrating
the glories of Attica, and the anapæsts[441] which give so haunting an
expression to a parent’s yearning over his children, are among the most
precious things this tender as well as terrible poet has bequeathed to
us.
The HERACLEIDÆ[442] (Ἡρακλεῖδαι) or _Children of Heracles_, is a
short[443] play of uncertain date, usually referred to the early years of
the Peloponnesian War (431-404) and by some to the date 422 B.C. Nothing
is known as to the companion plays, or the success obtained by the
tetralogy.
The scene is laid before the temple of Zeus at Marathon in Attica.
The young sons of Heracles are discovered with the aged Iolaus, their
father’s comrade, who explains how, after Heracles departed to Heaven,
Eurystheus of Argos has hunted the hero’s family through Greece. They
have taken refuge in Attica; Alcmena, mother of Heracles, and the
daughters are now within the temple; Hyllus, the eldest son, has gone to
seek another refuge in case Athens fails them. Copreus,[444] a herald
from Argos, enters and is dragging the suppliants away when the chorus
of aged Athenians enter. Copreus disregards their remonstrances, but is
confronted by the king, Demophon, and his brother Acamas. He insists
that the Heracleidæ are Argive subjects: let not Demophon risk war with
Argos. Iolaus appeals for protection, and is granted it; Copreus retires
with threats of instant war. After an ode of defiance by the chorus,
Demophon returns with news that a noble virgin must be sacrificed to
Persephone, and he will not slay an Athenian girl. Iolaus is in despair,
when Macaria, one of Heracles’ daughters, comes forth and offers herself.
After a proud but melancholy farewell she goes. A serf of Hyllus arrives,
bringing, he says, good news. At this Iolaus joyfully summons Alcmena,
who imagines that another herald is assaulting him; but he announces
that Hyllus has returned with a large host of allies. Iolaus, despite
the serf’s rueful gibes, insists on going to the fray and, dressed
in ancient arms from the temple, totters off. The chorus proclaim the
justice of their cause, invoking Zeus and Athena. The attendant returns
with news of complete victory. Iolaus was taken into Hyllus’ chariot and
being (by favour of Heracles and Hebe) miraculously restored for a while
to his youthful vigour, captured Eurystheus. The chorus celebrate the
glory of Athens and acclaim Heracles, who is now proved (despite report)
to be dwelling in Heaven. Eurystheus is led in and Alcmena gloats over
him, promising him death. The messenger intervenes: Athenians do not kill
prisoners. She insists. Then Eurystheus breaks silence: it was Hera who
forced him to these persecutions, and if he is now slain in cold blood,
a curse will fall on the slayer. The chorus at length accept Alcmena’s
evasion that he be killed and his corpse be given to his friends.
Eurystheus presents Athens with an oracle which declares that his spirit
shall be hostile to the Heracleidæ, when, forgetting this kindness, they
invade Attica.[445] Alcmena bids her attendants convey Eurystheus within
and destroy him. The chorus[446] briefly express satisfaction at being
free from this guilt, and the play ends.
The _Heracleidæ_ is one of the least popular[447] among Euripides’ works.
It has indeed unmistakable beauties. The heroic daughter of Heracles and
her proud insistence on no rivalry in her sacrifice have always moved
admiration. The Greek style, moreover, though not equal to that of the
_Medea_, has all the Euripidean limpidity and ease. Such lines as
τίς δ’ εἶ σύ; ποῦ σοι συντυχὼν ἀμνημονῶ;[448]
in Iolaus’ conversations with Hyllus’ thrall, and the lyric phrase
ἁ δ’ ἀρετὰ βαίνει διὰ μόχθων[449]
haunt the ear. Moreover, the chivalry with which Demophon and his
citizens champion the helpless must have stirred Athenian hearts. But
our pleasure is repeatedly checked by incidents grotesque, horrible, or
inexplicable. To the first category belongs the absurd scene in which
Iolaus totters away amid badinage to do battle with Argos. There is a
comic note, again, in the scene where Alcmena for the first time appears
and supposes that Hyllus’ messenger is another hostile herald from Argos.
As we know who he is, her attack on him shows that painful mixture of the
pathetic and the ludicrous which so often marks Euripides’ work; here
the comic prevails over the touching. Secondly, the interview in which
Eurystheus is presented to Alcmena, who gloats at her ease over him,
is horrible, however natural. And finally the inexplicable or at least
puzzling features are perhaps the most striking of all.
The first difficulty concerns the personality which forms the background
of the whole; the apotheosis of Heracles is treated in equivocal fashion
throughout. Iolaus[450] alone seems entirely convinced. Alcmena, after
news of the victory to which her son has given miraculous aid, utters the
candid words:—[451]
After long years, O Zeus, my woes have touched thee,
Yet take my thanks for all that hath been wrought.
My son—though erstwhile I refused belief—
I know in truth doth dwell amid the gods.
And her faith is echoed in less prosaic language[452] by the chorus, who
proclaim the falsehood of the story that Heracles after his passing by
fire went down to the abode of Hades; in truth he dwells in Heaven and in
the golden court lives as the spouse of Hebe. But these confessions are
due to the marvels on the battle-field, marvels upon which the narrator
himself takes pains to throw grave doubt.[453] Macaria, though she has
every reason[454] to dilate on the glories of her father, speaks of
him but briefly and with only the normal filial respect.[455] Of the
others, Copreus ignores him; from the man’s character we expect sneers
and refutations of the miraculous stories such as are put by our poet
in the mouth of Lycus.[456] Eurystheus speaks of him generously, but
in terms which imply that he has never heard, much less accepted, the
marvellous accounts of his enemy: “I knew thy son was no mere cypher, but
in good sooth a man; for even though he was mine enemy, yet will I speak
well of him, that man of worth”.[457] Demophon himself, the champion
of Heracles’ children, even when he has been reminded (by Iolaus) how
the hero rescued Theseus, father of Demophon, from Hades itself, in his
reply treats this overwhelming claim ambiguously and with nothing more
than politeness.[458] All this seems to show the dramatist’s belief that
Heracles was simply a “noble man”—an ἐσθλὸς ἀνήρ—whose divine traits are
the offspring of minds like those of Iolaus and Alcmena, whose sagacity
throughout the drama is painfully low.
Macaria’s fate, also, at first sight causes perplexity. After she leaves
the scene, nothing[459] more is heard of her. When and where she dies
we are not told; the promise[460] of Iolaus that she shall be honoured
by him in death, as in life, above all women, produces no effect—for
we are told nothing about her burial; whether the advent of Hyllus’
reinforcements should or does make any difference to the necessity for
the sacrifice is not discussed. But there is good reason to suppose that
a whole episode, on Macaria’s death, has been lost.
The army of Hyllus is the most astonishing feature in the play. All the
action and all the pathos depend upon the helplessness which involves
the Heracleidæ. Every other city has rejected them; if Athens fails all
is lost—so we are told repeatedly.[461] Yet at the last moment Hyllus
returns with a positive army. Whence has it come? How can Iolaus have
been ignorant that such aid was possible? We are told nothing. The
Athenian leaders apparently, Iolaus and Alcmena[462] certainly, receive
these incredible tidings with no feeling save placid satisfaction.
Finally, if this drama is composed in order to extol the nobility of
Athens in espousing the cause of the weak, it is extraordinary that so
dubious an example should be selected. The suppliants are ancestors of
those very Spartans who, when the drama was produced, were the bitter and
dangerous enemies of Athens. Was not her ancient kindness in saving the
first generation of these foes a piece of folly? Eurystheus points this
moral at the close.[463] Alcmena herself, in her cold ferocity[464] and
her quibbling[465] over the dues of piety, is a clear prophecy of what
fifth-century Athenians most detested in the Spartan character. Moreover,
the plea of Copreus is perfectly just: Argos has a right to punish her
own people if condemned; whether they were wrongly so condemned is no
concern of Athens.
The upshot seems to be that Eurystheus has a bitter quarrel with a
powerful noble, so bitter that when his enemy dies the king dares not
leave his children at large. Through the sentimental weakness of her
ruler Athens is drawn into the dispute, and history shows that she made a
frightful mistake.
The HIPPOLYTUS[466] (Ἱππόλυτος Στεφανίας[467] or Στεφανηφόρος) was
produced in 428 B.C. and obtained the first prize. The scene is laid in
Trœzen before a house belonging to Theseus, King of Athens. Aphrodite,
the goddess of love, speaks the prologue, explaining how Hippolytus,
son of Theseus, scorns her and consorts always with Artemis, the virgin
huntress-deity. Aphrodite therefore has caused Phædra, the wife of
Theseus, to fall in love with her stepson. The king in his wrath shall
bring about the death of his son. The prince enters followed by his
huntsmen, and turning to the statue of Artemis with a beautiful prayer
places garlands upon it, but disregards the image of Aphrodite. After
the hunters have entered the palace, the chorus of Trœzenian women come
to inquire after the ailing Phædra. She is borne forth, attended by
her nurse, who seeks to calm the feverishness of her mistress and her
passionate longing for the wild regions of the chase. She gradually
learns that the queen is consumed by passion for Hippolytus. Phædra,
now quite calm, describes her fight with temptation; when she saw that
victory was impossible she chose death, and for this reason has refused
food. The nurse offers very different counsel. Why should Phædra strive
against her instincts? Even the gods have erred through love; she will
cure her mistress. The remedy, she soon hints, is nothing but surrender.
At this Phædra is so indignant that the other again takes refuge in
ambiguity; she retires to fetch certain charms. The ode which follows
proclaims the irresistible sway of love. The queen, in the meantime, has
been standing near the palace-door and now recoils in horror—she has
heard Hippolytus reviling the nurse; nothing, she cries, is now left to
her but speedy death. Hippolytus enters in fury, followed by the nurse.
After an altercation in which he threatens to break his oath of secrecy,
he breaks forth into a lengthy and bitter tirade against women, but
finally promises to keep his oath. When the prince has retired Phædra
proclaims her resolve to avoid shame for her family and herself by death,
obtaining from the chorus a promise not to divulge what has occurred; at
the same time she obscurely threatens Hippolytus. After she has gone,
the chorus voice their yearning to be free from this world of sin and
woe; surely this trouble is a curse brought by Phædra from her house
in Crete, a curse which is even now forcing her neck into the noose. A
messenger rushes forth crying out that the queen has hanged herself.
Theseus returns home and is speedily apprised of his loss. Suddenly
he sees a letter clutched in his dead wife’s hand; on reading it he
announces in fury that Hippolytus has violated his connubial rights. He
appeals to his father Poseidon, god of the sea, who has promised to grant
him any three prayers, to destroy Hippolytus. The prince returns, and
Theseus, after a stinging attack on his son’s pretensions, banishes him.
Hippolytus is prevented by his oath from defending himself effectually,
and sorrowfully turns away. The chorus ponder upon the mysterious ways
of Heaven and lament the downfall of the brilliant prince. One of
Hippolytus’ attendants returns and informs Theseus that his son is on
the point of death. A gigantic bull, sent by Poseidon out of the sea,
terrified Hippolytus’ horses, which bolted and mangled their master.
Theseus receives these tidings with grim satisfaction, but the goddess
Artemis appears and reveals all the facts. Theseus is utterly prostrated.
Hippolytus is carried in, lamenting his agony and unmerited fate. Artemis
converses with him affectionately and there follows between the two men a
few words lamenting the curse fulfilled by Poseidon. Artemis consoles her
favourite and disappears. Hippolytus gives his father full forgiveness,
and dies in his embrace.
The main impression left by a repeated study of this magnificent
drama is a sense of the loveliness and delight which the transfusing
genius of a poet can throw around the ruin worked by blind instinct
and hate, even around a whole world tortured by belief in gods whose
supreme intelligence, will, and power, are quick to punish, but never
pardon. No poem in the world conveys more pungently the aroma of
life’s inextinguishable beauty and preciousness. Life does not become
ugly because full of sin or pain. It can only become ugly by growing
unintelligible. So long as it can be understood, it remains to man, whose
joys are all founded upon perception, a thing that can be loved; this is
the one and sufficient reason why tragic drama is beautiful.
For the writer of the _Hippolytus_, then, life is something profoundly
sorrowful yet profoundly dear. Hippolytus’ address to Artemis on his
return from the chase is compact of that mystic loveliness which fills
remote glades with a visible presentment of the beauty of holiness:—
For thee, my Queen, this garland have I twined
Of blossoms from that meadow virginal,
Where neither shepherd dares to graze his flock,
Nor hath the scythe made entry: yet the bee
Doth haunt the mead, that voyager of spring,
’Mid Nature’s shyest charm of stream and verdure.
There may no base man enter; only he,
Who, taught by instinct, uninstructed else,
Hath taken Virtue for his star of life,
May pluck the flow’rets of that pleasance pure.
Come, Queen belovèd, for thy shining hair
Accept this wreath from hands of innocence!
To me alone of all mankind is given
Converse to hold and company with thee,
Hearing thy voice, although thy face be hid.
To the end of life, as now, may I be thine![468]
This passion for natural beauty as the background of emotional life
recurs throughout. The Trœzenian women as they enter tell of their
informant—not “some one talking near the place where men play draughts,”
as in the _Medea_, but a woman in a picture:—
Where waters leap,
Waters that flow (men say) from the far-off western sea,
Down the rock-face,
And gush from the steep
To a deep place
Where pitchers may dip far down—thence hath come a message to me.[469]
Phædra in her delirium sees visions of unfettered life “beneath the
poplars, amid the deep grass,” she fancies herself cheering on the
hunting hounds through the pine-glades, and yearns to feel in her grasp
“the iron-pointed shaft”—words to which we come back with deeper pain
when in almost the same language Hippolytus, now himself delirious, longs
to let out his tortured life with a “two-edged spear”.[470] When she
enters the house to seek death, the chorus pour forth their yearning for
escape from the sin and sorrow of this life to romantic regions where all
is grace and unstained peace:—[471]
In yon precipice-face might I hide me from sorrow,
And God, in his love, of the air make me free!
Ah, to speed with the sea-gulls—alight on the morrow
Where Eridanus mingles his waves with the sea!
There for ever the sisters of Phaethon languish,
For grief of his fate bowing hush’d o’er the stream;
Like eyes in the gloaming, the tears of their anguish
Up through the dark water as amber-drops gleam.
Or far let me wing to the fäery beaches
Where the Maids of the Sunset ’neath apple-boughs dance,
And the Lord of the Waters his last purple reaches
Hath closed to the mariner’s restless advance;
Where from Atlas the sky arches down to the streaming
Of the sea, and the spring of Eternity flows
Where the mansion of Zeus on earth’s bosom is dreaming
’Mid life like a lily and bliss like a rose.
Theseus himself expresses this sense of the fragile beauty of life in
lines[472] which recall the unearthly charm of Sophocles:—
ὄρνις γὰρ ὥς τις ἐκ χερῶν ἄφαντος εἶ,
πήδημ’ ἐς Αἵδου κραιπνὸν ὁρμήσασά μοι.
Even Artemis the unloving can tell of life’s charm surviving death itself
in some wise, an immortality of beautiful remembrance.[473] Throughout,
the poet has used all his power to invest the theme with loveliness of
phrasing. Elsewhere, skilful as his writing is, he often gives us what is
practically prose; the _Hippolytus_ is his nearest approach to the manner
of Sophocles.
Nor is the likeness confined to verbal expression. The theology is,
or claims to be, the theology of Sophocles. The traditional Olympians
are accepted as persons, with the powers and purposes which current
belief attributed to them. This is the view which Sophocles accepts and
expounds. Euripides who certainly did not accept it, here expounds it—in
his own way and with deadly results. Many times Euripides questions the
very existence of these deities, but now he sees fit to accept them for
a moment, and depicts life as lived under such rulers. Men and women can
feel and recreate the beauty of this world, but these gods time and again
dash all into pitiful fragments. “The world is ruled by stupid fiends,
who spend eternity thwarting one another. Do we dwell in a universe or a
grinning chaos?”
Is this all? Very far from it. Almost all the action of the tragedy could
be accounted for—had we not this disconcerting divine explanation—on
purely “human” lines, though what “human” means is, as the poet plainly
perceives, no less difficult a question than that of theology. But
at least the sorrows of Trœzen scarcely need the baneful _persons_
of Olympus. For the three sufferers are, after all, not blameless.
They share that casual sinfulness—for we cannot avoid the use of
question-begging words—which is the lot of man. Hippolytus errs (in Greek
eyes) by his complete aversion from sexual passion; he errs in all eyes
by the arrogance with which he proclaims it. His famous speech[474] is
too long for a spontaneous burst of resentment; it becomes a frigid
piece of self-glorification. It is precisely this arrogance which stings
Phædra to the thought of revenge.[475] Theseus, in spite of the pathetic
blindness with which he imputes[476] his misery to some ancestor’s sin,
is the original cause of it. Hippolytus is the offspring of his youthful
incontinence.[477] Then, when he has “settled down,” it is precisely his
respectable marriage which brings the consequence of his early amour to
fruition; his son and his young wife are of nearly the same age. As for
Phædra herself, the passion which she feels need not be attributed to a
personal goddess. Lawlessness is in her veins; her mother and sister have
both sinned:[478] Crete, “the Isle of Awful Love,”[479] brands its name
upon line after line of the play. For this predisposition to unchastity
many of Euripides’ contemporaries, as of our own, would have blamed
her heartily. The poet himself does not, as his splendidly sympathetic
treatment of her shows; but neither does he feel any need to lay the
blame upon Aphrodite. Phædra’s offence, her contribution to disaster,
lies in her early toying with her passion, when she founded a shrine of
the love-goddess in Hippolytus’ name;[480] in her accompanying Theseus
(apparently without a struggle) to Trœzen and the society of the prince;
in her determination to punish Hippolytus for his bitter pride.
To banish “the gods” and attribute sin to “heredity,” is that not merely
to substitute one word for another? Yes, but the poet herein has his
eye fixed on formal theology. Well aware that the glib invocation of
“heredity” or “environment” is no more conclusive than “the will of the
gods,” he yet insists that sin is a matter of psychology. We must study
human nature if we mean to understand and conquer sin. If we regard
Aphrodite or Artemis as _persons_ external to ourselves and of superhuman
power we lose all hope of moral improvement in our own hearts. But if we
accept these devastating powers as forces in human nature, we may hope by
study and self-discipline in some degree to control them.
Thus the drama is full of subtly wise psychology: it is an interesting
comment on much that has been written about “realist” play-writing that
the _Hippolytus_, which contains some of the most romantic poetry in
Greek literature, is also as sincere and profound in characterization
as the work of Ibsen himself. Theseus and his son we have already
considered; Phædra and her nurse require deeper study. The latter is a
masterpiece among the “minor” characters of Euripides. Her tenderness
for the young queen and passionate desire at all costs to win her
peace; the dignity which life and its contemplation can give even to
coarse-fibred[481] natures; her feeling for the deepest pathos of
life—these things constitute a great dramatic figure. It is to her that
the poet gives his most poignant expression of that mingled pain and
beauty which we discussed a moment ago:—
But if any far-off state there be,
Dearer than life to mortality;
The hand of the Dark hath hold thereof,
And mist is under and mist above,
And so we are sick for life and cling
On earth to this nameless and shining thing.
For other life is a fountain sealed,
And the deeps below us are unrevealed,
And we drift on legends for ever![482]
She, too, it is who in words[483] of almost equal beauty urges Phædra to
yield to her passion:—
Thy love—why marvel thereat? ’Tis the tale
Of many. Wouldst thou lose thy life for love?
Good sooth! A guerdon strange, if lovers now
And evermore must meet such penalty!
Who shall withstand the Cyprian’s rising flood?
Yield to her spell: she comes in gentleness;
Make high thy pride and stand on niceties,
She flings thee pell-mell into ignominy.
Amid the sky she walks, amid the surge
Of the sea-billows. All things live from her.
The seed is hers and hers the yearning throe
Whence spring we all that tread the ways of earth
Ask them that con the half-forgotten seers
Of elder time, and serve the Muse themselves.
They knew how Zeus once pined for Semele,
How for love’s sake the Goddess of the Dawn
Stooped from her radiant sphere to Cephalus
And stole him to the sky. Yet these abide
In Heaven, nor shun the converse of the gods,
Bowing, belike, to conquering circumstance.
And wilt not _thou_? Nay, if this law thou spurnest,
Thy sire, when he begat thee, should have writ
Some compact countersigned by gods unknown!
The nurse makes moral weakness into a very religion,[484] and Phædra’s
heart, one would suppose, is finally broken when, to this appeal that
the gods themselves are against her, is added proof that man is utterly
unable to understand. “If thy life had not been in such danger,” says the
nurse, “and thou hadst _happened to be a chaste woman_, I should not thus
lead thee on,”[485] and again: “_Thy duty, to be sure, forbids sin; but,
as things are_, be advised by me”.[486] This hideous purring is perhaps
Phædra’s bitterest shame. No one can understand, except the prince who
seems so utterly remote. Hippolytus, after her death, can say[487]
Unchaste in passion, chaste in soul was she;
Me hath my passionless purity dishonoured.
What does Phædra herself say? Is there any reply to the dreadful
eloquence of her old attendant? There is only one reply conceivable,
and she offers it: “Whatever gods may do, or men think, I must so act
as to be able to respect myself”.[488] Euripides insists that the
centre of ethics lies in man himself. For Phædra there is no soul on
which she can rely but her own; the conflict must be fought out within
herself. The great speech[489] in which she tells her spiritual history
to the chorus without any reserve or faltering, is the kernel of the
tragedy. We realize how empty of all comfort life can be for those who
resolutely reject outworn creeds and turn to seek for a better. Here is
no thought, no hint, of a saviour; the puny soul must struggle alone with
an uncomprehended universe. Æschylus had found a saviour in Zeus;[490]
Euripides can see no comfort in gods who are less virtuous than men.
In this speech, too, we note for the first time a portrayal of moral
temptation and a clear conception of conscience. Sophocles understands
well how duty can brace the soul to heroic life or death, but for him
the sanction of duty lies in the will of external deities. For Euripides
conscience is sufficient as a rule of conduct.
Phædra is a masterpiece of characterization. Whatever we are to guess of
the earlier[491] picture, she is here a noble and spirited woman, who
cannot help her instincts but who can and will dispute their power over
her life. She is, of course, not perfect—if she were she would be no fit
subject for drama—and the manner in which Euripides has caused the action
to hinge precisely upon her weaknesses, without lessening our respect and
affection, is one of the most improving studies provided by dramatic art.
The little crevices of circumstance by which wrong-doing—the destruction
of Hippolytus—creeps into her soul are beautifully indicated. She is
wasted by fasting,[492] a state conducive to keener perception and weaker
will. She has been brought—without any attempt on her part, so surely
she may indulge in the disastrous joy[493]—from Athens to the little
town where the prince lives. Her husband, as it chances,[494] is from
home and her life is left empty for “long, long thoughts”.[495] When she
dwells upon her passion the recollection of her mother’s and her sister’s
fate half attracts while it half repels.[496] Her passionate nature
insists on revealing some part of her distress to the keen eyes of the
nurse, who forthwith joins the claims of old affection[497] to this new
secret pain. So it is that she is half-conquered by what she will not do:—
Nay, in God’s name, forbear! Thy words are vile
But wise withal. Love in my soul too well
Hath mined his way. Urge sin thus winningly
And passion sweeps my fears into the gulf.[498]
But the nurse will not forbear, and the comforting promise of a
charm which shall “still this disease,”[499] as Phædra perhaps
half-suspects,[500] is an undertaking to win Hippolytus. The dread strain
of illness, passion, and shame have turned the woman for a moment into a
nervous child.[501] Thus it comes about that without disgrace, without
forfeiture of her conscience, Phædra moves towards the dread moment[502]
at which she hears the outcry of Hippolytus. Then after all the anguish,
she listens to his intolerable endless speech! Such is the situation
in which murder is conceived. In this way Hippolytus’ σωφροσύνη has
certainly been his undoing.[503]
We are told[504] that this play is a second version of the theme,
and that it was called _The Crowned Hippolytus_ (from the lovely
address to Artemis) to distinguish it from the first, called _The
Veiled Hippolytus_. This version (now lost) is said to have contained
“improprieties” which the poet afterwards removed. This refers to the
attitude of Phædra, who showed less reserve in her passion than in the
later play. She invoked the moon-goddess, perhaps to aid her in winning
Hippolytus, and boldly pointed to the infidelities of Theseus as an
excuse for her own passion.[505] The reproaches[506] which Aristophanes
lays upon Phædra refer perhaps only to this earlier version, but his most
famous gibe[507] is upon a line[508] of our text,
ἡ γλῶσσ’ ὀμώμοχ’, ἡ δὲ φρὴν ἀνώμοτος,
“My tongue hath sworn; my soul abides unsworn.” This seems to give us
the measure of the comic poet’s criticism; he blames Euripides for this
sentiment, and yet Hippolytus even in his most desperate trouble will
not clear himself by breaking his oath. One cannot, however, refrain
from pointing out that even if he had broken it, Theseus would not have
believed him,[509] and that Hippolytus realizes this.[510]
The HECUBA (Ἑκάβη) is the next play in order of date; it was performed
about 425 B.C.[511] This tragedy was enormously popular throughout
antiquity, as the great volume of the scholia proves. It was one of
the three plays—the others were _Phœnissæ_ and _Orestes_—used as an
Euripidean reading-book in the Byzantine schools.
The scene is laid in Thrace, where the Greeks are encamped after the
fall of Troy; the background is a tent wherein captive Trojan women are
quartered. The ghost of Polydorus, Priam’s youngest son, tells how he
has been murdered by the Thracian king, Polymestor; he has appeared in
a dream to his mother Hecuba. On his departure, Hecuba enters, and soon
learns that her daughter Polyxena is to be sacrificed at the tomb of
Achilles. Odysseus comes to fetch the maiden, who welcomes death as a
relief from slavery. Soon Talthybius enters, summoning Hecuba to bury
Polyxena, whose noble death has filled the Greeks with admiration. Hecuba
sends a woman to fetch sea-water for the obsequies, and this messenger
returns with the body of Polydorus. Hecuba exclaims that the murderer is
Polymestor: her dream has told her. Agamemnon enters, and she induces
him to connive at her taking vengeance upon the Thracian, his ally. Next
she sends for Polymestor and his children, and (after a beautiful ode
on the last hours of Troy), they arrive. Polymestor is induced to go
with his little sons within the tent, where they are slaughtered and he
himself blinded. His cries bring back Agamemnon, who rejects the pleas of
Polymestor. The Thracian, in his despair, prophesies the strange end both
of Agamemnon and of Hecuba. He is dragged away, and the drama ends with
preparations for the voyage to Greece.
This tragedy, let it be said plainly, is on the whole poor and
uninteresting.[512] It has been frequently noted, for example, that
the plot is “episodic,” that it falls into two divisions, the story of
Polyxena and the vengeance upon Polymestor, which are really two small
dramas with no genuine connexion. To this it has been replied that the
spiritual history of Hecuba supplies unity to the whole; that these
episodes bring out her development from a victim into a fiend.[513]
But this is scarcely satisfactory. For the two parts are developed so
completely along their several lines, they have so little dependence upon
one another, that they could stand apart; and that is the real test.
Further, the poet himself is uneasy. He is anxious to make some sort of
connexion, but it is curiously adventitious. His device, that the corpse
of Polydorus is discovered by the woman sent for water wherewith to bathe
the body of Polyxena, has won too high praise. An attempt to strengthen
it, or rather to draw attention to its neatness, is supplied in the
conversation between Hecuba and Agamemnon:[514] “How did he die?” “By the
hands of his Thracian host.” ... “Who brought his body hither?” ... “This
woman. She found it upon the sea-shore.” “_Was she looking for it, or
busied with some other task?_” The last question is absurd; Agamemnon has
no reason to ask it. Other little hooks,[515] less obtrusive than this,
are provided here and there to connect the two parts. If the play were an
unity they would not be needed.
Again, the favourite charge against Euripides, that he delights in
quasi-judicial disputes, is brought in here also. The accusation is
generally unfair. Critics have been so eager to condemn this poet that
they forget the trial scene of the _Eumenides_, the altercation between
Œdipus and Creon in the _Œdipus at Colonus_ and various other passages in
the earlier tragedians. If a dispute occurs at all, it is in accordance
with the genius of Greek tragedy to set it out in formally opposed
speeches. One might as well complain of Hamlet’s soliloquies. But in the
_Hecuba_ there is more than this. The queen has a gusto not merely for
eloquent appeals or invective, but for self-conscious rhetoric, “Filled
with lament, not destitute of tears,”[516] is abominable. One is not
surprised to learn that the queen is interested in professional teachers
of rhetoric,[517] and one remembers that Gorgias, the greatest of them,
paid his first visit to Athens a year or two[518] before this play was
produced.
The whole piece in its tone and method is far below the best of
Euripides’ work. Certain things are undoubtedly excellent—the famous
chorus[519] already mentioned, and above all the speech[520] of
Polyxena and the narrative of her death.[521] The whole work has not
enough calibre. The pathos has no subtlety; the characterization is
machine-made; the style, though clear and even elegant—one must allow
that the first speech[522] of Polymestor, as a piece of conversational
Greek, is unobtrusively perfect—has remarkably few of those feats[523] of
idiom which delight us elsewhere.
Polyxena is charming, but a slight sketch only compared with the Medea
and the Phædra who have preceded her. Agamemnon the cautious prince,
Odysseus the opportunist, Polymestor the brutally wicked barbarian,
are characters whom dozens of Euripides’ contemporaries could have
produced with ease. Talthybius the herald, still more shadowy, claims
remembrance by his naïve conceit.[524] Hecuba herself is hardly better.
True, the poet has shown admirably how she progresses from weakness to
frightful strength under the pressure of injustice, but without any very
sympathetic psychology we fall short of genuine tragedy and touch only
melodrama. And she is more than a little grotesque. Her strange passion
for rhetorical studies we have already noted. She has, moreover, a taste
for inopportune theorizing,[525] even concerning theology.[526] Her
griefs themselves command our respect, and she can in one or two flashes
of inspiration speak of them in language[527] not unworthy of Shakespeare
himself; but there is too much repetition of merely melancholy
adjectives, and though there should be only one emotion in us towards a
woman who has lost all her children, we can hardly retain it when she
reminds us that they were fifty in number.[528]
The apparition of the murdered Polydorus is an interesting element in
the action. First, we view the early part of the drama with greater
sympathy for the queen, knowing as we do the new horror which awaits her.
Secondly, it is necessary that Hecuba should know how Polydorus died.
Though but vaguely affected by the vision at first,[529] when parts of
it are fulfilled, she remembers and believes definitely in the rest, and
knows that Polymestor is the murderer.[530]
The ANDROMACHE (Ἀνδρομάχη) is perhaps the next[531] extant play in the
order of time. It was not originally brought out at Athens.[532]
The action takes place before the house of Neoptolemus, prince of Phthia
in Thessaly; at one side of the orchestra is the shrine of Thetis.
Andromache delivers the prologue. After the fall of Troy she became
the prize of Neoptolemus to whom she has borne a son, Molottus. Later
the prince married Hermione, daughter of the Spartan king Menelaus.
Andromache has hidden the child and herself taken sanctuary in the shrine
of Thetis; the boy’s father is from home, having gone to Delphi to ask
Apollo’s pardon for demanding reparation for Achilles’ death. Andromache
now sends a fellow-slave to ask the aid of Peleus, king of Phthia and
her master’s grandfather. Soon she is joined by the chorus, a company
of Phthian women who sympathize but urge submission. Hermione enters,
and after a spiteful altercation, in which she tries in vain to make
the captive leave her sanctuary, departs with threats. Menelaus enters,
leading Molottus; he offers Andromache her choice: will she submit to
death, or see the boy slain? Andromache gives herself up, whereupon
Menelaus announces that, while she must die, Molottus lies at the mercy
of Hermione. By this treachery Andromache is goaded into the most bitter
invective to be found in Euripides. The chorus dwell upon the folly of
domestic irregularities such as those of Neoptolemus. Next Menelaus leads
forth Andromache and Molottus for death, when Peleus hurries in and
releases them. After a violent quarrel Menelaus throws up his daughter’s
cause and departs. Peleus leads the captives away while the chorus
sing his youthful exploits. From the palace comes Hermione’s nurse:
deserted by her father and dreading her husband’s vengeance the princess
is seeking to destroy herself. Next moment Hermione rushes out in
distraction and the nurse is attempting to calm her when Orestes enters,
explaining that he has called to inquire after his cousin Hermione. She
begs him to take her away to Menelaus before her husband returns. Orestes
agrees, reminding her that she has in the past been betrothed to him; now
Neoptolemus shall pay for his insults by death at Delphi. After their
departure the chorus sing of the gods who built but abandoned Troy, and
of Orestes’ vengeance upon Clytæmnestra. Peleus returns, having heard
of Hermione’s flight. In a moment arrives a messenger who tells how
Neoptolemus has been murdered by Delphians at the instigation of Orestes.
The body is borne in, and Peleus laments over it until interrupted by the
goddess Thetis, his bride of long ago. She comforts him with a promise of
immortality. Andromache is to marry Helenus, king of Molossia,[533] and
her son is to be ancestor of a dynasty in that land.
Certain remarkable difficulties in the plot must be faced.
First is the breakdown of Menelaus in the presence of Peleus. The
first half of the play has exhibited his unswerving resolve to destroy
Andromache and her child. Every conceivable argument save one has been
addressed to him in vain. That one argument is physical compulsion, and
Peleus certainly does not offer it.[534] After a storm of mutual abuse
the Spartan withdraws from the whole situation, muttering an excuse which
is scarcely meant to be taken seriously: he is in a hurry to chastise an
unfriendly state.[535] He goes just far enough to embitter his enemies
to the utmost and not far enough to redeem his threats; and he retires
without a word to his daughter after committing her to a deeply dangerous
project. Menelaus has faults, but crass stupidity is not one of them;
on the contrary he is reviled as the type of base cunning. Why, then,
does he act with such utter futility at a crisis which anyone could have
foreseen?
In the second place, when was Neoptolemus murdered? Orestes declares that
the prince will be slain at Delphi, and at once departs with Hermione.
After a choric song Peleus comes back, and almost at once receives the
news of his grandson’s death. When Orestes utters his prophecy the
messenger from Delphi can hardly be more than a mile from the house.
Has he already committed the murder as a prelude to an innocent and
irrelevant pilgrimage to Dodona? And, if so, why does he reveal, or
rather not reveal, the fact? And why has he risked himself in Phthia
when the news of his crime may at any moment be revealed?[536]
Thirdly, there is a grave difficulty in the structure, independent of
Menelaus’ conduct and the dating of Orestes’ crime. The play seems to
fall into two halves with but a slight connexion—the plight of Andromache
and the woes of Neoptolemus’ house.
The late Dr. Verrall’s theory[537] of the play explains all these things
together. Menelaus has come to see that it is to his interest that his
daughter should be the wife of the Argive rather than of the Phthiote
prince. He and Orestes therefore concoct a plan to this end. Two things
must be achieved: Neoptolemus must be removed, and Hermione, passionately
as she loves her lord, must be induced to accept his assassin. The
cunning of Menelaus fastens upon the failings of his son-in-law as the
path to success. First, he has offended the Delphians, and thus Orestes
finds it easy to compass his death. Second, he has caused bitterness in
his own house by his connexion with Andromache. Menelaus, while Orestes
is at Delphi, urges Hermione into action which her jealousy approves
but which her intellect (when it is allowed to speak) must and does
condemn. The Spartan has no intention of killing the captives, but he
sees to it that Hermione is, in the eyes of Peleus and his subjects,
irretrievably committed to such an intention, which will beyond doubt
incense Neoptolemus most bitterly—or would, were he still alive as
Hermione supposes. Then, when she has committed herself, he calmly bows
to the outburst of Peleus and leaves her ready to snatch at any hope
in her hysterical despair. At this moment, carefully awaited by the
plotters, Orestes appears. He has already murdered Neoptolemus, and is
now ready to take Hermione away. But this is not enough. She must appear
to come by her own suggestion, and it must appear that she has known at
the moment of her elopement what has happened at Delphi. As she hurries
from the scene he utters, apparently in consolation of her (though really
she is out of hearing), so that it may lodge in the minds of the chorus,
a prophecy of Neoptolemus’ fate. Later, she is to be reminded by her
father and her new suitor how completely she is involved in suspicion
of complicity. Thus she will be thrown into the arms of Orestes, and
whatever blame there is will be laid upon Delphi.[538]
This view should in its essentials be adopted. Every dramatist commits
faults; but these apparent faults in the _Andromache_ prove too much.
They tend to show not that Euripides is here inferior in construction
and psychology to Sophocles, but that he is insane. Few readers could
compose a speech like that of Andromache beginning ὦ πᾶσιν ἀνθρώποισιν
ἔχθιστοι βροτῶν, or like the messenger’s narrative. But we could all
manage the exit of Menelaus better. There is one great general objection
to Verrall’s theory. Is it not much too subtle? If readers have always
missed the point, would not spectators do so even more certainly?
Verrall, in answer, points to a passage in the Greek _Argument_: τὸ δὲ
δρᾶμα τῶν δευτέρων, which he takes to mean “this play is one of the
sequels”.[539] He believes that the audience had a sufficient knowledge
of the earlier part of the story to follow the _Andromache_ with no
perplexity. Whether this knowledge was given by an earlier play of
Euripides is not of course certain, but may be regarded as likely.
We next note a feature of equal importance—the atmosphere. Every reader
observes strange anachronisms of sentiment and allusion—Hermione’s
outburst[540] against women who destroy the confidence between husband
and wife, Peleus’ comments on Lacedæmonian society,[541] and the like,
which have no relevance to the “Homeric age” of the Trojan war. But
the whole tone of the play is unheroic; even if these special features
were removed it would remain quite unlike a Sophoclean drama. Euripides
has, in fact, written a play about his own generation with a definite
purpose. He takes stories from myths as the foundation of his plays,
but his interest is in his own time. In spite of “thy mother Helen”
and “the hapless town of the Phrygians,” his work concerns essentially
fifth-century Athenians. Hence the almost complete absence of poetic
colour, which is only found in the conventional lyrics and the goddess of
the epilogue, who is no more in tune with the rest of the piece than a
fairy-queen would be at the close of _A Doll’s House_. His chief concern
is the danger to family life involved in the practice of slave-holding.
Neoptolemus loses his life, and Hermione consents to the wreck of her own
happiness, simply because of Andromache’s position in the home. She is
the fulcrum which the astute villains employ; without her Hermione would
never have been manageable.
In harmony with this realistic spirit is the character-drawing. None
of the personages is of heroic stature, but all are amazingly real,
however disagreeable. The two conspirators, Menelaus and Orestes, of
course, do not reveal their natures plainly. The latter, as far as this
incident alone is concerned, might strike one as almost featureless;
but there cling to him significant little fragments from the earlier
history of Hermione. A sinister faithfulness actuates him. In spite of
his repulse he has not forgotten his affection for Hermione, not even
her last words of renunciation.[542] Nor has he ceased to brood on the
insults of Neoptolemus—perhaps nothing in the play is more effective
than the gloomy triumph with which he flings back the hated word: “and
the matricide shall teach thee”.... Menelaus, as a study in successful
villainy combined with the domestic virtues, is quite perfect in his
kind; _ces pères de famille sont capables de tout_. But it is upon the
three victims, Hermione, Andromache, and Peleus, that the poet has
lavished his skill most notably. Each has precisely the virtues and
the failings which are fit to make them answer with the precision of
machinery to each string pulled by the Spartan diplomatist. Peleus may
be relied upon to provide Menelaus with an excuse for retiring when he
wishes, and to utter wild language which can be used to prove that he is
responsible for Hermione’s flight.[543] Andromache, earning and receiving
our pity for her past woes and her present anguish, yet alienates us by
her arrogance and a certain metallic brutality in repartee and invective
which again are invaluable to the men whose puppet she is. That she
should not cower before Hermione or her father is natural, but that is
not the point; her trampling tactlessness[544] is a positive disease. She
is indeed (except in her love for Molottus) as callous as Menelaus. This
is a point of absolutely fundamental import. That interview early in the
play, which might have been priceless to both women, ends only in the
hopeless embitterment of Hermione. The latter is the best-drawn character
of all. Swayed by strong primitive impulses, jealousy and fear, without
any balance of mind or emotion, curiously liable to accept the domination
of a stronger personality, she is fatally suited to the machinations of
her father. When she first appears, it is fairly plain that she has come
to suggest a compromise to Andromache.[545] What she wishes is not blood,
but servility. Spiteful and vulgar, she cannot forgive the captive for
the effortless dignity which she has inherited from Trojan kings. Hers
is no vision of a murdered rival: how petty yet how horribly natural it
is—she wishes to see Andromache scrubbing the floor![546] But vulgar and
spiteful as she is, the princess can be wrought upon, as the later part
of the action shows, and if only to self-respect Andromache had added
tact and sympathy Hermione would have been her passionate friend before
thirty lines had been spoken. The pathos of the scene lies above all in
the misunderstanding which pits the two women against one another, where
they should have combined against the callous craft which was using them
both for the ends of politics.
The deities whom we find in this play need detain us only a moment.
Thetis is no more than sweetening for the popular taste. Soothing and
beautiful as are her consolations to the aged sufferer, such a personage
has no real concern with a drama so utterly secular. As for Apollo, it
is here plainer than usual that his name is nothing but a convenient
short term for the great priestly organization at Delphi. That there is
a genuine divine person who has aided Orestes and punished Neoptolemus
we cannot believe. The only touch of religious awe to be found lies in
the messenger’s report. When the assassins are fleeing before their
courageous victim, “from the midst of the shrine some one raised an
awful voice whereat the hair stood up, and rallied the host again to
fight”.[547] It is this same speaker, however, who thus sums up his
account of the whole event: “And thus hath he that gives oracles to
others, he who for all mankind is the judge of righteousness, thus hath
he entreated the son of Achilles who offered him amends. Like a man that
is base hath he remembered an ancient grudge. How, then, can he be wise?”
To the simple Thessalian confronted for the first time with doubts of
Olympian justice, such phrasing is natural. For Euripides the conclusion
is that Apollo does not exist at all. “Apollo” does not take vengeance
upon the blasphemer at the time of his offence, but waits unaccountably
till his second visit, when he comes to make amends and when by an
accident, fortunate for the god, a conspiracy of villainous men happens
to make his enemy their victim.[548]
In keeping with all this is the literary tone of the work. The lyrics
are of little interest to a reader, though one[549] of them markedly
sums up the situation and forces home the moral. For the rest, the
dialogue is utterly unheroic and unpoetical but splendidly vigorous,
terse, and idiomatic; in this respect the _Andromache_ is equal to the
best work of Euripides. Could anything of its kind be more perfect than
the first speech of Hermione[550]—this mixture of pathetic heart-hunger,
of childish snobbery and petulance, this terribly familiar instinct to
cast in the teeth of the unfortunate precisely those things for which
one formerly envied them, these scraps of ludicrously inaccurate slander
against “barbarians” picked up from the tattle of gossiping slaves, and
the heavy preachments about “the marriage-question” which cry aloud their
origin from the lips of Menelaus? In
δεῖ σ’ ἀντὶ τῶν πρὶν ὀλβίων φρονημάτων
πτῆξαι ταπεινήν, προσπεσεῖν τ’ ἐμὸν γόνυ,
σαίρειν τε δῶμα τοὐμόν, ἐκ χρυσηλάτων
τεύχεων χερὶ σπείρουσαν Ἀχελῴου δρόσον,
γνῶναι θ’ ἵν’ εἶ γῆς,[551]
the last phrase is marvellous. The very sound and fall of the words, with
the two long monosyllables, can only be described as a verbal box on the
ears. Observe too the great speech[552] of Andromache. In the lines
νῦν δ’ ἐς γυναῖκα γοργὸς ὁπλίτης φανείς
κτείνεις μ’· ἀπόκτειν’, ὡς ἀθώπευτόν γέ σε
γλώσσης ἀφήσω τῆς ἐμῆς καὶ παῖδα σήν,
one can hear the words gurgling in her throat before they issue in
speech; at the end she is positively hissing. Peleus, too, ineffectual as
he may be in argument, is a master of pungent rhetoric.[553]
For readers who admire exclusively the Sophoclean type of play, the
_Andromache_ is a painful experience to be forgotten as soon as possible.
For any who find interest in the behaviour of ordinary beings at a great
testing moment, this work is an endless delight.
The HERCULES FURENS[554] or _Mad Heracles_ (Ἡρακλῆς Μαινόμενος) is
perhaps the next play in order of time. Most critics place it about the
year 420 B.C. or a little earlier; the chief reason for this is the
celebrated chorus about old age—it is natural supposition that the poet
had recently passed beyond the military age, and so would now be just
over sixty.
The scene is laid before the house of Heracles at Thebes. Amphitryon,
reputed father of the hero, explains the situation. Heracles, leaving his
wife Megara and his three sons with Amphitryon, has departed to Hades in
quest of Cerberus. In his absence one Lycus has seized the throne and
intends to murder Heracles’ family. Megara would submit, but Amphitryon
still hopes for Heracles’ return. Certain aged Thebans, who form the
chorus, arrive, followed by Lycus who, after sneers at Heracles, orders
his henchmen to burn his victims in their house. Megara begs of Lycus
that they be given time to array themselves for death. He consents, and
the sufferers retire. Lycus departs, and soon the sad procession returns.
Suddenly Heracles himself enters. He tells that he has brought back
Cerberus and released Theseus, King of Athens, from the lower world; he
promises to destroy Lycus and goes within. A splendid ode laments the
weakness of old age but glorifies the Muses. Lycus returns, enters the
house, and is slain; the chorus greet his yells with delight and hail
Heracles as now proved the son of Zeus. Suddenly Iris and Frenzy sweep
down from the sky, sent by Hera to drive Heracles mad. Frenzy herself is
reluctant, but enters the house, and the chorus raise cries of horror,
amid which the house totters in ruin. A messenger relates how Heracles,
after slaying Lycus, has been seized with madness and destroyed his wife
and children. The eccyclema shows the hero sunk in stupor. He awakes and,
realizing his situation, meditates suicide, but Theseus arrives and wins
him back to courage; after terrible outbursts against Heaven he departs
to live with Theseus in Athens.
After a cursory reading of this play one’s impressions are doubtful. Many
features excite warm admiration, such as the superb lyric[555] on old
age, the speeches[556] of Megara about her fatherless boys, Heracles’
replies[557] to Theseus; even the wrangle between Lycus and Amphitryon is
full of idiomatic vigour.[558] But to be blunt, what is the play about?
It works up to a climax in the deliverance of Amphitryon and his kin,
and then begins again. Long before the close we have forgotten Lycus. We
feel that the play is structureless, or (which is worse) that it falls
so clearly into two dramas that we cannot view it as a single piece of
art. But if we seriously seek for unity, we naturally look for it in
the fortunes of Heracles himself. This granted, we shall expect to find
that the incident which in a bare summary seems to disjoint the whole
is specially treated. Looking then at the incursion of Lycus, we find
that at every moment the events are considered from the point of view
of Heracles, in terms of his actions, and the sentiments which cling to
his personality. We are only prevented from seeing this at first by the
modern supposition that the culmination of a tragedy is the death of a
leading person, not a spiritual crisis. The discussion between Amphitryon
and Megara about instant submission is dominated by despair of the hero’s
return in the latter’s mind and by hope of it in the former’s. As soon as
Lycus arrives, he asks: “What hope, what defence find ye against death?
Believe ye that the father of these lads, he who lies in Hades, will
return?” Whereupon he proceeds to a long tirade in abuse of the hero,
and Amphitryon’s even more garrulous response deals almost solely with
his son’s achievements and the gratitude which he merits from Thebes
and Greece. As the doomed party go indoors the old man reminds Heaven
itself of the help it owes to Heracles, and the following lyrics are an
elaborate chronicle of his marvellous exploits. Finally, when at point
to die, Megara in a beautifully natural manner turns her farewell to her
sons into a painful memory of the plans which their father used to make
for them. In this way the danger of his family is considered as a test of
Heracles’ powers and greatness. Will he make good the promise of his past
glories? Will he return and free them from Lycus?
Dr. Verrall[559] follows this line of thought, giving to it far greater
precision and colour. He believes that the subject of this play is
the miraculous tone investing the traditional stories about Heracles.
According to popular belief in the poet’s day, Heracles was a son of
Zeus; he performed many exploits which were definitely superhuman,
culminating in a descent to Hades and return therefrom. These stories are
untrue. The play indicates this simply and directly, giving, however,
most attention to the method by which they won credence. In a primitive
civilization, when men had not yet attained to clear thinking, remarkable
but human feats like those of Heracles were extolled as miraculous by
the uncritical. Such are Amphitryon and the chorus, who when challenged
by Lycus are capable only of violent reiteration of their belief, but
offer, and can offer, no proof that the miracles happened. It is a
curious symptom of the former’s vague credulity that while loving and
defending Heracles as his own son, he yet claims[560] the help of Zeus on
the ground that the god is himself Heracles’ father. The Theban elders
join[561] in this irrational belief—as soon as it appears that the divine
parentage is established by the return from Hades, which even if true
would of course have nothing to do with the question. It is in such minds
as this that belief in the miraculous life of Heracles first sprang up.
But this belief rests largely upon the accounts of his adventures given
by Heracles himself; thus we come to the heart of the tragedy, the mental
condition of the hero.
Near the end he exclaims against the consolations of Theseus: “Alas!
such words as thine are too trivial for my sorrows. I think not that the
gods love unlawful unions, and that they put chains upon one another is
a belief I never held nor will I ever. God, if he be God, in truth needs
naught. These are but poets’ wretched tales.”[562] Plainly, the sober
and reasonable speech which begins thus repudiates the highly-coloured
but pernicious stories of tradition to which Theseus has just appealed.
Heracles believes in one God utterly above human weaknesses. Then what
of Zeus’ love of Alcmena, the jealousy of Hera, the whole basis of his
suffering as conceived by the orthodox? And what of his own semi-divine
nature, the foundation again of his superhuman deeds? They are delusions.
Heracles is no demi-god; his exploits, however great and valuable, are
in no sense miraculous. This view, moreover, is precisely that which
we ought to gain from the early part of the drama. Lycus is no doubt
an insolent bully, but would certainly not brave annihilation (whether
at the hands of Zeus or of his son) by slaughtering a demi-god’s
family. That he acts so proves that he does not believe in the divine
parentage of Heracles; and the support so readily given by Thebes to his
policy shows as plainly that to the mass of citizens no real proofs of
superhuman nature have been offered. In brief, the actions and language
of every one in the play except Heracles himself, Amphitryon, and the
chorus—of every one, including Theseus and even Megara, imply that in
this play Heracles is indeed a person of note, but an “eminent man” of no
very startling eminence.
But the hero himself long before this repudiation of “poets’ wretched
tales” has himself given them authority. He tells his father that in
truth he has visited Hades, dragged Cerberus thence, and rescued Theseus.
At many places[563] in the drama he refers without misgiving or query
to legendary monsters which he has quelled, and to his safe return from
Hades. This inconsistency, according to Dr. Verrall, is the root of
the drama. Heracles suffers from a growing tendency to madness; in his
sane moods he knows that all his story is human, all the nobler for
its humanity, but in his dark hours he accepts the vulgar splendours
which rumour throws round his adventures, at such times lending nascent
myth the support of his own false witness. The tragedy of his life has
been this mental distemper, which has finally caused him to destroy
his wife and children. It appears in dreadful paroxysms throughout the
first speech which he addresses to Theseus—first an attempt to account
for his murderous outbreak by an account of purely human events; then
inconsistently a reference to Zeus’ fatherhood and the attempt of Hera
upon his infant life, followed by a splendidly vigorous catalogue of
legendary deeds, Typhos, the giants, and the rest, culminating with
despairing comments on his hopeless guilt and on the complete victory of
Hera; then he suddenly rends the goddess with his scorn: “to such a deity
who would pray?—for a jealous quarrel she has destroyed the guiltless
benefactor of Greece”.
Two important details should be noted in connexion with this theory.
First the apparition[564] of Iris and Frenzy seems to overthrow it
utterly by a demonstration in presence of the audience that Heracles’
afflictions are caused by Hera. But the past scene, before ever Frenzy
arrives, has shown the hero, if not mad, yet not in full possession of
his senses.[565] Moreover, she is not seen by him at the moment when he
goes mad, yet, if the chorus see her, _a fortiori_ she should be visible
when attacking her victim himself; again the scene in which the fiend
herself shows kind-hearted scruples, is ludicrous. These personages
(Verrall suggests) are a dream beheld by a member of the chorus who has
been impressed by what he has already seen of Heracles’ malady. This is
proved by an absence of allusion to the event afterwards when the fatal
incident is discussed, and when silence is incredible. The aged man (or
men) will gradually remember the dream afterwards; this is another way in
which stories like that of Hera’s vengeance obtain currency.
The second point arises from the conversation between Theseus and his
friend when clearly sane. Does he confirm the story of the visit to
Hades? Now, Heracles and he several times refer to his rescue “from
below,” but never do they use language which necessarily refers to
Hades. “Thou didst bring me back safe to the light from the dead (or
corpses)”[566]—such is the style of allusion. Undoubtedly the language
can be applied to Hades; undoubtedly also it could fit some natural
event like a disaster in a cave or mine which may actually have been
suggested[567] by rationalists of the day as an explanation of the myth—a
suggestion which the poet is inclined to adopt and for which therefore
he leaves room in his phraseology.
Theseus, amiable as he is, yet presents little of interest; it is his
function to voice the opinions of the normal unimaginative man. Megara,
however, of whom little has been said, deserves sympathetic study. She
does not share Amphitryon’s extraordinary beliefs about his son,[568] but
loves and admires him with an affection beautifully expressed throughout
the too brief portion of the drama in which she appears; it is she who
long before the other realizes his mental state.[569] In her, too,
poetical imagination shines forth with a radiance which surpasses the
charm of the lyrics and Heracles’ impetuous eloquence. It is she who
utters the Sophoclean description[570] of sovereignty:—
ἔχων τυραννίδ’, ἧς μακραὶ λόγχαι πέρι
πηδώσ’ ἔρωτι σώματ’ εἰς εὐδαίμονα,
and that expression[571] of her yearning grief which in its strange
felicity of pathos suggests Shakespeare’s Constance:—
πῶς ἂν ὡς ξουθόπτερος
μέλισσα συνενέγκαιμ’ ἂν ἐκ πάντων γόους,
εἰς ἓν δ’ ἐνεγκοῦσ’ ἀθρόον ἀποδοίην δάκρυ;
The SUPPLICES[572] (Ἱκετίδες), or _Suppliant Women_, is generally
supposed on internal evidence[573] to have been produced about 420 B.C.
The Suppliants, who form the chorus, are the mothers of the Seven who
attacked Thebes and their attendants. They surround Æthra, mother of
Theseus, the Athenian king, and beg her to win his aid for them, since
the Thebans have refused burial to the slain. Theseus at first refuses,
but Æthra persuades him. A Theban herald enters to forbid Theseus, in
the name of the Theban king Creon, to aid the Suppliants. Theseus
rejects this behest and prepares for war. After an ode, news comes of
the Athenian victory. The remains of five heroes are brought in (of the
other two, Amphiaraus was swallowed up by the earth and Polynices is
supposed still at Thebes). Adrastus delivers funeral speeches over them.
The obsequies now take place. The body of Capaneus is burned separately,
and Evadne his wife throws herself upon his pyre despite the entreaties
of her father Iphis. The young sons of the chieftains bear in the funeral
urns, and Adrastus promises that Argos will cherish undying gratitude
towards Athens. The goddess Athena appears and bids Theseus exact an
oath to this effect; she comforts the fatherless boys with a promise of
vengeance.
This drama is perhaps the least popular and the least studied of all
Greek plays, which is not surprising when one considers that, in spite
of the praise merited by certain parts, the whole work considered
by really dramatic standards is astonishingly bad. There is no
character-drawing worth the name, and though it may be said that the
real heroine of the drama is Athens,[574] it is still strange to find
Euripides contented with such colourless persons as Theseus, Æthra, and
indeed all the characters. Still more striking are the irrelevancies.
Theseus’ address[575] to Adrastus and the assembly at large concerning
the blessings conferred by Heaven upon man, have hardly a semblance
of connexion with the urgent and painful subject of debate. Even more
otiose, and far longer, is the dispute[576] between Theseus and the
herald on the claims of monarchy and democracy. The scene of Evadne’s
_suttee_, however striking, is dramatically unjustifiable; it is an
episode in the bad sense meant by Aristotle—no integral part of the
action. The last scene is spoiled by the intervention of Athena, who
merely causes the Argives to give an oath instead of a simple promise
that they will ever be loyal friends of Athens. That this intervention
corresponds to very definite historical fact (the league between the two
states in 420 B.C. brought about by Alcibiades) makes no difference to
the æsthetic fact. None the less one notes in the _Supplices_ certain
excellent features. The appeal[577] of Æthra to her son, and the lyric
dirge of Evadne over her husband’s pyre, are admirably composed. Several
parts of the work are magnificent as spectacle—the opening in which
the sorrowing mothers, Adrastus, and the fatherless boys are grouped
about the aged queen, the return of Theseus and his troops with the
dead bodies, the episode of Evadne as it struck the eye,[578] and the
procession of boys carrying the funeral urns.
The ION[579] (Ἴων) is a play of uncertain date, but was probably produced
late in Euripides’ life; some would place it as low as 413 B.C.
The scene is laid before the temple at Delphi. Hermes tells how the
Athenian princess Creusa, owing to the violence of Apollo, bore a
child, which Hermes brought to Delphi, where the boy grew up as a
temple-attendant. Later Creusa married Xuthus, and to-day they will
come to ask the oracle some remedy for their childlessness. Apollo will
give Ion to Xuthus as the latter’s son; later he is to be made known to
Creusa as her own. Ion enters, and in a beautiful song expresses his joy
in the service of Apollo. The chorus (attendants of Creusa) draw near;
they converse with Ion and admire the temple façade. Creusa arrives; she
and Ion are mutually attracted, and she tells how “a friend,” having
borne a child to Apollo and exposed it, wishes to know whether it still
lives. Ion rejects the story, and urges her not to put such a question
to the oracle. Xuthus now appears, and goes within to consult the god;
Creusa retires, while Ion muses on the immorality of gods. After a choric
ode Xuthus returns and greets Ion as his son: the oracle has declared
that the first man to meet him will be his offspring. Ion asks who is
his mother; they agree that she must be some Delphian Bacchante. The
youth is dismayed at the prospect of quitting Delphi for Athens, but
Xuthus genially bids him prepare a farewell banquet for his friends, and
departs to offer sacrifice upon Parnassus. The Athenian women express
their consternation: Athens is to have an alien ruler and Creusa must
remain childless. When she returns they tell her the news, and in bitter
disappointment she breaks into an agonized recital of her old sorrow. An
aged male attendant undertakes to murder Ion by poison at the banquet.
Creusa consents. After an ode praying for vengeance, a messenger brings
news that the plot has failed and Creusa has been condemned to death.
The queen hurries in, pursued by Ion and a mob; she takes refuge on the
altar. Bitter reproaches pass between the two till the Pythian prophetess
appears; giving Ion the basket in which he was discovered as a babe, and
which still contains the articles then found with him, she bids him seek
his mother. Creusa greets him as her son and names the three objects.
They embrace with joy, but Ion, learning that not Xuthus but Apollo is
his father, determines to ask the oracle which account is true. Athena,
however, appears and explains that Apollo has been compelled to change
his plans; Xuthus must continue to believe Ion his own son.
This drama suggests a rich tasselled robe of gorgeous embroidery; were
it not that the basis of the story is so painfully sexual, the _Ion_
would be perhaps the most popular of Greek plays. The sudden changes of
situation, the emotional crises, the sheer thrill of many passages, the
lovely study of the Greek Samuel at his holy tasks—all these things make
a glorious play. But our delight is blurred by a recurrent perplexity.
Theology is obtruded throughout, and such a theology as never was.
Apollo ravishes Creusa and by help of Hermes brings her child to Delphi,
where he lives happily up to manhood, but Creusa is allowed to suppose
her child destroyed by wild beasts. The god, however, intends to secure
Ion his rights as prince of Athens. Xuthus is to accept the lad as his
son, while Creusa and Ion are to be made secretly known to each other.
But this plan is disturbed by the Athenian women, and the god, revising
his intention, sends the doves to save Ion, and the prophetess to save
Creusa. All would now be well, since both Xuthus and the queen accept
Ion as a son. But Ion wishes to know whether the oracle speaks truth or
lies.[580] Apollo therefore sends Athena to prevent him from taxing the
oracle with inconsistency. She explains the various activities of Apollo,
prophesies concerning the Athenian race, and bids Creusa keep Xuthus in
ignorance.
Apollo is as much fool[581] as knave.[582] Athena may say that “Apollo
hath done all things well,”[583] but mortals will not endorse her
sisterly admiration. Even the revised plan cannot succeed. How long will
Xuthus remain ignorant of facts which are being proclaimed, not only to
Creusa and her son, but also to the crowd of Delphians and the Athenian
women? Even if this could be secured, things are no better: Apollo has
said both that he himself, and that Xuthus, is the father of Ion. Which
of these statements is true matters comparatively little. One of them
must be a lie. The god who gives oracles to Greece is a trickster, and no
celestial consolations or Athenian throne can compensate the youth for
the loss of what filled his heart only this morning.
The _Ion_ is the one play in which Euripides attacks the Olympian
theology beyond all conceivable doubt. It is certain (i) that he does
not believe in the existence of Apollo and Hermes; (ii) that the Delphic
oracle is a human institution making impossible pretensions; and (iii)
that his method of attack is by innuendo and implication. Verrall’s
theory of the poet’s method is here on absolutely unassailable ground.
The story is purely human, and the theological story is a mere addendum
designed to suit the religious occasion and many of the spectators. What,
then, is this human story? Verrall explains that Creusa was wronged by
some man unknown, and that her child perished. The Pythian priestess
bore[584] a child which she reared with a natural tenderness.[585]
This child was Ion, whom the managers of the shrine determined to
place in a station which could assist their influence. Then occurs the
deadly scene in which the youth is about to kill Creusa. To save the
Delphians from the responsibility of murdering a foreign queen in the
open street, and the boy from conduct which would make his admission to
Athens impossible, a plot is hastily concocted. It will prevent war with
Athens, it will destroy Creusa’s hatred for Ion, and secure his future
throne. The priests have already heard, even if Apollo has not, the story
shrieked[586] out at him by Creusa. By an impudent master-stroke they
determine that Ion shall be the queen’s long-lost child. To this end the
history of the two persons supplies most of the means; all that is needed
is something tangible to tie the knot. Hurriedly the clues are provided.
The necklace exposed long ago upon the babe is an easy matter; its fellow
was found upon the person of the Pædagogus.[587] The ever-blooming olive
of the Acropolis can be equalled in freshness by sprays plucked to-day
in Delphi; and for the embroidery, it is fairly certain that some such
covering must have been wrapped round the child, and its pattern is
sufficiently vague.[588] The queen in her heart-hunger and peril snatches
at these clues, and in a moment the two fall into one another’s arms.
Finally, the clear-headed persistence of Ion is met by what may in truth
be called a _dea ex machina_.[589] Over the temple façade is protruded
the gigantic head[590] of a figure, through which some one offers
such fumbling “explanations” as are possible. All this is enough for
Creusa—she has a son. As for Ion, whose life has been in his faith, he
commits himself to nothing; in one day he has grown to the full stature
of a man, but one hardly supposes that he visited Delphi again. Thus may
Verrall’s theory be summarized. It has never been answered, nor does it
seem possible to make any answer, except that the alleged real story is
“far-fetched”—of course; for any rationalistic explanation of a supposed
miracle must be strange, otherwise no one would have hitherto believed
the miracle in order to account for the facts.
The “theological background” then being merely theatrical gauze and
canvas, what of the human action? Though it forms an extraordinarily
brilliant, powerful, fascinating spectacle, is it a tragedy?—the story
ends with the appearance at any rate of joy and contentment. Yet tragedy
is found not only in the death of the body but in the death of ideals;
and the destruction of Ion’s faith in his all-knowing unerring father is
a fate from which, when we remember his happy carolling upon the dawn-lit
temple-steps, we could wish to see him saved even by the Gorgon’s venom.
Any out-cry wherewith he might have challenged Creusa’s is checked by
the cold disgust which fills him at the sound of Athena’s bland periods;
but one knows the kind of man Athens will receive to-morrow—one who will
agree with Xuthus that “these things don’t happen,”[591] who will be
an admirable connoisseur of party politics,[592] but who has lost his
vision. This, then, is spiritually, though not technically, a tragedy.
Further, it is technically a melodrama. That is, the external form and
texture is calculated to produce not as in tragedy simple, profound,
and enduring exaltation, but more superficial, violent, and transitory
emotion. The Pædagogus is pure melodrama, witness his change from
senile helplessness[593] to ruthless vigour,[594] the wildness of his
suggestions—“burn down the temple” ... “murder your husband”; the utter
absence of remorse and secondary interests, characteristic of villainous
subordinates in melodrama; his complete breakdown when it is demanded by
the plot.[595] Such also is the confrontation of Ion and Creusa with the
terrified women and scowling Delphians as a background. But the finest
thrill, and the touch least justified by any standards save those of
melodrama, occurs in the speech of Ion as he stands with the fateful
basket in his arms and determines not to open it but to dedicate it to
Apollo. The next moment he reflects that he must carry out the god’s will
and discover his origin. The genuine plot halts so as to cause theatrical
sensation.
It is natural in such a play that the characterization should be simple.
Xuthus, the Pædagogus, and the Prophetess, are scarcely more than foils
to the two chief persons. Creusa attracts us rather because the poet has
so well portrayed woman than because he has created a particular woman.
More than this can be said of Ion. He is marked out from all the other
persons of this play by sheer intelligence, by the power of facing facts,
and of constantly readjusting his perspective.[596] He is a figure of
somewhat quaint pathos. The happy child who sings to the birds on the
temple-steps and thinks of nothing but his tranquil existence of pious
routine, turns in a moment to the discreet adviser who can imagine
incredible things: “There is no man who will transmit to thee response to
such a question. For were he in his own house proved a villain, Phœbus
would justly wreak mishap upon him that gave thee such reply.”[597] As
he moves to and fro, filling the holy-water stoups, we can hear him
murmuring to himself serene blasphemies. “But I must blame Phœbus. Such
conduct! Use violence upon maidens, and betray them? Beget children in
secret and leave them to die? Come, come! Since you have the power,
remember its responsibility. You punish mankind for wrong-doing” ...[598]
and so forth, including the suggestion that if Zeus, Poseidon, and Apollo
were compelled to pay damages for their lustful offences, their temples
would become bankrupt. In politics, as in religion, Ion observes and
deduces for himself. Athenian public life he well understands before
entering it;[599] he has views about the influence of perverted religious
feelings upon public opinion and the execution of the law.[600] All
this prepares us for the splendid moment[601] when forgetting his own
rule[602] he insists on bearding the oracle, and for the reception he
gives to the patching-up of Apollo’s infallibility.
For the rest, the work is a study of emotions deeply conceived and
wonderfully expressed. Creusa is induced to tell her story, though
disguised, to Ion largely by her sudden feeling for the youth
himself.[603] The revelation which she makes to the Pædagogus and the
chorus is wrung from her after all these years by the sudden loneliness
which the gift of a son to her husband brings upon her heart. And the
gloriously successful climax[604] where she suddenly addresses her
executioner as her son is purely emotional also. Even the intellectual
revolt of Ion is introduced by a sudden turn of the feelings in the
recognition-scene: “Mother, let my father, too, share in our joy”.[605]
The TROADES[606] (Τρῳάδες), or _Trojan Women_, was produced in 415 B.C.
together with _Alexander_, _Palamedes_, and _Sisyphus_ as satyric play.
This group obtained the second prize, being defeated by the work of
Xenocles “whoever he is”.[607]
The action takes place outside Troy after its capture; in the background
is a tent wherein are captive Trojan women. Before the tent lies
Hecuba in a stupor of grief. The deities Poseidon and Athena explain
in a dialogue that they are quitting Troy with reluctance; Poseidon
will destroy the Greek fleet on its way home. When they have departed,
Hecuba stirs and laments; soon she is joined by the chorus of Trojan
women. Talthybius tells her that Cassandra is to become the concubine of
Agamemnon; concerning Polyxena he speaks evasively; Andromache is given
to Neoptolemus, Hecuba herself to Odysseus, whom she detests above all
Greeks. Cassandra rushes forward uttering in frenzy a horrible parody of
a marriage-song in her own honour; she prophesies the woes of Agamemnon
and Odysseus. Hecuba ponders her former greatness and present misery;
the chorus sing the fatal day when Troy welcomed the Wooden Horse.
Andromache and her infant Astyanax are brought in, and from her Hecuba
hears Polyxena’s death. Though prostrated by grief she urges Andromache
to please her new lord, that perchance his son may revive something of
Troy’s greatness. Talthybius returns with tidings that Astyanax is to be
hurled from the battlements. After an ode on the first siege of Troy,
Menelaus enters rejoicing in his long-deferred opportunity of slaying
Helen. Hecuba bursts into rapturous thanks to the Power which rules
mankind, and when Helen pleads innocence refutes her bitterly. Talthybius
brings in the mangled body of Astyanax over which Hecuba utters a speech
of reproachful lament. The play ends with the burning of Troy.
In structure archaic, this play is in spirit something quite new to the
Attic stage. On the one hand there is little unfolding of a plot; we are
reminded strongly of the _Prometheus_ by the portrayal of a situation
which changes with extreme slowness. It is the manner of this portrayal
which is new and terrible. The _Troades_ was performed after the sack
of Melos and before the departure of the Sicilian expedition; it is a
statement, by a member of the nation which annihilated Melos, of the
horrors wherewith the vanquished are overwhelmed. The glory won by the
Greeks who overthrew Troy was the best-known and most cherished gift
of tradition. Now a Greek writer reveals the other side of conquest.
After the crime of Melos, Euripides never felt as he had felt towards
Athens or Greece. His intellect and his heart were appalled by the cold
ferocity of which his fellows showed themselves every year more capable.
Hitherto he has attacked the evils of human nature; now he impeaches one
definite nation, and that his own. No spectator could doubt that “Troy”
is Melos, “the Greeks” Athens. Such uncompromising hostility must have
produced deep effects on so impressionable an assembly. For it is not
merely a denunciation; it is a threat. The poet takes the whole picture
of misery and stupid tyranny, and puts it into sinister perspective in
his prologue. All the cruelties of the play are committed by the Greeks
under shadow of the calamity denounced against them by the deities of
the prologue, whereof we are again and again reminded by the sentences
casually dropped by Talthybius and others, that the host is eager to
embark. And this when the great Athenian armament was itself thronging
the Peiræus in preparation for the voyage to Sicily.[608]
Of characterization, therefore, little is to be found. Cassandra,
though her pathos is less deep and wide than that of her namesake in
the _Agamemnon_, is yet valuable, as aiding in that perspective which
is given mainly by the prologue. Talthybius and Andromache are ably
sketched, but Menelaus and Helen are introduced merely for the sake of
the elaborate dispute between Hecuba and Helen. It is upon Hecuba that
the whole poem hangs—not upon her action or even her character, but upon
her capacity for suffering. With the progress of the play she changes
from the Queen of Troy to a figure summing up in herself all the sorrows
of humanity. As each woe is faced, lamented, and at last assimilated
into an ennobling experience, another disaster flings her back into
the primitive outcry to begin once more the task of resignation. She
is a pagan _mater dolorosa_. As each billow of grief descends upon
her, leaving her still sentient, nay, filled with eager sympathy for
others, the Greeks who oppress her become strangely puny and unreal
like the legionaries in some mediæval picture of martyrdom. Even when
she confesses to complete despair she yet the next moment begins to
fashion within the abyss a tiny abode for hope: Astyanax may grow to
manhood, “so that—if chance is kind—sons of thy blood may dwell again
in Ilium, and there might yet be a city”.[609] Next moment the child is
torn away to be flung from the battlements. Even so, Hecuba recovers her
balance in the end and can deliver, as she stands over the little body,
the stinging reproach[610] of a “barbarian” revolted by the crimes of
“civilization”.[611] It is to this endless capacity for facing sorrow
and transmuting it into rich experience that we owe one of the most
beautiful and definite philosophic _dicta_ to be found in Euripides:—
ὦ γῆς ὄχημα, κἀπὶ γῆς ἔχων ἕδραν
ὅστις ποτ’ εἶ σύ, δυστόπαστος εἰδέναι,
Ζεύς, εἴτ’ ἀνάγκη φύσεος, εἴτε νοῦς βροτῶν,
προσηυξάμην σε· πάντα γὰρ δι’ ἀψόφου
βαίνων κελεύθου κατὰ δίκην τὰ θνήτ’ ἄγεις.[612]
“O Throne of earth, by earth upheld, whosoe’er Thou art, beyond
conjecture of our knowledge—Zeus, or the law of Nature, or the mind of
Man, to Thee do I address my prayer; for moving along Thy soundless path
Thou dost guide all mortal life with justice.” As for the Olympian gods,
they are scarcely attacked; there is little more than a jaded recognition
that belief in them is no help or inspiration.[613] To this plaintive
agnosticism there is here no alternative but fierce pessimism, as when in
the frightful eloquence of Hecuba we are told that Fate is “a capering
idiot”.[614]
Most mournful of all Greek tragedies, this is yet beautiful, and full
of splendid spectacular effects: Cassandra bounding wildly forth with
her bridal torches; the entry of Andromache seated in the waggon among
the spoils of Troy; Hecuba bending over Astyanax’ body within the great
buckler of his father; the little procession which carries the shield to
burial, princely robes hanging therefrom; and the aged queen addressing
her farewell to the blazing city.
IPHIGENIA IN TAURIS[615] (Ἰφιγένεια ἡ ἐν Ταύροις) or _Iphigenia among
the Taurians_, is a work of uncertain date.[616] Nothing is known of its
success when produced, and the absence of scholia suggests that it was
not popular in later times.
Iphigenia, before the temple of Artemis among the Taurians (in South
Russia), relates that she was not slain at Aulis, but brought by Artemis
to serve as her priestess here, close to the city of King Thoas, where
she is compelled to sacrifice all strangers. A dream has suggested to her
that her brother Orestes is dead; she goes within to prepare offerings to
his shade. Orestes and Pylades enter; they have been sent by the Delphian
oracle to steal the image of Artemis; in this way Orestes will be freed
from the Furies. They postpone their attempt till nightfall, and retire.
The chorus of Greek captive maidens enter in attendance upon Iphigenia,
and a cowherd brings news that two Greeks have been captured and are
being brought for sacrifice. After a choric ode, the rustics enter with
their prisoners. A conversation follows, in which neither Iphigenia’s
name nor that of Orestes is revealed, and she offers to spare his life
if he will take a letter to Argos. He insists that Pylades shall go, and
the latter asks that the message be read. It proves to be an appeal to
Orestes, and, exclaiming that he will at once perform his task, Pylades
hands it to his friend. Brother and sister thus become known to one
another, and all three agree to escape, taking the image with them. They
enter the temple, after Iphigenia has enjoined secrecy upon the chorus,
who sing their yearning for home. King Thoas enters and is tricked by
Iphigenia into aiding the escape. The chorus sing Apollo’s conquest
of Delphi. A messenger rushes in, seeking Thoas; the chorus misdirect
him, but in vain. Thoas learns how his people have been beguiled into
allowing the Greeks to embark. However, a contrary wind is even now
driving them back. Thoas is preparing to hunt the fugitives down when
Athena appears and stops him; he is, moreover, commanded to send the
Greek maidens home. He consents, and the play ends with the joy of the
chorus.
This drama is one of the finest among Euripides’ works. It provides a
marked contrast with the _Troades_; there is bitterness here indeed, but
it is the bitterness of Voltaire rather than that of Swift. And whereas
in the former play plot is almost non-existent, here it is vital. Perhaps
the most brilliant piece of construction in Euripides is the celebrated
Recognition-scene of this drama. Indeed the whole tragedy is the story of
a plot, skilful and breathless. Iphigenia’s method—to deceive by telling
the truth (about Orestes’ matricide)—was particularly dear to Greeks,
connoisseurs of falsehood both in life and in literature; so beautifully
does she succeed that (partly for her own amusement) she tells the king
further the news she has just heard concerning her brother’s welfare. But
the poet is no more the slave of his wit than of his sympathies, and we
are brought to realization of the facts—namely, that the three Greeks are
thieves and Iphigenia a traitress—by her own self-mockery: “Falsehood,
thy name is Hellas,”[617] and by the simple generosity with which the
prince accepts her suggestions.
The second feature of importance is the atmosphere of adventure. A
strange grim glamour lies upon this story of breathless dangers in a
region which is itself a mystery and a menace. We must forget modern
notions about South Russia, lines of steamboats, and Odessa as civilized
as Hull. This kingdom of Thoas is as remote from Athens as Thibet or the
Upper Congo from us; indeed at many points we recall the African stories
of Sir Rider Haggard. Amid these ghastly altars, the secret fire and the
cleft of death,[618] deserted seas and bloodthirsty savages, there is an
infinite painful sweetness in Orestes’ reminder of a dusty heirloom in
his sister’s bedchamber at home.[619] The poem is filled with suggestions
of remoteness, the heaving of strange billows, legendary landing-places.
Flowing from this is the home-sickness which breaks out again and again,
in Pylades’ recollection, during his worst agony, of the winding Phocian
glens,[620] and in the lyric songs where the Greek captives long to fly
homeward with the halcyon to the hallowed places of Greece.[621]
But not only does religion as a radiant emotion setting a glow around
“the hill of Cynthus” and the “circling mere” mark the play. Euripides
here, as so often, treats religion intellectually as well as emotionally.
By the lips of Orestes he passes judgment upon Olympian religion as a
guide of conduct. Taking the story of Æschylus, he acts not as a lesser
unbeliever would have acted; he does not dub the reconciliation of the
_Eumenides_ a delusion. With a studiously bungling air he explains
that one section of the Furies was appeased, and the other not.[622]
If the manner of this revision is delightfully impudent, the intention
is deadly. Orestes has been sent away by the Delphian priests to _do_
something, to seek and undergo, if possible, a physiological effect
simply through the excitement of a far journey. We are very near to
the “long holiday and change of air”. The Furies exist nowhere but in
his own brain. On the Athenian Areopagus he went through a climax of
hallucination. Surrounded by stray animals,[623] he saw in imagination
all the tremendous events imagined by Æschylus as objective reality. His
mind only partly cleared by this paroxysm, he fled back to Delphi for
complete healing. The “oracle” sent him to the remotest region known to
Greeks, to a land, moreover, where the natives are wont to murder all
strangers. Phœbus is ashamed of his “former responses” and seeks to be
rid of his too obedient, too persistent devotee.[624] Such is the opinion
of Orestes himself when at last in the “toils,”[625] and the whole
work (with an exception presently to be noticed) is pervaded by this
unflinching rationalism. The pious herdsmen who see marine deities in the
Greek visitors are laughed to scorn by a companion who, though dubbed “a
fool reckless and irreverent,”[626] is entirely justified. Iphigenia’s
reflections[627] on the human sacrifices of the Tauri lead her to acquit
the goddess of “such folly” and to attribute this practice to ferocious
savages who make gods in their own image. At one point indeed simple
faith is justified. Orestes when faced by death is comforted by his
friend: “The god’s oracle hath not yet destroyed thee, close as thou dost
stand to slaughter”.[628] In a moment Orestes is free from peril at the
priestess’ hands. But no one, least of all Euripides, expects even the
“gods” to blunder always. Finally, the ode on Apollo’s conquest of Delphi
is a delicate but pungent satire: the “oracle” is a magnificent trade
connexion.[629]
This cynical clearness is a guide in studying the exceptional passage
above mentioned: in the last scene orthodox piety is upheld by the
apparition of Athena. Does then the _Iphigenia_ in the end refute the
rationalism impressed on it almost everywhere? We can take our choice,
accepting Athena, Apollo’s divinity, and all the other traditional
garnishments, but stultifying many passages, and the tone of nine-tenths
of the play; or we can accept the latter as a thrilling and pathetic
study in human superstition and intrepidity, but reject Athena as a
conventional phantom. In this latter case we shall, with Dr. Verrall,
consider that the play, for all artistic and intelligible purposes, ends
at v. 1434, leaving Thoas to capture and destroy the Greeks. Many will
find such a choice difficult. The _Iphigenia_ is certainly not as clear a
case as the _Orestes_, to say nothing of the _Ion_. But it is difficult
to believe that here he has composed a magnificent play to bolster up
theology which elsewhere he strenuously attacks. Nevertheless, the speech
of Athena is not in itself contradictory or ludicrous.
The mental pathology—it can hardly be called the character—of Orestes,
deserves close study. He provides an admirable instance of that skill in
portraying madness for which Euripides was famed.[630] A man of strong
simple instincts, he is shaken terribly by the murderous events of his
childhood. His brain is overthrown by the sway of the hierarchy and by
the deeds to which he was impelled. From this overthrow he never quite
recovered, as the dramatist himself carefully indicates.[631] Throughout
the _Iphigenia_ we discern, drawn with extraordinary skill and tact, the
struggle between the old obsession and an intellect originally clear and
acute. The prologue, when he explores the ground with Pylades, shows him
(in spite of a ghastly brilliance of thought fit only for frenzy or the
nightmare[632]) possessed of shrewdness which, if consistently applied,
would have saved him from the expedition altogether. Later he is seen
hurled by the excitement of his quest into complete, though temporary,
insanity[633]—a fit which throws back strange light upon his “trial” at
Athens and provides a comment upon the later scene,[634] where, though at
the moment sane, he yet believes in the delusive experience. Everywhere
we find this superstructure of sanity on an insane foundation. Though
he can see through the “oracle” as clearly as any man with regard to
its past deceptions, he is pathetically enthusiastic for the latest
nostrum.[635] The long account[636] of his sorrows which he gives his
sister is full of such sinister meaning. He essays to describe the origin
of the court which tried him: “There is a holy ... _vote_,[637] which
long ago Zeus founded for Ares owing to some blood-guiltiness, whatever
it was....” He has forgotten half the facts, and bungles the rest. This
speech, full of obscurity, irrelevancy, and disconnected thought, is
practically ignored by his sister, who realizes his condition both from
the report of the herdsman and from the occasional lunacy he manifests in
conversation.[638] Orestes, too, knows[639] how it is with him, and the
complete absence of lament on his part when faced with death is one of
the grimmest things in the drama.
The ELECTRA[640] (Ἠλέκτρα) was probably acted in 413 B.C.[641] The scene
is laid before the cottage of a peasant, who explains that he is the
husband of Electra, but in name only; she comes forth and they depart
to their several tasks. Orestes and Pylades arrive; Orestes has come
at Apollo’s bidding to avenge his father, at whose tomb he has offered
sacrifice. Seeing Electra they retire. She is invited to a festival by
the chorus of Argive women, but refuses, urging her sorrow and poverty.
The two strangers approach, Orestes pretending that he has been sent
by her brother for tidings of her; she gives him a passionate message
begging Orestes to exact vengeance. The peasant returns and sends the
strangers within as his guests; the chorus sing the expedition to Troy.
An aged shepherd enters with the provisions for which Electra sent,
and tells her that he has seen upon Agamemnon’s tomb a sacrifice and
a votive lock of hair. He in vain seeks to convince Electra that her
brother must be in Argos, but later recognizes Orestes by a scar. Brother
and sister embrace with joy; after passionate prayers to Agamemnon’s
shade he departs to seek Ægisthus. The chorus sing the crime of Thyestes
which caused sun and stars to change their course. A messenger relates
how Ægisthus has been cut down by Orestes in the midst of a religious
service; the avengers return with the body, over which Electra gloats.
Clytæmnestra is seen approaching, lured by a story that Electra has given
birth to a child. Orestes feels remorse, but is hardened by his sister,
who awaits her mother alone. A dispute follows about the queen’s past,
but Clytæmnestra refuses to quarrel, and goes within to perform the
birth-ritual. Soon her cries are heard, and Orestes and Electra re-enter,
filled with grief and shame. In the sky appear Castor and Polydeuces
(Pollux), brothers of Clytæmnestra, who blame the matricide, which
they attribute to Apollo; then they depart to the Sicilian sea to save
mariners who are righteous and unperjured.
Special interest clings to this play, because here only can we see
Euripides traversing precisely the same ground as Æschylus (in the
_Choephorœ_) and Sophocles (in the _Electra_), This similarity of subject
long damaged Euripides’ play in the eyes of critics. It was assumed that
the youngest poet was imitating his forerunners, and it needed small
acumen to observe that the imitation was bad. Whereupon, instead of
wondering whether perhaps Euripides was after all not copying others,
critics proceeded to write cheerful nonsense about “frivolity” and “a
profound falling off in art and taste”.[642] The fact simply is that
each of these three tragedians discussed the story from a different
viewpoint. Æschylus treated it as a religious fact, Sophocles as an
emotional fact, Euripides as an ethical fact. Æschylus is on the side of
Apollo, Sophocles on the side of Electra, Euripides on the side of no
one. He asks himself what circumstances, what perversions of character,
can result in this matricide.
Hence his careful study of Clytæmnestra, Electra, and Orestes, so careful
that a reader at first supposes the poet a partisan of Clytæmnestra.
Not so; he has merely tried to understand her. A placid woman of quick
but shallow affections, she was abandoned by her husband for ten years
to the memory of a murdered daughter. Delightfully characteristic is
her argument: “Suppose Menelaus had been stolen from home; would it
have been right for me to slay Orestes that Helen might regain her
husband?”[643] Vigorous and damaging, this is yet tinged with comedy by
its raw novelty and precision. One almost overhears the _commèrages_ of
the street-corner. When Agamemnon brought back openly a concubine to his
home, Clytæmnestra assisted[644] her lover in anticipating the king’s
revenge by murdering him. From this act she has drifted into condoning
cruelty against her unoffending children; throughout she has acted
wickedly and acquiesced in worse conduct by others. Nevertheless, she is
no figure of tragedy; she only suggests tragedy because she is the mother
of her executioners. Her chief love is placid domesticity; if this can be
obtained only by murdering those who threaten it, that is very terrible,
but the world is notoriously imperfect. Clytæmnestra cannot, and will
not, meet Electra on the tragic plane. Her daughter’s great outburst and
threat of murderous vengeance she meets in this comfortable fashion: “My
child, it was always your nature to love your father. It often happens
so. Some favour the male side, while others love their mother rather
than their father. I forgive you: for in truth I rejoice not greatly,
child, in the acts that I have done.... But you!—unwashed and shabby in
attire!” ... And so forth. Clytæmnestra is almost as ill-tuned to the
atmosphere which Electra constantly and deliberately creates as Sancho
Panza to the high converse of his master. The queen has been summoned to
her daughter’s cottage by report of a newly-born infant. She shows her
natural goodness of heart by hurrying thither at once (though of course
she has not the taste to leave her gorgeous retinue behind) and doing
all she can to comfort and help her daughter. By this time she has all
unconsciously “taken the wind out of the sails” of the avengers. But
Electra can maintain her grimness and actually utter black hints of a
wedding-bed in the grave![645] We turn next to her; what manner of woman
can this be?
Electra is one of Euripides’ most vivid and successful female characters.
She has strong claims on our pity and sympathy, but fails to win them.
Her mother is a ready victim of any emotion which breathes upon her;
Electra has settled her position emotionally, intellectually, morally,
years ago. Nothing can alter her; she is the victim and the apostle of
an _idée fixe_. The crimes of love are no less frightful than the crimes
of hate; in Electra affection for Agamemnon has become the basis of
cold ferocity against Clytæmnestra. It is Orestes who shrinks when the
deed is to be done, Electra who braces his resolution. She has borne no
child. Instead of beginning a new life in her children, looking to the
future, she has fed morbidly upon memories, stiffening natural grief and
resentment into permanent inhuman morosity. Clytæmnestra has blandly
outlived two murders in her own family, and remains neither unamiable nor
uninteresting; but it is impossible to imagine what Electra will do, say,
or think, after the events of to-day. This unnatural self-concentration,
which means not only her mother’s death but her own spiritual suicide,
is mainly the result of her childlessness. And it is on this that
Euripides lays his finger. “Announce that I have given birth to a male
child.... Then, when she has come, of course it is her death.”[646]
This plot of Electra is possibly the most brilliantly skilful and most
terrible stroke in all the poet’s work. It indicates the source of her
heartlessness, it provides an excellent dramatic motive for the queen’s
arrival, and it shows, as nothing else could show, the fiendishness of
a woman who can use just this pretext to the very woman who gave her
birth. She relies upon the sanctity of motherhood to aid her in trampling
upon it. Her first words, as she slips forth to join her husband beneath
the star-lit sky, show how the heavens themselves remind her that she
has had no infant at her breast during the night-watches: “Black Night,
thou _Nurse_ of golden stars”.[647] Moreover, not only does she feel her
sorrows, she enjoys the sense of martyrdom. Her wrongs and present trials
she is capable of exaggerating;[648] at every opportunity she exploits
them for purposes of self-pity, as her husband hints more than once.[649]
Orestes, living in exile, has escaped the blight of Electra only to
become a criminal with no illusions, proud of his worldly experience,
witness the blundering disquisition on “the true gentleman,”[650] and his
cynical comments on his humble brother-in-law.[651] His onslaught upon
Ægisthus from behind proves him at the best deficient in gallantry, and
on the matricide itself nothing need be said. We can pity Orestes for his
fearful position, but he is a poor creature. The _Electra_, in fact, is
a clear-sighted attack upon the morality of blood-feuds. The poet feels
that Ægisthus and Clytæmnestra, left so long unmolested, should have
been left alone still; if Apollo at Delphi, and the peasant in his Argive
cottage, had estimated human nature more wisely, this horror would have
been escaped, and no harm done. To punish the guilty is not always a
virtue; often it is a debauch of self-glory, and sometimes the worst of
villainies.
As always, the poet regards the “oracle,” which commanded matricide, as
an offence to civilization. But there is novelty in the extreme candour
with which this is put forward. The Dioscuri repeatedly stigmatize its
murderous command as “foolishness” or worse.[652] Equally outspoken
are the chorus, who devote the last stanza of their lovely song on
the Golden Lamb and Thyestes’ crime to a brilliant denial of its
truth.... “But legends that fill men with dread are profitable to divine
worship”[653]—it is admirably put, and may rank with the epigrams of
Ovid[654] and Voltaire.[655] As for the Dioscuri, it is impossible to
speak without affection of such quaint and charming figures. Their
converse with Electra and the chorus is an irresistible combination of
dignity and a breezy contempt for official reticence. In his first long
_ex cathedra_ speech Castor is on the verge of saying what he really
thinks of Phœbus Apollo, remembers himself just in time, and then—gives a
broad hint after all.[656] In the less formal talk which follows, these
bluff naval deities show a soundness of heart and a simplicity as to
the meaning of great affairs which recall delightfully the traditional
nautical character of modern literature. The anguish of brother and
sister who after long years meet for a few frightful hours only to part
for ever awakes their instant deep sympathy.[657] On the other side these
subordinate deities are assuredly in a maze as to the theological problem
into which they have strayed. “How was it,” ask the Argive women, very
pertinently, “that you, being gods and brothers of the woman that hath
perished, did not repel destruction from the house?” Electra, too, would
know why she was involved in the matricide. In answer the Brethren offer
a bundle of reasons some one of which ought surely to be right: “the
fate of necessity,” “the guidance of doom,” “the foolish utterances of
Phœbus’ tongue,” “a partnership in act and in destiny,” “the ancestral
curse”.[658] Even if traditional phrases could solve the problem of human
sin, these simple souls are not qualified to use or expound them.
One incident in the _Electra_ is of particular interest to the historian
of literature. The pædagogus seeks to convince Electra that the
mysterious visitor to Agamemnon’s tomb is her brother. He offers certain
evidences which she contemptuously rejects. There can be no doubt that
this scene is a criticism of the Recognition in Æschylus’ _Choephorœ_.
The severed lock of hair, the footprint, and the embroidered cloth,
appear in both scenes. Electra rejects all these clues. How can the hair
of an athletic man resemble the soft tresses of a woman? Is not a man’s
foot larger than a woman’s? Will the full-grown Orestes wear the same
garment as an infant? But Euripides’ attack is probably mistaken.[659]
We may suppose that Æschylus could have seen these objections; and it
is quite possible that tradition told of physical peculiarities in the
Pelopid family. As for the embroidered garment, Æschylus does not call it
so. It may well have been a cloth preserved by Orestes. However this may
be, we have here the most distinct example of Euripides’ criticism of an
earlier poet.
HELEN[660] (Ἑλένη), or _Helena_, was produced in 412 B.C. The scene
represents the palace of Theoclymenus, the young Egyptian king, with the
tomb of his father Proteus. Helen relates that Hera gave Paris a phantom
in place of the true Helen. While Greeks and Trojans fought for a wraith,
she herself has lived in Egypt, waiting for Menelaus. Theoclymenus now
seeks her hand; she has taken sanctuary in Proteus’ tomb. Teucer enters
to consult Theonoe, the king’s prophetess-sister. On seeing Helen he
barely refrains from shooting her, but realizing his “mistake” talks
with the stranger, revealing that Menelaus and “Helen” have apparently
been lost at sea. Helen sends him off and breaks into lamentation for
Menelaus, but is advised by the chorus of captive Greek maidens to
consult the omniscient Theonoe. She agrees, and they accompany her into
the palace. Menelaus enters, a pitiable shipwrecked figure. He has left
“Helen” and his comrades in hiding, and is looking for help. When he
knocks at the palace-door the portress repels him with the warning that
the king is hostile to Greeks because Helen is within his house. Menelaus
is thunderstruck, but determines to await Theoclymenus. The chorus and
Helen return in joy, for Menelaus, they learn, still lives. Menelaus
comes forward; after a moment his wife recognizes and would embrace him,
but he repels the stranger. One of his companions arrives announcing
that “Helen” has vanished. As he ends his tale he sees the true Helen,
who he supposes has played a practical joke; but Menelaus falls into her
arms. They plot escape, but realize that all depends upon the omniscient
Theonoe; she comes forth, and, explaining that she has a casting-vote in
a dispute which to-day takes place in Heaven between Hera and Aphrodite,
decides to aid the suppliants. When she has withdrawn it is arranged
that Menelaus shall pretend he is the sole survivor, Menelaus being
drowned; Helen is to gain permission to offer funeral-rites at sea. The
chorus raise a beautiful song concerning Helen’s woes and the Trojan war.
Theoclymenus enters and is easily hoodwinked. After an ode on Demeter’s
search for Persephone, the plotters are sent on their way by the king.
The chorus sing of Helen’s voyage and pray the Dioscuri to convoy their
sister. A messenger hurries in and tells of the escape; the Egyptian
crew has been massacred by Menelaus’ followers. Theoclymenus would take
vengeance upon his sister, but is checked by the Dioscuri, who explain
that all has occurred by the will of Zeus.
Two aspects of this play are unmistakable and apparently incompatible.
The plot closely resembles that of the _Iphigenia in Tauris_; the
style and manner of treatment are curiously light. What can have been
Euripides’ purpose in repeating, after so short an interval, a copy of
that grim masterpiece, and to execute it in this light-hearted fashion?
The _Helen_ is in no possible sense a tragedy. At the point where the
audience should be spell-bound by suspense and dread—the cajoling of the
king—we are relieved from all oppression by the facility with which the
captives succeed. Theoclymenus is an imbecile who gives them all they
need with his eyes shut. The earlier action is robbed of all power by
the superhuman attributes of Theonoe. How can, or need, Helen have any
doubts concerning her husband with an all-knowing friend at hand? The
central _datum_, that only a phantom fled to Troy and returned therefrom
with Menelaus, is utterly destructive of tragic atmosphere. In the
Recognition-scene the possibility of pathos is drowned in absurdity: the
messenger suddenly turns to find his mistress smiling at his elbow and
greets her with relief: “Ah, hail, daughter of Leda, here you are after
all!”[661] Teucer’s scene, besides providing a palmary instance of bad
construction (for his function is merely to cause Helen anxiety about her
husband’s fate, which one might have expected to arouse her curiosity
earlier in the course of these seventeen years), is in itself absurd.
After coming all this distance to consult Theonoe about his route, he is
sent away happy (without seeing the prophetess) by Helen’s suggestion,
“You will pick out your way as you go along”.[662] Equally curious is
the diction. Brilliantly idiomatic as are the iambics, they are almost
everywhere light, loose in texture, almost colloquial. Such things[663]
as φέρ’ ἦν δὲ δὴ νῷν μὴ ἀποδέξηται λόγους;—ἣν γὰρ εἴχομεν θάλασσ’
ἔχει—εἷς γὰρ ὅ γε κατ’ οὐρανόν, and the silly jingle on λόγῳ θανεῖν, are
typical of the whole atmosphere. Even the lyrics glow with prettiness
rather than beauty; lovely as are the Naiad[664] and the Nightingale[665]
they mitigate in no degree the flimsiness of the whole.
Theonoe herself, in an outrageous passage,[666] brings the mockery
to a climax: “This very day among the gods there is to be strife and
conference concerning thee before the throne of Zeus. Hera, who was thine
enemy before, is kindly to thee now, and would bring thee safe to thy
home-country with this thy wife, so that Greece may learn how Paris’
love, the gift of Cypris, was but a mockery. But Cypris would fain deny
thee thy home-return, that it may never come to light how in Helen’s case
she bought the prize of beauty with bridals that were naught. _And the
decision lies with me_, whether, as Cypris wishes, I shall destroy thee
by revealing thy presence to my brother, or whether I shall join Hera
and save thy life.” We should be ill-advised to take this in all earnest
as a ludicrous blasphemy. It is graceful trifling. But what is Theonoe—a
dread goddess to whom the queen of Heaven sues for aid, or a kind-hearted
woman whose strong common-sense might, perhaps, in a circle like that of
the dolts and _poseurs_ who fill the stage, raise her to the repute of
superhuman wisdom? She is not all playful. When the honour of her dead
father is in question, she stirs the heart by her passionate solemnity:—
Aye, all that lie in death must meet their bond,
And they that live; yea, all. Beyond the grave
The mind, though life be gone, is conscious yet
Eternal, with th’ eternal Heav’n at one.[667]
This stands, together with Hecuba’s outburst[668] in the _Trojan Women_,
as the most explicit statement of personal religion in the extant plays
of Euripides. In the midst of this farrago of fairy-tale and false
sentiment, it is doubly startling. The drama is neither tragedy, nor
melodrama, nor comedy, nor farce. What are we to think of it?
Dr. Verrall[669] would regard it as a burlesque, that is, as a playful
imitation of serious work, with exaggeration of weak features or
tendencies. From the facts that one ode[670] has nothing whatever to do
with the plot, but with the Mother and the Maid, and that Aristophanes
parodies the play in his _Celebrants of the Thesmophoria_, wherein
Euripides is accused of profaning that festival, it is inferred that
_Helen_ was not written for public presentation, but for private
performance at a house on the island of Helene belonging to an Athenian
lady. The occasion was a gathering of women who had been celebrating
the Thesmophoria, and forms Euripides’ playful answer to the charge
that he had never depicted a good woman. To prove his zeal, he chooses
Helen (the least reputable of her sex) and completely rehabilitates her
character.[671] At the same time he amuses his audience with a parody
of his own work. The sanctuary of Helen recalls that of Andromache, and
the escape that of Iphigenia and her friends. The news of this _tour de
force_ spread, and at last, owing to public curiosity, it was exhibited
at the Dionysia.
There is no doubt (i) that the _Helen_ is not serious either in intention
or execution; (ii) that there is good evidence for supposing a connexion
between the play and the festival of the Mother and the Maid, the
Thesmophoria; (iii) that Aristophanes’ jokes about Proteus-Proteas and
the rest do support the view that Euripides has in his mind the history
of a family who have nothing to do with Menelaus and Helen; (iv) that in
the play there are points, such as “Eido” (the baby-name of Theonoe),
which are irrelevant to the story. Are we, then, to accept Verrall’s
account? The sound view would appear to be that Euripides offered to
the Archon a work which for once was a burlesque. So sincere a thinker
as Euripides was certain sooner or later to attack himself, at any rate
to examine his position and methods with humorous detachment. So far we
may, we must, go with Verrall; the elaborate and delightfully detailed
development we can hardly accept—the evidence is not sufficiently strong.
But the poet is making fun not only of himself. The false Helen and her
disappearance at a crisis in the action, are not merely miracles of a
type in which he utterly disbelieves; they are features which even a
believer would remove as far as possible into the background. In handling
this fairy-tale with such _naïveté_, he is possibly laughing at some
indiscreet fellow-dramatist;[672] certainly he is ridiculing the popular
belief in such legends. Helen herself cannot credit the tale of Leda
and the Swan.[673] When given the choice between two accounts of her
brothers’ fate, she prefers the non-miraculous version.[674] Even the
dramatist’s own dislike of soothsayers is elaborately expounded by the
Greek messenger and sympathetically echoed by the chorus,[675] absurdly
enough in a play which contains Theonoe, whom the chorus themselves have
induced Helen to consult, and with success; although of course Theonoe
knows only what could be learned by listening to the talk of Menelaus.
The PHŒNISSÆ[676] (Φοίνισσαι), or _Phœnician Women_, was produced about
the year 410 B.C. The action takes place before the palace of Thebes.
Jocasta explains that the blind Œdipus is kept prisoner there by his sons
Eteocles and Polynices, whom he has therefore cursed with a prayer that
they may divide their inheritance with the sword. They have arranged
to rule for a year by turns; but Eteocles, at the end of his term, has
refused to retire and Polynices has brought an army against Thebes.
Jocasta has arranged that the brothers shall meet. When she has gone,
a pædagogus shows the Argive host to Antigone from the roof. Next the
chorus appear, a band of Phœnician maidens who sing of their voyage
and of Delphi, their destination. Polynices stealthily enters and is
greeted rapturously by his mother; Eteocles follows, and the brothers
quarrel bitterly and finally. The chorus sing of Cadmus and the harvest
of warriors. Eteocles comes forth and is advised by Creon to post a
champion at each of the seven gates. He agrees, ratifies the betrothal
of Antigone to Hæmon, and bids Creon consult Tiresias as to the hope of
victory; if Polynices falls he is not to be buried in Theban ground.
The chorus sing to Ares who has filled the land with war in place of
the delightful Dionysiac worship; they celebrate the wondrous history
of Thebes. Tiresias enters with Creon’s son Menœceus, and declares that
victory can be won only if the youth is sacrificed. Creon arranges to
send his son away, but Menœceus resolves to slay himself. The next ode
celebrates the Sphinx, the tale of Œdipus, and Menœceus’ nobility. A
messenger brings to Jocasta tidings that her sons are about to engage
in single combat; she hurries to the spot with Antigone. After a brief
ode of suspense, Creon returns mourning for his dead son, and another
messenger tells at length how Polynices, Eteocles, and Jocasta have died.
Thebes has won complete victory. The corpses are brought in, followed by
Antigone, who summons the aged Œdipus. Together they bewail the dead till
Creon breaks in and decrees that Antigone must marry Hæmon, Œdipus go
into exile, and Polynices remain unburied. Antigone defies him: she will
bury her brother, she will not marry Hæmon, but will share her father’s
exile. Œdipus as they depart asserts his greatness as the Conqueror of
the Sphinx.
This work was immensely popular in antiquity.[677] It was repeatedly
“revived”; ancient authors quote from it often; together with the
_Hecuba_ and the _Orestes_ it formed the final selection of Euripides’
work made in Byzantine times; and the scholia are extremely copious.
Because of its popularity, the play was considerably expanded by
interpolation. It is no mere question of isolated lines inserted by
actors or copyists, though such appear to be numerous; considerable
masses are due to a later poet or poets.
The following passages[678] are generally suspected:
(i) vv. 88-201, the scene of Antigone and her attendant upon the
roof-terrace. To this it has been objected[679] that the entrance of
Polynices should occur as the first event of the play after the closing
words of the prologue which mention his expected arrival. This passage
contains, moreover, a number of words otherwise unknown which is enormous
considering the length of the scene, and several awkward or strained
expressions.
(ii) vv. 1104-40, the description of the seven chieftains as they advance
upon the gates. It is “full of obscurities and difficulties,”[680]
particularly two elaborate yet frivolous descriptions of shields.
Moreover, it practically repeats the terrace-scene; both passages can
hardly be genuine.
(iii) 1223-58 (or 1282), the messenger’s account of preparations for
the single combat, followed by the dialogue in which Jocasta calls
Antigone to accompany her to the field. Not only are there marked faults
of style;[681] it is impossible, considering the urgency[682] of the
news, that the queen should stay for this tedious narrative. Jocasta’s
conversation with Antigone is by no means so objectionable. It is very
short, and the style is not unworthy[683] of Euripides. Nevertheless, it
is strange that the queen should wait for her daughter at so urgent a
time.
(iv) the end of the drama, though at what point the addition begins is
not agreed. The last address of Œdipus which opens thus[684]:
ὦ πάτρας κλεινῆς πολῖται, λεύσσετ’, Οἰδίπους ὅδε,
ὃς τὰ κλείν’ αἰνίγματ’ ἔγνω καὶ μέγιστος ἦν ἀνήρ,
unmistakably recalls part of the finale in _Œdipus Tyrannus_:[685]
ὦ πάτρας Θήβης ἔνοικοι, λεύσσετ’, Οἰδίπους ὅδε,
ὃς τὰ κλείν’ αἰνίγματ’ ᾔδει καὶ κράτιστος ἦν ἀνήρ.
If we accept the customary date of Sophocles’ play (405 B.C.), it was
produced after Euripides’ death. Further, the whole scene of Œdipus,
Antigone, and Creon has evidently been expanded and distorted. According
to one version, that followed by Sophocles in the _Antigone_, the maiden
remained in Thebes after the battle and buried Polynices; according to
the _Œdipus Coloneus_ she accompanied her father into exile. Here the
two versions are combined. Moreover, from the entrance of Œdipus onwards
the play abounds once more in unnatural or unusual turns of speech. And
it may be thought a serious mistake to bring the aged sufferer forth
at all,[686] thus creating a new interest at the last moment of a play
crowded with incident. But though this portion contains much unauthentic
work, it appears to be intermingled with the genuine.
Certain other passages are open to suspicion, especially Jocasta’s
prologue and the remainder—hitherto unmentioned—of the first messenger’s
speech.[687] We appear to have Euripides’ prologue, padded out by
another hand. The same kind of recurrent weakness and flatness marks
the messenger’s speech. Above all, when the speaker seeks to rise to
the occasion, his efforts result in this:[688] “From the scaling-ladder
his limbs were hurled asunder like sling-stones—his hair to Heaven, his
blood to earth; his arms and legs whirled round like Ixion’s wheel”. This
imbecile bombast is fortunately without parallel in Attic tragedy.
It seems likely that Euripides’ work was in quite early times (probably
the fourth century) expanded by another poet, whose main contribution
was a large addition to the messengers’ speeches at a date when Æschylus
was little enough known to allow such things as the description of the
hostile champions a good degree of novelty. The new text was in its turn
enlarged by accretions due to actors.[689]
Euripides’ own work is vigorous and interesting,[690] a stirring scene of
warfare, patriotism, and strong passions, which, in its present expanded
form, reminds one by its spirit and its popularity of Kyd’s _Spanish
Tragedy_, the first favourite of Elizabethan audiences.[691] The two
brothers are well distinguished, Polynices by his pathetic sense that
intolerable wrong is urging him against his will into crime, Eteocles by
a dark fervour of ambition which has grown upon his soul like religion;
and their terrible altercation in the sweeping trochaic metre is equal to
anything of the kind in Euripides for terse idiomatic vigour. Jocasta’s
passionate joy when she sees her exiled son,[692] joy which stirs her
aged feet to trip in a dance of fond rapture,[693] provides the one
light-hearted moment. And her noble speech of reconciliation[694] is the
single great achievement of the drama.
The ORESTES[695] (Ὀρέστης) was produced in 408 B.C. and again in
341.[696] It was extremely popular, and formed with the _Phœnissæ_ and
the _Hecuba_ the final selection of Euripides’ work made in Byzantine
times; but the later interpolations are probably few. The scene is
laid before the palace at Argos. Orestes and Electra, having slain
Clytæmnestra and Ægisthus, are imprisoned in their own house by the
Argive state, which will to-day decide whether they are to be stoned to
death. Orestes has been tormented by madness and is now seen asleep,
watched by Electra; she hopes that they may yet be saved by Menelaus,
who has come home with Helen. The latter enters and requests Electra to
go for her to Clytæmnestra’s tomb with drink-offerings; she is persuaded
to send her daughter Hermione instead. The chorus of Argive ladies now
enter, and their voices awaken Orestes. Then follows a wonderful scene of
affectionate tendance and a sudden paroxysm of the sufferer; the chorus
sing of the Furies and the agony through which the house is passing.
Menelaus enters and Orestes passionately implores his aid. Tyndareus
(father of Helen and Clytæmnestra) arrives and denounces the cowering
Orestes: why did he not invoke the law against his mother? The youth’s
long speech of exculpation further incenses Tyndareus. When he has
departed, Orestes again appeals to Menelaus, who points out that the only
hope lies in the Argive Assembly. Orestes watches him go with contempt,
but is cheered by the arrival of Pylades, who throws in his lot with his
friend, and the two walk off to the Assembly. The chorus sing the story
of the house and lament the matricide. A messenger brings to Electra an
account of the debate, which ended with permission to the criminals to
die by their own hand. Electra pours forth a lyric of painful beauty
until the two youths return. Pylades declares that he too will die, but
suggests vengeance on Menelaus: let them slay Helen. Electra proposes
that Hermione be held as a hostage whereby Menelaus may be induced
to save them. The two men go within to despatch Helen, whose shrieks
are soon heard. Meanwhile Electra receives Hermione, who is dragged
within. A Phrygian slave flings himself in terror from a hole high up
in the house-front; in a strange lyric narrative, he tells how amid the
confusion Helen has vanished. Orestes rushes forth in pursuit, but he
is now insane and the slave contrives to escape. Orestes goes back, and
in a moment the house is on fire. Menelaus rushes in distraught, and
sees Orestes on the battlements with his sword at Hermione’s throat. A
frantic altercation arises, until Menelaus cries to the citizens for a
rescue. Apollo appears and bids the quarrel cease. Helen is to become a
sea-goddess; Electra shall marry Pylades, and Hermione Orestes, who is to
stand his trial at Athens; Apollo will reconcile him to the Argive state.
To appreciate this masterpiece, we must realize that Euripides, who so
often insists on considering tradition in the light of his own day, has
here insisted on that principle even more definitely than elsewhere.
Certain legendary data are, to be sure, retained. Troy has fallen but
a few years ago; Iphigenia was offered by her father as a sacrifice
at Aulis. Otherwise the events described might have occurred in the
fifth century. Agamemnon, though a noble of great eminence, was not a
king[697]; Argos is ruled by an Assembly not distinguishable from the
Athenian Ecclesia. The youth who exacts vengeance with his own hand is
told in language which might have been employed by Pericles, that the
vendetta is an outrage upon law and society; punishment for crime rests
with the State alone.[698] The behest of Apollo, all-important in the
_Choephorœ_, is not even mentioned in the discussion which decides the
fate of Orestes. The oracle is indeed treated with scant courtesy even
by those most concerned to uphold it; Electra complains of the god’s
“wickedness,”[699] and her brother “blames Loxias” for urging him to a
villainous deed and then giving no aid.[700] The atmosphere is one in
which the slaughter of Clytæmnestra must be regarded with horror and the
traditional defence of Orestes as unthinkable. This is not a theological
study, but a dramatic essay in criminal psychology.
In Orestes the playwright has given us one of his most terrible
portraits. Highly sensitive, weak-minded, over-educated in a bad school,
he is unbalanced by the horror of his father’s death and by the oracular
command which has blasted his life. In the magnificent sick-bed scene
he, like his sister, fills us with nothing but pity. But the calmer he
becomes the more are we filled with loathing for this pedant of eighteen,
with his syllogisms justifying murder, his parade of rhetoric, his
hopeless inability to grasp a situation. Rich as is the world’s drama
in villains, Orestes occupies a place conspicuous. He has little heart
and no sense. Both failings are common. But that both heart and brain
should be replaced by a factitious perverse cleverness, an incredibly
superficial passion for scoring logical points against opponents who have
in hand urgent interests of real life—this grips us irresistibly. He is
an example of the wreck produced by a highly specialized mental training
which has ignored character. His first address to Menelaus strikes the
note:—
Freely will I divulge my woes to thee.
But _as the first-fruits of my plight_, I touch
Thy knees, a suppliant, _tying prayer_ the while
To thy _unleafèd lips_....[701]
This affected and obscure exordium is followed by verbal subtleties
at every opportunity: “through my sorrows I live not, yet see the
light”[702]—“my deeds, not my appearance, ravage me”[703]—“my body’s
gone, my name alone remains”.[704] But all this is nothing to the
detestable exhibition wherewith he answers the aged Tyndareus. To the
vital point—that Clytæmnestra should have been brought before a legal
tribunal—he makes no reply whatever. His only difficulties are that
Tyndareus is wounded to the soul by his daughter’s death, and that he is
far older than Orestes. What is to be done? Simply to “contract out of”
natural feelings so that the way may be clear for pure logic:—
True, matricide doth taint me, yet again
Pure am I, for my sire I did avenge.
Therefore let thy great age be set aside
From this our conference, for it puts me out;
And let me on—’tis but thy hair I dread.[705]
There follows a frigid “statement”—“balance two against two”[706]—of
his father’s claim and his mother’s offences, and of his own glorious
achievement in purifying social life. The original sinner is Tyndareus
himself who begot so vile a daughter! He ends by an appeal to Apollo’s
behest, and a pompous comment on the importance of marriage.
The aged Spartan having given his grandson over to justice as
irreclaimable, the youth turns to Menelaus, whom he insists on regarding
as his real hope, in spite of Menelaus’ plain reluctance and extreme
unpopularity in Argos. He is, moreover, unwilling to endure another
display: “Let me be; I am reflecting....”[707] At all times he is
impatient of subtleties; in the first moments of their meeting he
asks his accomplished nephew: “What mean you? Wisdom is shown not by
obscurity, but by plain speech.”[708] But now that Orestes has his
chance, he refuses to suffer Menelaus’ “reflections,” and with a warning
that “a long address is better than a short one, and easier for the
auditor to follow”[709] produces a masterpiece of metallic cleverness
which presses Seneca himself very hard; perhaps the finest gem is the
offer of Hermione as a kind of discount.[710] Before the Assembly he
succeeds in combining several insanely tactless insults to the Argives:
they are “possessors,” not original citizens, of the land; they were
Pelasgians at first, but later “Danaidæ,” descendants of the women who
slew their husbands; and he has killed his mother as much for their sake
as his father’s.[711] But Euripides’ most frightful satire on “advanced
education” is reserved for the nightmare of the close, where the raving
Orestes leans down over the battlement to the grief-maddened Menelaus
and begins by a lunatic reminiscence of the “Socratic method”: “will you
be the questioner or the respondent?”[712]
Prig as he is, Orestes has nevertheless some elements of nobility at the
first. He can tell his uncle plainly that his disease is “conscience,
which convicts me for a criminal”;[713] he shows real regard for Electra;
the splendidly selfless friendship between him and Pylades stirs every
one. As the play advances, however, we are lost in the loathing and
breathless wonder wherewith we gaze upon the increasing insanity of the
wretched prince.[714] Each moment he becomes more vigorous and more lost
to sense of right; when Electra suggests the vilest part of the plot—the
seizure of Hermione—he breaks forth into a cry like Macbeth’s: “Bring
forth men-children only!”[715]
Electra has been the chief definite cause of Orestes’ fall. Amazingly
vivid, she fills the whole drama with a thin acrid fume of malice. Her
ruling passion is not mere hatred against Clytæmnestra. That bitterness
has spread until (saving her tenderness for Orestes) there is nothing in
her but a narrow viperishness. When an innocent like Hermione draws near,
the fang strikes by instinct. Her intensity of feeling and her years have
made her Orestes’ monitor long before he returned home, and it is she
to whom Tyndareus points, in searing language, as the more guilty.[716]
Another influence has soured her, that lack of husband and children on
which Helen, with the brutality so frequent in shallow natures, insists
at their first meeting.[717] But Electra has vastly more common-sense
than her brother or Pylades, and it is to her that the delightful
comment on Helen is given:[718]
Ah, Nature!...
Saw ye how tiny was that tress she cut,
Sparing her beauty? ’Tis the old Helen still!
But her sense of humour cannot sustain her heart long:
Heaven’s hatred seize thee! Thou hast wrought the fall
Of me, and this my brother, and of Greece.
These two women, so pungently contrasted in one brief scene, share,
however, one attribute—that nerveless theology which Euripides detested
as rotting the moral fibre. Electra muses upon “suffering and disaster
sent by Heaven”.[719] Helen attributes her elopement with Paris to
the “maddening doom of Heaven,”[720] which has also “destroyed this
hapless pair”[721]—her nephew and niece. The latter in her lyric outcry
explores[722] all the legends of her line to discover the cause of the
present disaster, a method which the chorus, for all their sympathy,
indeed complicity,[723] seem to parody by the ludicrous baldness of their
reflection that this horror of fiends and bloodshed has fallen upon the
house “because Myrtilus fell out of the chariot”![724]
All the minor characters are skilfully drawn—Pylades, the warm-hearted
scatter-brained ruffian who conceives the murder of Helen as soon[725] as
he learns that she is in his friend’s house; Tyndareus, the hot-tempered,
affectionate old king; Menelaus, the vulgar and successful, who has no
other ambition than to let bygones be bygones[726] and who has actually
expected to find Orestes and Clytæmnestra sharing the same home, quite
comfortable after the death of Agamemnon;[727] Helen, that faded, facile
creature, who cannot abstain from conversation, even with murderesses
if there is no one else. Hermione, minute as is her part, commands our
affection, not only because of the vile complot which centres round her,
but for the shy graciousness of the little she does say, ἥκω λαβοῦσα
πρευμένειαν[728] and the rest; she seems to have strayed from some sunlit
lost drama by Sophocles.
The religious sanction which for Sophocles had been the background of
Orestes’ story and which for Æschylus provided the most vital part of
the action, has in Euripides’ hands become, as it were, a small, rather
shabby stage-property hung upon the back-scene. Those Avenging Spirits
who hunt the matricide are now called “frenzies”[729] by his sister,
and in the anxiously precise account[730] which Menelaus elicits from
his nephew, it becomes plain that the three “maidens like night” are an
hallucination; any unfettered intercourse between them and ordinary men
is out of the question. Traditional belief itself tells rather against
their divinity than for it.[731] Another stage property is the incidental
miracle. Menelaus at Malea was addressed by the “prophet of Nereus,
Glaucus, truthful god,” who told him of his brother’s death.[732] When
we learn that at Nauplia he heard of Clytæmnestra’s death but from “some
mariner,”[733] we surmise that “Glaucus” too was human.[734] The second
miracle is that related[735] by the Phrygian slave; Helen vanished,
“either by spells or the tricks of wizards or stolen by Heaven”. Helen
has only hidden herself; the Phrygian is crazed by excitement and terror.
But the miracle of Helen is vouched for by a more august witness, Apollo,
who asserts that he has saved her from Orestes’ sword. Thus we arrive
at the final triumph of orthodox religion, the epilogue in which the
Delphian god stays at a word the vengeance of Argos and the quarrel
between Menelaus and Orestes. In the reality of this epilogue we shall
believe according as we find it credible that Euripides could destroy all
the effect of his own play. All the action, all the atmosphere, which the
dramatist has created, are rent by an utter breach. The objection is not
so much that Apollo and his speeches are in themselves absurd, though the
consolation offered to Menelaus, that Helen throughout their married life
has given him endless trouble,[736] is (however true) distasteful. What
jars hopelessly is the monstrous discontinuity of event and emotion. As
elsewhere, this orthodox Olympian and his epilogue are a sham, devised to
suit the demands of an audience which “knew” how Orestes went forth from
Argos to Athens. The real drama ends with the wild breakdown of Menelaus,
and for the three criminals and their victim the doom falls which sin and
bitter madness have made inevitable.[737]
But the Orestes is not remarkable as a study in scepticism, like the
_Ion_. Even the psychology, superb as it is, cannot be regarded as the
cause of the immense popularity which the play won in antiquity.[738]
It is pre-eminent for magnificent situations. The sick-bed scene is
unforgettable, especially that marvellous hushed song[739] of Electra
beside her sleeping brother:—
Holy night, outpouring ever
Slumber’s boon on souls that mourn,
From thy midmost deep dominion
Hither bend thy sweeping pinion,
Where, ’neath woes that leave it never
Lies a princely house forlorn.
The whole progress of the later scenes is splendidly exciting, and in
the midst Euripides has set the audacious scene of the Phrygian slave
who replaces the conventional messenger’s speech with his wild lyrical
narrative, incoherent and baffling. Equally brilliant is the finale in
which actual lunacy confronts the delirium of despair and grief, with the
frail victim flung upon the parapet, the knife brandished in the madman’s
grasp, and the flames which are to end the horror already rising behind.
The BACCHÆ[740] (Βάκχαι), or _Bacchantes_ (female votaries of the god
Bacchus or Dionysus), was produced in 405 B.C., soon after the poet’s
death in Macedonia, and with its companion-plays obtained the first prize.
Dionysus, standing before the palace of Thebes, tells how, disguised
as a prophet, he has brought his religion into Greece. His purpose in
Thebes is to punish the sisters of his mother Semele for declaring that
their sister had united herself not with Zeus but with some mortal, and
to crush the young king Pentheus, who opposes his worship. Already the
Theban women are revelling upon Mount Cithæron, filled with the Bacchic
ecstasy. He departs to join them, and the chorus of Phrygian votaresses
throng in uttering a rapturous eulogy of their religion. Tiresias and
Cadmus are next seen preparing to join the revels, when Pentheus enters
and reproaches them. Their answers enrage him further and he orders the
arrest of the stranger-prophet. The chorus appeal to Holiness against the
oppressor, reciting the blessings of Dionysus and the doom of pride;
they yearn to revel unchecked. The Stranger is brought in; Pentheus
questions and insults him, finally haling him away to the stables. The
chorus sing their indignation and desire for the aid of Dionysus in
person when the prophet is heard summoning fire and earthquake; the women
in frenzy greet the overthrow of the palace. Their leader comes forth
and relates how Pentheus in vain sought to bind him and how the god has
thrown the house into utter ruin. Pentheus rushes out in fury, but is
met by a rustic who relates the revels and miracles performed by the
Theban votaresses. This excites the king still further, but the Stranger
dissuades him from the use of armed force; let him go disguised as a
woman to witness the revels. Pentheus retires into the palace with the
prophet, who reveals the king’s coming doom to the chorus; they rejoice
in their future freedom and the fate of the ungodly. Pentheus re-appears,
dressed as a female reveller and utterly under the Stranger’s influence.
The two depart for the mountains, the king being now practically
imbecile. The chorus fiercely call for bloody vengeance, then praise
the humble endeavour after all that is beautiful in life. A messenger
returns with the story of Pentheus’ death: he has been torn to pieces by
his mother Agave and her companions. Agave enters in mad triumph with
her son’s head, followed by Cadmus, who bears the mangled remains of his
grandson and gradually brings Agave back to her senses. He laments[741]
the prince who was the comfort of his old age.[742] Dionysus appears
in the sky, foretells the future of Cadmus and his wife, and explains
that the present sorrows are due to the will of Zeus. Agave turns away,
repudiating the new religion.
Intoxicatingly beautiful, coldly sordid, at one moment baffling the
brain, at the next thrilling us with the mystic charm of wood and
hillside, this drama stands unique among Euripides’ works. Its wonderful
effect flows from three sources: primitive dramaturgy, lyrical beauty,
the enigma of its theological import. As for the first of these, there
is a marked simplicity both of plot and characters. A god brings a
strange worship into the land of his birth; the king rejects and scorns
him; whereupon the god turns his people to madness so that they avenge
him upon the king. It is the simplest possible dramatic concept. If we
consider the personages, comparing Agave with Phædra or Medea, Pentheus
with Ion or Hippolytus, we find an equal simplicity. The characters of
the _Bacchæ_ impress us less by their subtle truth to nature than by
the situation in which they stand. In this sense the _Bacchæ_ is the
most Æschylean work of Euripides. Like his predecessor when he composed
the _Choephorœ_, he is studying directly a great religious fact, which
submerges the refinements of individual psychology, leaving somewhat
stark figures, the God, the Old Man, the King, the Prophet, and the
Woman.[743] In technique we are not far from that primitive stage of
modern drama which exhibits the interplay of Avarice, Lovingkindness,
and the rest. This imparts an even greater attractiveness to the amazing
literary excellence of the whole. This excellence is of two distinct
kinds. The episodes are not filled with romantic beauty—only a few
splendid passages in the long narratives of messengers exhibit this;
they show the same mastery of a brilliant half-prosaic idiom which is
familiar elsewhere. But the lyrics are the poet’s finest achievement in
this field. Nothing that he had created hitherto can be compared with
them, save the praises of Attica in the _Medea_[744] and the song of
escape in the _Hippolytus_.[745] The profound beauty of their musings on
the life of serene piety, the startling vividness wherewith they express
the secluded loveliness which haunts bare peaks or remote woodlands,
the superb torrent of glowing song[746] which celebrates the religious
ecstasy of Dionysiac votaries, where the glorious diction is swept along
by a tempest of ever more tumultuous rhythm—all these contribute to make
the _Bacchæ_ something precious and alone.
It is with regard to the third feature, the theological purport, that
disagreement begins among critics. Is the playwright commending the
Bacchic religion to his fellow-countrymen or is he not? If not, why this
magnificent and intense proclamation of the glory conferred by belief?
But if he supports it, why this dreary aching scene at the end, when
Dionysus hears no voice raised in loyalty, only the despairing accents
of the woman who repudiates his worship? It may be objected that perhaps
we should not hope for definite interpretation, that since “like a
live thing it seems to move and show new faces every time that, with
imagination fully working, one reads the play,”[747] perhaps there is
no core of central fact to find. Here lurks a dangerous confusion of
thought. Every work of art springs from a definite concept held by the
artist, some piece of reality clearly understood and sincerely felt,
insisting on expression at his hands precisely because it affects him
emotionally. The elusiveness of the final expression is not in the least
degree any proof that no definite doctrine, or experience, or passionate
wish, was its origin; a fern has a physical centre of gravity as truly as
an apple, though more difficult to locate. Rather, the luxuriant freedom
is the proof that there is deep down something definite, else the freedom
would be anarchy. We conclude that however enigmatic is the _Bacchæ_,
yet Euripides had a definite opinion about the two questions: Does the
god Dionysus exist? Is his religion a blessing to humanity? His opinion
could have been written down in a few lucid sentences. Had this not been
so, he would have postponed beginning his play until it was. This clear
concept may itself indicate “doubt” (if we insist on the word) or rather
a bifurcation of truth, as may be observed in the dramaturgy of Sophocles.
There is, then, a secret to be discovered. Is it lost for ever,
or not? It appears to some[748] that the drama contains evidence,
unmistakable but long overlooked, which conveys Euripides’ opinion
concerning Dionysus. The chief, the only certain, clue is contained in
the “Palace-Miracle”. The facts are, that the chorus cry aloud at the
tottering of the building; that Dionysus a moment later when relating
what has happened within, adds, “And this further evil hath Bacchus
wrought upon him: he hath flung his dwelling to the ground, where it lies
all in ruin”;[749] that, finally, the palace is as a fact uninjured. This
latter point is proved by the complete silence of all the personages,
except Dionysus and the chorus. Neither Cadmus nor Agave, nor the two
messengers, at their several entrances make the least remark about it.
Above all, Pentheus, who was within the house when the overthrow is
alleged to have occurred, says nothing about it. Later the prince and his
enemy enter the palace before proceeding to Cithæron, again with no hint
that the building has been destroyed. It follows that the statements made
by the chorus and by Dionysus are untrue.[750] The women believe what
their leader cries out from within and what he tells them later. That is,
they accept what their own eyes tell them is false. Only one power can
work this marvel of belief—hypnotism, or, as earlier ages would call it,
magic. The Dionysus of this play is precisely what Pentheus calls him,
a “foreign wizard,”[751] no god at all, but a human hierophant of the
new religion. Brought up in Western Asia, he combines a profound feeling
for natural religion with an un-Greek leaning to orgiastic ecstasy and
an instinct for fiendish cruelty; so that in spreading the gospel of joy
and simple surrender to the mystic loveliness of Nature he crushes those
who reject him, not destroying them in passion, but working their misery
with a horrible cold relish: he is Shakespeare’s Richard the Third with
religious instead of political ambitions. As for the Dionysiac religion
itself, the poet feels its vast emotional appeal—feels it so strongly
that he has drawn the most wonderful picture of ecstatic religion to be
found in literature; but if it is proposed to him as “a way of life” for
civilized men he condemns it as firmly as unwillingly. To give free rein
to passions and instincts hitherto unconscious or starved, this is a
path, perhaps the only path, towards strangely beautiful experience, the
thrill of communion with non-human life; but it is not the path for man.
Here Euripides stands at one with the great European tradition. If man is
to attain the height of his destiny he will seek not the gold of joy but
the silver of happiness, not the blazing rapture of absorption in strange
beauty, but the calm glow of self-understanding and self-expression.
He will not seek to destroy the instinct for ecstasy, but will harness
it, and work it into the fabric of a sound coherent life. He may be a
spectator, it is true, if not of all time, yet of all existence; his
eyes will shrink from nothing, but his heart is not to be reft from him.
He must prove all things, but hold fast only that which is good—a moral
being, not the slave of sound and colour. In this drama, where Euripides
seems to voice like some pagan archangel the glory of a non-moral
absorption in the torrent of raw life, he is fundamentally as moral as at
any moment in life. As Tannhäuser after his sojourn in the Venusberg is
at length won back by the urgency of his own soul into the Roman Church,
so does Euripides unflinchingly present, to an audience still breathing
hard after the glories of Cithæron, Agave and Cadmus bowed over Pentheus’
mangled body, and the rejection of a god whose unmitigated demands imply
the wreckage of sound human life.
What, then, are we to believe of Dionysus? If we refuse him we are liable
like Pentheus to be destroyed; if we surrender ourselves, what of Agave?
Here is a dilemma which Euripides himself did not foresee. By θεός
(“god”) he often means something widely different from the concept of an
ordinary Athenian, but he never intends all the associations of our word
“God”. For us belief in “God” implies that the universe holds a personal
Governor, all-powerful and all-wise, who stands to us in a relation
emotional as well as metaphysical. To accept Him is to believe that His
purpose embraces the existence and history of the universe and of the
humblest creature therein, and because of that belief to merit His
love by loving service of our own. These thoughts are to us tremendous
commonplaces; they would have bewildered any fifth-century Greek save
Æschylus.[752] θεός means a power, usually but not necessarily personal,
which is outside ourselves and affects our life in a manner which cannot
be affected by any wish or act of ours, save possibly to a small degree
by ritual submission. Dionysus, like the other “gods,” is a permanent
fact of life personified. We must give him respect, take account of him
in our conduct and judgment of others. To ignore him is not so much sin
as utter blindness. If we insist on the personality of Dionysus we find
him attractive but deadly, a deity who employs his might to entangle
the threads of life, crushing hearts better than his own. In so far as
he is a person he is unthinkable. But as a fact of life, with no more
purpose or will than the force of gravitation, he is neither good nor
bad, simply a profound reality, one of the elements we must consider in
building our lives. Cadmus expresses this lesson: “If anyone despises the
supernatural powers, let him look on the death of this man and believe in
the gods”.[753]
Then why does the poet dwell on the personal existence of Dionysus? Even
if we refuse to believe the theory outlined already, that this person
is a human hierophant, we can still answer the question. Euripides is
concerned not merely to tell us the truth about ethics, but to discuss
the current theology of his day. The majority of his fellows believed in
a personal Zeus, a personal Athena and Dionysus. He wishes to convince
them of the falsity, the pernicious falsity, of such a creed. Take this
play in its superficial meaning and you find a person who is detestable—a
god who does wrong, and who is, therefore, no god at all.[754] Away with
him; purify your theology. And when this is done, we find, not that the
drama has fallen to pieces, but that now it is coherent and forcible.
There is in the human soul an instinct for ecstasy, for a relinquishment
of self in order to feel and bathe in the non-human glory of Nature.
Trample this instinct ruthlessly down as did Pentheus, and your life is
maimed and shrivelled.
IPHIGENIA AT AULIS[755] (Ἰφιγένεια ἡ ἐν Αὐλίδι) was produced soon after
the poet’s death in 406 B.C. by his son, together with _Alcmæon at
Corinth_ and the _Bacchæ_.
The scene shows Agamemnon’s tent at Aulis, where the Greeks are encamped
ready to sail for Troy, but delayed by contrary winds. Before they can
set out Agamemnon’s daughter Iphigenia must be sacrificed to Artemis.
The king has written to his wife bidding her send the maiden—to marry
Achilles. We now see him in agony beneath the night-sky and entrusting to
an aged slave a letter revoking the first. The chorus (women of Colchis)
enter and describe the pastimes of various heroes. Menelaus intercepts
the letter and reproaches his brother with treachery. After a vigorous
dispute they learn that Clytæmnestra and Iphigenia are approaching.
Menelaus relents, but they realize that the sacrifice must proceed. The
chorus sing Aphrodite’s power and the judgment of Paris. Agamemnon greets
his family with half-concealed distress, and in vain attempts to send his
wife back forthwith. A choric ode describes the impending doom of Troy.
Achilles, seeking Agamemnon, meets Clytæmnestra, who to his amazement
greets him as a son-in-law. In the midst of their embarrassment the
old slave comes forward and reveals Agamemnon’s purpose. The queen in
agony appeals to Achilles, who promises to defend Iphigenia. The chorus
sing the bridals of Peleus and Thetis, Achilles’ parents. Then mother
and daughter piteously beg Agamemnon to relent; he is heart-broken but
determined. Iphigenia utters a lyric lament, after which Achilles tells
how the army maltreated him for championing Iphigenia. He and the queen
are excitedly debating, when Iphigenia proclaims her readiness to die
for the cause of Greece, and departs, singing her farewell to life. A
messenger brings a description of the sacrifice: at the last moment the
princess miraculously disappeared, and a hind was substituted for her by
the goddess. Agamemnon returns and takes leave of Clytæmnestra.
The text of this drama presents curious features.[756] There are two
prologues, and the last fifty or sixty lines of the whole are corrupt.
It seems that Euripides died before the work was finished; the gaps
were filled by his son Euripides who produced the trilogy (_Iphigenia_,
_Alcmæon_, _Bacchæ_) soon after 406 B.C. The original prologue, of the
ordinary narrative kind, delivered by Agamemnon in iambic metre, is
embedded in the later prologue, which takes the form of a dialogue in
anapæsts between the king and his aged retainer. This later work is
extremely charming, filled with the quiet beauty of night overhanging the
feverish ambition and misery of men. But though the younger Euripides
probably wrote an ending also, this has been displaced by extremely
bad[757] work of a much later time. It is not easy to understand why
such inferior matter was allowed to eject the composition of the younger
Euripides. Perhaps the explanation is that the concluding lines were
known from the first not to be by the master, that the play was often
produced, and that for these two reasons rival endings were very early
before the public. They would destroy one another’s prestige, so that in
later centuries none survived, and some scribe filled up the gap as best
he could.
A noteworthy contrast exists between the _Iphigenia_ and the _Bacchæ_,
though they were no doubt composed at almost the same time. In this
play the chorus has practically no concern with the action, whereas
the Asiatic women form the soul of the _Bacchæ_. Instead of the wild
loveliness or serene spirituality which thrill us in the lyrics of that
drama, we find here nothing more profound than graceful complications
of phrase and facile emotion. In compensation, while the _Bacchæ_
is primitive in psychology, its companion is superior to many Greek
tragedies in the masterly freedom and subtlety of its character-drawing.
The play is a study of five ordinary characters under the stress of an
extraordinary crisis. This common-place quality of the personages conveys
the whole purport, giving it a momentous position even among such works
as we have been discussing. In this latest tragedy no sincere reader
can fail to detect himself under the thin disguise of names. Many men
were pointed at as the original of Meredith’s Sir Willoughby Patterne,
and for the same good reason most Athenian husbands must have stirred
a little on their benches in the presence of this unheroic Agamemnon.
There is nothing heroic in any of the persons. Menelaus is an ordinary
man—artlessly selfish at one moment, artlessly and uselessly kind-hearted
at another, and a master of fluent invective which reveals his own
failings. Clytæmnestra is an ordinary woman, showing indeed a queenly
dignity in the normal relations of life, but when puzzled or alarmed
revealing herself a thorough _bourgeoise_, and when confronted by the
doom which threatens her daughter forgetting all her pride, clutching
at even the most pitiful means[758] of gaining a respite, and utterly
broken when her hope dies away. Agamemnon is an ordinary man, thrown by
circumstances into a position where both generalship and statesmanship
are needed, attempting to rule his army by diplomacy and his family
by military discipline, with ruin as the result. Fatally open to
suggestion, he makes and remakes subterfuges, seeking to spare every
one’s feelings until at last he drifts into the necessity of slaying
his own child. Even Iphigenia is an ordinary girl. It is precisely
because she is a common type that we grieve for her anguish and triumph
in her exaltation. Macaria in the _Heracleidæ_ is almost unknown save
to professed students of Euripides. She knows no fear or hesitation and
lives on the heights; we recognize in ourselves no kinship with her. But
Iphigenia we meet every day. She is no heroine, but a child. Her delight
at seeing her father again shows all a child’s amiable abandon; her
pitiful cries and shrinking at the prospect of death are those of the
ordinary happiness-loving girl. When finally the agony of her father,
the empty clamour of Achilles, her mother’s undignified tremors, nerve
her to trample her own dread under foot, we rejoice precisely because
what we witness is the triumph of common human nature. Even Achilles,
son of a goddess as story reported him, is a common-place person too.
This is not the hero who flames through the _Iliad_, but a young noble
led into the extreme of folly by this very legend that his origin is
divine. Perhaps nothing even in the deadly Euripides is quite so fatal to
the traditional halo than the incredible speech[759] wherewith Achilles
comforts Clytæmnestra. Of vast length, full of spurious, jerky rhetoric
and contradictory comments on the situation—which, however frightful,
appeals to him mostly as an atmosphere in which he can pose—this oration
reveals him as a sham. Fortunately for him, he is never undeceived. This
man is not the Achilles of tradition; he is spiritual brother of the mad
prince in the _Orestes_ and the ancestor of Mr. Shaw’s Sergius Saranoff.
In his last work, then, Euripides, so far from showing any exhaustion of
power, appears on the verge of new developments.[760] He has drawn still
nearer to the new comedy of Menander. The suddenness with which, after
the quarrel between Agamemnon and Menelaus, the crisis is precipitated
by the entrance of the messenger announcing Iphigenia’s arrival—the
man breaks into the middle of a line[761]—is a remarkable novelty. The
altercation itself shows a brilliant freedom of idiom which even this
poet has hardly reached hitherto. There is at least one unprecedented
license of metre.[762] And the complete change of spirit which comes upon
Iphigenia was novel enough to offend Aristotle.[763]
The CYCLOPS[764] (Κύκλωψ) is the only complete[765] satyric play now
extant. No indications of date[766] seem available.
The background is a cave on Mount Etna, wherein dwells the Cyclops,
or one-eyed giant, Polyphemus. Silenus tells how he and the satyrs
have become the ogre’s slaves. He is sweeping out the cavern when the
chorus of satyrs drive in their flocks. Odysseus and his men arrive,
seeking provisions, which Silenus eagerly sells for a skin of wine. The
conversation is interrupted by Polyphemus who decides to devour the
intruders. Odysseus eloquently appeals to him, but receives a brutal and
blasphemous reply. The giant drives the Greeks within, and the chorus
express their disgust at his cannibalism. Odysseus tells how two of
his men have been eaten; he himself has gained favour by the gift of
wine, and proposes that they all escape, after blinding Polyphemus with
a red-hot stake. The chorus joyfully assent. Polyphemus comes forth
drunk and intending to visit his brethren, but Odysseus dissuades him.
The Cyclops asks Odysseus his name and is told “Noman”; he promises to
eat his benefactor last. The revel proceeds until Polyphemus retires,
whereupon Odysseus calls for action, but the chorus all offer ridiculous
excuses. The hero goes within to perform the task with his comrades. Soon
the giant reappears, blind and bellowing with pain, while the satyrs joke
about “Noman,” and give him false directions so that the Greeks escape
from the cave. Odysseus reveals himself, and Polyphemus recognizes the
fulfilment of an oracle. He threatens to wreck the ship, but the others
depart unconcernedly to the beach.
This brief play—it has hardly more than seven hundred lines—is
invaluable as being the only complete work of the satyric type which we
now possess. Considered in itself, it is of small value,[767] though
it must have formed an agreeable light entertainment. The lyrics are
short and trifling. Of characterization there is little, and that
little traditional and obvious—Odysseus is pious, valiant, resourceful;
Polyphemus brutally sensual, the satyrs cowardly and frivolous. Though
there are passages of tension, the audience can never have felt any
marked excitement, as the whole story, except that the satyrs are
imported by the dramatist, is taken from a well-known episode in
Homer[768]; even such things as the joke on the name Outis[769] (“Noman”)
and the comparison[770] between the spit which blinds Polyphemus and the
auger of a shipwright, are borrowed from the epic. The nature of satyric
drama in general is discussed elsewhere.[771] Here it will be enough to
note that there are “tragic” features in this play; Odysseus throughout
speaks and acts in a manner as dignified, perhaps more dignified, than
in certain tragedies of our poet. The farcical scenes provided by the
rascally Silenus, the obscene jests and cowardice of the chorus, and a
certain approximation[772] to comedy in the iambic metre used by them or
by Polyphemus, are marks of a satyric play. It should be noted, however,
that even without them, the _Cyclops_ would be no tragedy. Polyphemus is
no tragic antagonist of the hero. His exposition of his philosophy of
life,[773] such as it is, must not persuade us that there is here any
valid moral antagonism as foundation of the drama. Odysseus contends with
him and eludes him as one might escape the violence of a ravening animal.
The RHESUS[774] (Ῥῆσος) is a drama of uncertain date and authorship.
The action is founded on the Tenth Book of the _Iliad_, and takes place
at night in the Trojan camp. Hector has defeated the Greeks and hopes
to destroy them at dawn. The drama opens with a song by the chorus
of sentinels, come to warn Hector that the Greeks are astir. He is
ordering instant attack when Æneas urges that a spy be first sent.
Dolon volunteers, and sets forth disguised as a wolf, followed by the
admiration and prayers of the chorus. A herdsman announces the approach
of the Thracian prince, Rhesus, with an army to aid Troy, but Hector is
displeased with his tardiness, and, despite the joyful ode of the chorus,
greets his ally with reproaches. Rhesus offers excuses, promising to
destroy the Greeks without Trojan help, and to invade Greece; Hector
takes him away to bivouac. The chorus depart to rouse the Lycians,
whose watch comes next. Odysseus and Diomedes steal in, intending to
slay Hector. They have met Dolon and learned from him the position of
Hector’s tent and the watchword, “Phœbus”. Athena appears, bidding them
slay Rhesus and take his wondrous steeds. They depart, and, seeing Paris
draw near, she calms his suspicions under the guise of his protectress
Aphrodite. Next she recalls the Greeks, who have slain Rhesus. An
exciting scene follows, in which the chorus seize Odysseus, who escapes
by using the pass-word. The chorus sing the daring of Odysseus. A wounded
charioteer of Rhesus staggers in, proclaiming his master’s death, of
which he accuses Hector, who sends him away for tendance. As the chorus
lament, a Muse appears in the sky, bearing the body of her son Rhesus.
She sings a dirge and curses Odysseus and Diomedes. Next she tells of her
union with the river-god, father of Rhesus, and upbraids Athena. Hector
promises glorious obsequies, but she declares that her son shall live on
in the Thracian mountains as a spirit half-divine.[775] Hector orders an
assault upon the Greeks, and the chorus sing a few courageous words.
This admirable drama stands quite by itself. There is a minimum of
psychology; the lyrics are mostly of slight value. But the writer has
not aimed at a tragedy of the usual type. Its excellence lies in the
vigour and excitement of the action. Almost all the scenes, especially
the debate at the opening, and the escape of the Greeks, are written by
a master of vivid realism, who is less concerned with character-drawing.
The unwearied Hector, the cautious Æneas, the vaunting, splendid,
barbarian prince, the fiercely loyal charioteer—these are all obvious
types. The only really fine stroke of psychological insight occurs where
Hector, himself reckless at first, is by the absurd presumptuousness
of Rhesus forced into discretion.[776] What really stirs one is the
thrilling atmosphere of danger and the magical little lyric[777] which
falls half-carelessly from the wearied sentries when the night begins to
wane:—
Hark! Hark!
That voice, as of a thousand strings!
The nightingale, where Simois moves along
’Mid corpses stark!
Upon the listening air she flings
Her grief transfusèd into song.
E’en now on Ida graze the sheep.
One distant pipe through darkness cries
Over the upland lawn.
Now layeth velvet-footed sleep
Enchantment on my drooping eyes,
Sweetest at hush of dawn.
Some ancient critics denied that Euripides wrote the _Rhesus_, and the
great majority of modern scholars have accepted this view.[778] The
evidence for Euripidean authorship is as follows: (i) The play comes
down to us in the manuscripts of that poet. (ii) That Euripides wrote
a _Rhesus_ is known from the _Didascaliæ_ or Dramatic Records. (iii)
Early Alexandrian writers quote passages from our text as from “the
_Rhesus_ of Euripides”. On the other side are (i) a statement in the
_Argument_:[779] “Some have suspected this drama to be spurious, and not
the work of Euripides, for it reveals rather the Sophoclean manner”;
(ii) various features of the work which modern critics have regarded as
suggesting an inferior playwright: (_a_) the plot is superficial; (_b_)
there is no prologue;[780] (_c_) four actors are needed; (_d_) Æneas and
Paris have practically nothing to do; (_e_) the chorus is employed in a
manner foreign to Euripidean plays; (_f_) there is a lack of force and
pathos; (_g_) there is no rhetoric; (_h_) there is no sententiousness;
(_i_) we have here the beginning of historical drama, which is later than
the fifth century; (_j_) the style is eclectic: imitations of Æschylus,
Sophocles, and Euripides are to be observed.[781]
Several of these objections are plainly unfounded. Four actors are
not clearly necessary, as was shown above. Pathos, of a kind quite
Euripidean, is to be found in the scene where the Muse laments her
glorious son. And how deny rhetorical force to a poet who can write such
brilliantly vigorous things as:—
Aye, friends in plenty shall I find, now Heaven
Stands firm for us, and Fortune guides my sword.
I need them not! Where hid they those long years
When Troy, a galleon with her canvas rent,
Reeled onward through war’s shrieking hurricane?[782]
The high-hearted defence[783] of Rhesus is full of the same tingling
rhetoric. Yet many critics[784] of the highest rank have denied
Euripidean authorship to the _Rhesus_. On the other side stands[785] the
testimony of the almost contemporary record. One consideration, obvious
yet too often ignored, may help us. The earliest work of Euripides to
which we can assign a date—the _Alcestis_—belongs to the year 438. The
poet was then at least forty-two years old. Is it beyond belief that
twenty years before the _Alcestis_ the youthful dramatist composed a
stirring tale of war and hair-breadth escape, which owed much to the
manner of Æschylus, especially in his handling of the chorus? During
the period for which we have evidence, he was constantly testing the
possibilities of his art. Need we assume that until the _Alcestis_ he had
not advanced?
The soundest view appears to be that we have here a very early work
of Euripides. This is confirmed by the critic Crates, an Academic
philosopher of the second century before Christ, who asserted that
Euripides was still young when he wrote the _Rhesus_.[786] To this should
be added whatever help may be drawn from contemporary history. It is
natural to suppose that when this drama was composed Athenian politics
were closely concerned with Thrace. An Athenian colony at Nine Ways,
afterwards called Amphipolis, was destroyed by the Thracians in 465 B.C.
In 436 the place was resettled under the new name by Hagnon, who brought
the bones of Rhesus from the Troad back to Thrace. The later year, as
connected with the hero, would seem the more suitable, were it not for
the words[787] of his mother who refuses burial for her son and proclaims
his strange life after death: “hidden in caverns of the silver-yielding
soil he shall lie as a human spirit, still living”. Such language would
rather be avoided after the bones themselves had been visibly committed
to Thracian earth. On the whole, one thinks the situation more suitable
to some period, anterior to Hagnon’s expedition, when Thracian politics
were in the air, perhaps quite soon after the disaster of 465 B.C.[788]
* * * * *
Of the lost plays we have about eleven hundred fragments. Few of these
comprise more than three or four lines, but a fair conception of several
dramas can be formed from reports of the plot, parodies by Aristophanes,
and the remains themselves.
The TELEPHUS was acted in 438 B.C., together with _The Cretan Women_,
_Alcmæon at Psophis_, and _Alcestis_. Sophocles won the first prize,
Euripides the second. Telephus, King of Mysia, was wounded by Achilles
when the Greeks invaded Mysia in mistake for Troy. His wound would
not heal, and he entered his enemies’ country disguised as a beggar,
to consult the Delphic oracle, which declared that “the wounder would
heal him”. Meanwhile the Greek heroes were deliberating at Argos about
a second expedition. Agamemnon refused to set forth again, and uttered
to Menelaus the celebrated words: Σπάρτην ἔλαχες· ταύτην κόσμει—“Sparta
is thy place: make thereof the best”. While the council was in progress
Telephus begged audience. His disguise was penetrated by Odysseus,
and he was about to be slain when he snatched up the infant Orestes,
threatening to kill the child if the Greeks molested him. He was given a
hearing and justified his action in fighting the Greeks when they invaded
his country. His hearers were won over, but it was found that Achilles
had no knowledge of medicine. Odysseus suggested that the real “wounder”
was Achilles’ spear. Telephus was thus healed, and in his gratitude
consented to guide the Greeks to Troy.
We possess in the _Acharnians_ of Aristophanes an elaborate and brilliant
parody of the interview granted to Telephus. Dicæopolis, an Athenian
farmer who has made peace on his own account with Sparta, is attacked
by his fellow-citizens, the charcoal-burners of Acharnæ, and only
obtains leave to plead his cause by threatening to slay their darling—a
coal-basket. Then he begs from Euripides the beggar’s outfit of Telephus,
and, returning, delivers a clever harangue denouncing the war. The
baby-hostage idea Aristophanes used again in the _Thesmophoriazusæ_,
where Mnesilochus, in great danger from the infuriated women, seizes
the infant which one of them is carrying, only to find it a concealed
wine-skin.
PHILOCTETES was produced in 431 B.C. with the _Medea_, _Dictys_,
and _Harvesters_ (Θερισταί), when both Euripides and Sophocles were
defeated by Euphorion, the son of Æschylus. Our knowledge is derived
almost wholly from Dio Chrysostom[789] who compares the three plays
called _Philoctetes_ by Æschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides. He offers
interesting comments on the differences in plot. In Euripides, as
in Æschylus, the chorus consists of Lemnian men, but the later poet
anticipates criticism by making his chorus apologize for not visiting
the sufferer earlier. One Lemnian, by name Actor, takes part as a friend
of Philoctetes. The “prologue” is spoken by Odysseus (here working with
Diomedes, not Neoptolemus, as in Sophocles) who explains that he would
not have undertaken this present task for fear of being recognized
by Philoctetes, had not Athena changed his appearance. (Here, as in
the apology offered by the chorus, we have implied criticism[790] on
Æschylus.) The Trojans are sending an embassy in the hope of gaining
Philoctetes. Later in the drama, no doubt, occurred a set dispute between
the Greek and the Trojan envoys.
In the BELLEROPHON Euripides seems to have gone to the extreme in
depicting the passionate atheism inspired by the sight of prosperous
wickedness. “If the gods do aught base,” he exclaims in a famous line,
“they are not gods.” Another vigorous fragment begins:—
Then dare men say that there are gods in Heaven?
Nay, nay! There are not. Fling the tale away,
The ancient lie by human folly bred!
Base not your judgment on these words of mine—
Use but your eyes.
Bellerophon ascended to Heaven on his winged steed Pegasus in order to
remonstrate with Zeus. This idea is used farcically in Aristophanes’
_Peace_, where Trygæus ascends on a monstrous beetle.
ERECHTHEUS was a beautiful picture of patriotism. Athens being attacked
by the Eleusinians and Thracians, King Erechtheus was told by the
Delphic oracle that he could secure victory for Athens by sacrificing
his daughter. His wife Praxithea, in a speech of passionate patriotism,
consented to give up her child; Swinburne has used this fragment in
his own _Erechtheus_. Another long fragment contains the advice which
Erechtheus gives to his son, and which in its dry precision curiously
resembles the farewell of Polonius to Laertes. While the issue of battle
remains uncertain, the chorus of old Athenians sing a lyric which
charmingly renders their yearning for peace:
Along my spear, at last laid by,
May spiders weave their shining thread;
May peace and music, ere I die,
With garlands crown my whitening head.
I’d deck Athene’s cloistered fane
With shields of Thracian mountaineers,
And ope the well-loved page again
Where poets sing across the years.
Another popular play was the ANTIOPE. It dealt with the persecution of
Antiope by Lycus, King of Thebes, and his wife Dirce. She was rescued
from death by her two sons, Amphion and Zethus, whom she had been
compelled to abandon at birth, and who discovered the relationship in the
critical hour. The chief interest of the play was the contrast between
the brothers—Zethus a man of muscle, devoted to farming; Amphion, a
musician and lover of the arts. Euripides developed this contrast in
a long debate wherein culture was upheld against the “Philistine”. We
still read one criticism of myth which recalls a blunt passage of the
_Ion_.[791] Story said that Antiope’s sons were the offspring of Zeus,
but Amphion has the hardihood to express doubt to his mother herself.
With the _Helen_ (B.C. 412) was produced a work of the first
importance—the ANDROMEDA, a charming love-story full of romance and
poetical loveliness. It was immensely popular; Aristophanes gives in his
_Thesmophoriazusæ_ a parody as elaborate as that of _Telephus_ in the
_Acharnians_, and it was a perusal of this drama which excited Dionysus
in the _Frogs_ to descend to Hades for the purpose of fetching back the
dead playwright. Lucian[792] tells how Archelaus, the tragic actor, came
to Abdera and performed the _Andromeda_. The whole town grew crazy over
it. “They used to sing the solo from the _Andromeda_ and recite Perseus’
speech from beginning to end. The town swarmed with these actors of a
week’s standing, pale and lean, shouting with all the strength of their
lungs
O Love, of gods and men tyrannic Lord,
and all the rest of it. This went on for a long time, in fact till
winter, when a severe frost cured them of their nonsense.” The
_Andromeda_ points forward to the novel, and it is interesting to note
that in the best Greek novel—the _Æthiopica_ of Heliodorus, who wrote
about eight hundred years after Euripides’ death—the heroine’s father,
like Andromeda’s, was an Æthiopian king.
Scanty as are the remnants of this drama, we can still form some idea of
its structure.[793] “It is the crowning virtue of all great art that,
however little is left of it by the injuries of time, that little will
be lovely.”[794] The country of Cepheus, the Ethiope king, was ravaged
by a sea-monster, and the only help lay in sacrificing to the creature
Andromeda, the king’s daughter, who was bound to a rock and left as his
prey. At this point the action begins. It is still night and from the
cliff rises the lament of the captive:—
O solemn night,
How slow thy coursers trace,
Amid the holy Heaven star-bedight,
Their pathway through the deeps of space!
At each pause in her song comes the voice of Echo repeating the sad
syllables, till Andromeda is joined by the maidens who form the chorus.
The lyric dialogue concluded, it seems[795] that the father and mother,
Cepheus and Cassiopeia, enter and that there is some talk of attacking
the monster; Phineus, brother of the king and the affianced of Andromeda,
shrinks from the risk. But now comes unlooked-for aid. Perseus, fresh
from his slaughter of the Gorgon, arrives, borne through the air on
his winged sandals. Though Zeus is his father, in this play he figures
as the lowly hero familiar in our own fairy-tales. Certainly he appears
to be contrasted with the rich but cowardly Phineus, and the helpless
despairing king. His first words have been preserved:—
Gods! To what alien kingdom am I come
On sandals swift, between the earth and Heaven
Journeying homewards on these wingèd feet?...
But soft! what crag is that by tossing foam
Surrounded? Lo, the statue of a maid
Hewn from the living rock by patient art,
Its craftsman’s master-work!
Drawing near, he perceives that this thing of beauty is a living maiden,
and at once longs to make her his bride. When she asks his name, instead
of proudly claiming Zeus as his father, he mentions his own name, his
journey’s end, and his achievement:—
Περσεύς, πρὸς Ἄργος ναυστολῶν, τὸ Γοργόνος
κάρα κομίζων.
But he is no mediæval knight; he does not forbear to state his claim
before addressing himself to the task: “And if I save thee, maid, wilt
give me thanks?” Andromeda, on her side, feels and speaks without
subtlety:—
Stranger, have pity on my sore distress:
Free me from bonds,
and again
Take me, O stranger, for thy handmaiden,
Or wife, or slave.
Before encountering the monster Perseus comes to an understanding with
Cepheus and goes forth to the conflict, calling upon Eros to aid his
chosen:—
O Love, of gods and men tyrannic Lord,
Either teach Beauty to unlearn her power,
Or speed true lovers, through th’ adventurous maze
That in thy name they enter, to success.
So shall all men to thee pay reverence.
Refuse, and lo! thy glories fade to naught
E’en through thy very boon of wakened hearts.
Two or three lines picture the grateful crowd of rustics who surrounded
the victor: “all the shepherd-folk flowed around him, one bringing an
ivy-bowl of milk for his refreshing, another the joyous grape-juice”.
Phineus sought to assert his claim upon Andromeda, but was repulsed by
her father. Later the maiden’s parents themselves begged her not to leave
them desolate. In a thrilling[796] reply she declared that she would
cleave to her husband. Then follows mention of a wedding-feast, and at
the close it seems probable that Athena foretold the future.
Of the PHAETHON we are fortunate in possessing two unusually long
fragments of seventy and seventy-five lines respectively. It is an
exciting and romantic story—the legend of Phaethon, child of the Sun-god,
who called upon his father to prove their relationship by permitting him
for one day to drive the chariot of the Sun. This conception, gorgeous
with the spirit of adventure and an un-Greek yearning for what transcends
mortal power, seems to have filled the whole play with glow and rushing
movement. A fragment of the prologue marks this at once: it tells how
Clymene is wedded
To Merops, lord of this our land
Which first of all the earth the Sun-God smites
With golden radiance of his risen car,
Nam’d by black-visaged folk that dwell around
The gleaming stable of the Sun and Dawn.
From Strabo,[797] to whom we owe this extract, we learn that the palace
of Merops is close to the abode of the Sun-god. This notion that the
youth’s home is only an hour’s walk from the palace of the Sun, gives a
sense of delightful verisimilitude.[798] It appears that Phaethon in this
prologue tells how his father Merops plans to marry him to a goddess, but
that he himself is unwilling.[799] Clymene, his mother, to persuade her
son that he will not be distastefully united to one vastly his superior,
reveals that he is the son not of Merops but of the Sun-god, Helios,
who promised her long ago that he would grant her child one wish. Let
Phaethon approach Helios with some request, and prove her story. The
prince resolves to do so. The chorus of female attendants enter with a
lovely song in honour of Phaethon’s wedding; they picture the whole earth
awakening to daily activities. Next appears the king, who describes the
brilliant future which awaits his son.[800] Phaethon views with distaste
this life of easeful splendour; to him at this moment may well be
attributed the vigorous words[801]
Each nook of earth that feeds me is my home.
Goethe has indicated, with splendid insight, the dramatic power which
must have filled this scene: the aged king offering the easy joys of
riches and a royal home to this youth already burning in secret for the
high enterprise of seeking his real and divine father.
Later the interview was described between Phaethon and Helios, who
after seeking to dissuade him, granted his request and added anxious
instructions:—
“Let not thy steeds invade the Afric sky:
Its temper hath no moistness, and thy wheels
Downward must sink....
Direct thy path toward the Pleiads Seven.”
Impatient of the rest, he snatched the reins
And smote the wingèd coursers till they flew
Unchecked thro’ opening vistas of the heaven.
His father, mounted on a blazing star,
Rode after, warning him: “Drive thither, boy!”
“Wheel yonder!”
The messenger seems to have continued with a picture of Phaethon’s fall.
The body, still giving off the smoke of destruction, is next brought in,
and we possess part of Clymene’s frantic speech. Her grief is mingled
with terror: the strange manner of her son’s death may provoke her
husband Merops to inquiry and reflexion and so her long-past union
with the Sun-god may come to light. She bids them hide the body in the
treasure-chamber, of which she alone holds the keys. Soon the king enters
amid lyric strains celebrating the marriage-day of Phaethon. He is giving
orders for merry-making when a servant hurries out to inform him that the
treasure-chamber is giving forth clouds of smoke. Merops hastens within,
and the chorus bewail the disclosure which is imminent. In a moment the
stricken father is heard returning with lamentation. The course of the
last scene is not certain, but probably a god reconciled the king and his
wife, giving directions for the disposal of Phaethon’s body; a beautiful
but obscure fragment,[802] redolent with the charm of breezes and
murmuring boughs after all this blaze and splendour, seems to point to
the story of Phaethon’s sisters, who mourned him beside the western waters
and were transformed into poplars. This god was probably Oceanus,[803]
the father of Clymene. He alone (deity of the world-encircling water)
could give unity to these two pictures, the radiant eastern land of
Phaethon’s youthful enterprise, and the distant western river where his
sorrows and his end are bathed in dim beauty.
This sketch allows us to realize how much we have lost in the _Phaethon_.
The romantic events and setting recall the _Andromeda_. Clymene’s sorrow
and shame mingle strangely with the gallant enterprise and bright charm
of the whole, somewhat as Creusa’s story is contrasted with the fresh
cheerfulness of Ion. Above all, the noble simplicity and high-hearted
adventurousness of Phaethon, inspired by his new-found kinship with a
god and chafing at the placid programme of domestic honour and luxury
which his supposed father sets before him—this is a concept of boundless
promise.
The HYPSIPYLE,[804] which was produced late[805] in Euripides’ life,
is specially interesting through the discovery in 1906 of extensive
fragments at Oxyrhynchus in Egypt. Previously it was known by scanty
quotations of no great interest, though apparently much prized in ancient
times.[806] The plot is now in the main clear. Hypsipyle, grand-daughter
of the god Dionysus and daughter of Thoas, King of Lemnos, was exiled
because she refused to join in the massacre of the Lemnian men by their
women. Previously she had borne twin sons to Jason. These she lost when
expelled from her home. She is now slave to Eurydice, Queen of Nemea in
the north of the Peloponnese, and nurse to her infant son Opheltes. Her
own sons come in quest of her, and without recognizing their mother are
entertained in the palace. Hypsipyle is quieting the child with a song
and a rattle when the chorus of Nemean women enter. Next certain soldiers
arrive from the host which the seven chieftains are leading against
Thebes. Their commander, the prince Amphiaraus, explains that the army
is in need of water, and Hypsipyle consents to show them a spring. Later
she returns in anguish: during her absence the child has been killed
by a great serpent. Eurydice is about to slay her, when she appeals to
Amphiaraus, who pleads her cause and promises Eurydice that the Greeks
shall found a festival in honour of the child. (This festival is that
of the famous Nemean Games.) He sees that this fatal accident is a bad
omen for the enterprise of the Seven, and names the child Archemorus[807]
instead of Opheltes. Eurydice is appeased. Later we find Hypsipyle
and her sons made known to one another, and the god Dionysus appears,
apparently to arrange future events.
Though there is one difficulty as to the plot, namely, that we do not
know what function was assigned to Hypsipyle’s sons—they cannot have been
introduced merely for the recognition-scene—the whole conception strikes
one as simple and masterly. It has been well remarked[808] that while
a modern dramatist would have omitted the Theban expedition, “nothing
seemed to the Greeks worthy of contemplation in the theatre by a great
people, unless it had some connexion with the exploits and the history of
nations.... On the same canvas the death of one little child and the doom
of the seven chieftains with their crowding battalions are depicted in a
perspective which sets the former fatality in the foreground.”
The captive princess, even through the ruins of the text, shines forth
with great charm. Her whole life centres round her lost children and the
brief magical time of her union with Jason. The chorus reproach her with
her indifference to the exciting presence of Adrastus’ great army—she
will think of nothing save Argo and the Fleece. When at point to die
her spirit flashes back to those old days in a few words of amazing
poignancy:—
ὦ πρῷρα καὶ λευκαῖνον ἐξ ἅλμης ὕδωρ
Ἀργοῦς, ἰὼ παῖδ’....
“Ah, prow of Argo and the brine that flashed into whiteness! ah, my
two sons!” Her talk with them towards the end is a pathetic and lovely
passage equal to anything Euripides ever wrote in this kind.
MELANIPPE THE WISE[809] appears to have been a drama of unusual personal
interest. Æolus espoused Hippe, whose daughter Melanippe became by
Poseidon mother of twin sons. The god bade her hide them from Æolus,
and they were discovered by grooms in the care of a bull and a cow.
They, supposing the children miraculous offspring of these animals,
reported their discovery to Æolus, who decided to expiate the portent by
burning the infants alive. Melanippe was instructed to shroud them for
death. In order to save her children without revealing her own secret
she denied the possibility of such portentous births, but seems to have
found herself forced at length to confess in order to prove the natural
origin of the infants. Æolus condemned her to be blinded and imprisoned,
her offspring to be exposed. Her mother Hippe appeared as _dea ex
machina_[810] and saved her kin.
The great feature of this play was the heroine’s speech in which she
sought to convince her father that such a portent was impossible.
Lines from the opening of this argument are preserved: “The story is
not mine—from my mother have I learned how Heaven and earth were once
mingled in substance; when they separated into twain they engendered and
brought into the light of day all creatures, the trees, birds, beasts,
nurslings of the sea, and the race of men”. The speech was an elaborate
scientific sermon to disprove the possibility of miracles. Similarly,
according to a famous story, the drama opened originally with the line:
“Zeus, whoever Zeus may be, for only by stories do I know of him ...”;
but this open agnosticism gave such offence that Euripides produced the
play again with the words: “Zeus, as Truth relates....” A different but
closely-connected source of interest is the fact that here Euripides
veiled his own personality less thinly than usual. That Melanippe was
only his mouthpiece appears to have been a recognized fact. Dionysius of
Halicarnassus[811] observes that it presents a double character, that
of the poet, and that of Melanippe; and Lucian[812] selects the remark
on Zeus in the prologue as a case where the poet is speaking his own
views. The “mother” from whom “Melanippe” learned her philosophy has been
identified with the great metaphysician and scientist Anaxagoras, who was
banished from Athens in 430 B.C.; and it is natural to suppose that this
_Melanippe_ is not much later than that year, perhaps much earlier[813]
in view of the strongly didactic manner.[814] Hartung refers to this play
the splendid fragment:—
ὄλβιος ὅστις τῆς ἱστορίας
ἔσχε μάθησιν, μήτε πολιτῶν
ἐπὶ πημοσύνῃ μήτ’ εἰς ἀδίκους
πράξεις ὁρμῶν,
ἀλλ’ ἀθανάτου καθορῶν φύσεως
κόσμον ἀγήρω, πῇ τε συνέστη
καὶ ὅπῃ καὶ ὅπως.
τοῖς δὲ τοιούτοις οὐδέποτ’ αἰσχρῶν
ἔργων μελέτημα προσίζει.
“Happy is he who hath won deep learning. He setteth himself neither to
hurt his fellow-citizens nor towards works of iniquity, but fixeth his
gaze upon the ageless order of immortal Nature, the laws and methods of
its creation. Unto such a man never doth there cling the plotting of
base deeds.” If these lines point at Anaxagoras and belong to our play,
the two significant clauses which defend the moral character of the
philosopher in question indicate the year 430 itself.
The CRESPHONTES had immense success as a powerful melodrama. Polyphontes,
having slain his brother Cresphontes, King of Messenia, seized his
throne and married his widow Merope, who sent her infant son Cresphontes
away to safe keeping in Ætolia. When he grew up he returned to avenge
his father. At this point the action begins. Cresphontes seems to have
delivered the prologue; since Polyphontes fearing his return has offered
a reward to whoever shall slay him, he has determined to win the usurper’s
confidence by claiming to have destroyed his enemy. Meanwhile, Merope,
alarmed by the proclamation of the king, has sent an aged slave to find
whether Cresphontes is well; he returns with tidings that the prince
has disappeared from Ætolia. Merope gives her son over for lost, and
observing the youthful stranger who is received with joy by the king,
she becomes convinced that he is the murderer of her son. While he lies
asleep she steals upon him with an axe, when the old slave recognizes the
stranger and stops her arm. Mother and son are united, and at once plot
to slay Polyphontes. Merope pretends to be reconciled to the king, who in
his joy goes to sacrifice, accompanied by the youth, who takes advantage
of a suitable moment to slay his enemy.
Plutarch, nearly six centuries later, testifies[815] to the sensation
which the Recognition caused in the audience. Merope herself seems to
have been a figure ranking with Hecuba in the _Troades_. The tidings of
her son’s death draw from her words which in their quiet dignity of grief
have something of Wordsworth:—
Children have died ere now, not mine alone,
And wives been widow’d. Yea, this cup of life
Unnumber’d women have drain’d it, as do I....
... Insistent Fate,
Taking in fee the lives of all I lov’d,
Hath made me wise.
Probably it was Merope again who uttered the famous lines which advise
lament over the newly-born and a glad procession to accompany the
dead. The recognition-scene is singled out for especial praise by
Aristotle.[816]
The fragments of this tragedy include a perfect jewel of lyric poetry, a
prayer to Peace:—
Εἰρήνα βαθύπλουτε καὶ
καλλίστα μακάρων θεῶν,
ζῆλός μοι σέθεν, ὡς χρονίζεις.
δέδοικα δὲ μὴ πρὶν πόνοις
ὑπερβάλῃ με γῆρας,
πρὶν σὰν χαρίεσσαν ὥραν προσιδεῖν
καὶ καλλιχόρους ἀοιδὰς
φιλοστεφάνους τε κώμους.
ἴθι μοι, πότνα, πόλιν.
τὰν δ’ ἐχθρὰν στάσιν εἶργ’ ἀπ’ οἴ-
κων τὰν μαινομέναν τ’ ἔριν
θηκτῷ τερπομέναν σιδάρῳ.
A paraphrase might run thus:—
O Peace, thou givest plenty as from a deep spring: there is no
beauty like unto thine, no, not even among the blessed gods.
My heart yearneth within me, for thou tarriest; I grow old and
thou returnest not.
Shall weariness overcome mine eyes before they see thy bloom
and thy comeliness? When the lovely songs of the dancers are
heard again, and the thronging feet of them that wear garlands,
shall grey hairs and sorrow have destroyed me utterly?
Return, thou Holy One, to our city: abide not far from us, thou
that quenchest wrath.
Strife and bitterness shall depart, if thou art with us:
madness and the edge of the sword shall flee away from our
doors.
Matthew Arnold’s _Merope_ has the same plot and includes a
recognition-scene which probably resembles the lost original closely. His
conception of Polyphontes is thoroughly Euripidean.
Of the other lost plays little can be said here. Still amid this faint
glow of star-dust many marvellous things are to be discerned—words of
tremulous tenderness from the _Danae_ describing the charm of infancy; a
line from _Ino_ which in its powerful grimness recalls Æschylus, “like
a lone beast, he lurks in caves unlit”;[817] out of the _Polyidus_ the
celebrated query,
Who knows of life that it is aught but death,
And death aught else than life beyond the grave?[818]
From an unknown drama comes a line which owes its preservation to St.
Paul[819]:
φθείρουσιν ἤθη χρήσθ’ ὁμιλίαι κακαί,
“evil communications corrupt good manners”. Euripides’ cosmopolitan
sympathy nowhere finds finer expression than in the distich
Where’er spreads Heaven the eagle cleaves his path;
Where’er lies earth the righteous are at home.[820]
But the student must at his leisure explore the marvels of these
rock-pools left by the retiring ocean. One majestic passage[821] from the
_Cretans_ shall suffice to close this survey. The lines are from a march
sung by the Curetes or priests of the Cretan Zeus, and show that even in
the Hellenic world the monastic spirit was not unknown:—
Thou whom the Tyrian princess bare
To mighty Jove, thou Lord of Crete,
To whom her hundred cities bow,
Lo, I draw near thy judgment-seat,
Quitting my home, yon hallowed place
Where beams of cypress roof the shrine,
By far-brought axes lopped and hewn,
Close knit by oxen’s blood divine.
Pure is my life’s unbroken calm
Since Zeus to bliss these eyes unsealed;
The feast of quivering flesh I shared
While through the dark strange thunder pealed.
The Mountain-Mother heard my vows,
And saw my torch the darkness ride;
The Hunter named me for his priest,
A mail-clad Bacchant sanctified.
Now robed in white I keep me pure
From food that e’er has throbbed with breath;
I shun the new-born infant’s cry,
And gaze not on the couch of death.
It now remains for us to attempt a synthesis—to set before ourselves as
clearly as may be the whole personality of Euripides. We are studying
not the programme of a politician, but the spirit and method of a great
artist, the inspiration of a great teacher. An artist has other things
to heed than a superficial consistency of presentation; and a teacher
of permanent value shows his followers not what to think, but how to
think—not opinions, but the reasoned basis of opinion. Euripides is a man
not of dogmas, nor indeed of negations; he is the apostle of a spirit
which blows whither it lists, setting up a healthful circulation of
tingling life throughout regions which have languished in the heavy air
of convention. His work forces us to think and feel for ourselves, not
necessarily to think and feel with him.
The briefest description of his special quality is that he is in the same
moment a great artist and a great rationalist—a man profoundly conscious
of the beauty and value of all life, all existence, all energy, and yet
an uncompromising critic of the vesture which man throws around those
parts of the Universe which are subjected to him. No man has ever loved
and expressed beauty with a mind less swayed by illusion. These two
instincts, the instinct to study life in all its unforced manifestations,
and the instinct to question all conventions, lie at the root of his
work. It is in virtue of these that he has been called enigmatic. Like
Renan he was ἀνὴρ δίψυχος, a man of two souls[822]; but he is no more
an enigma than others. His peculiarity lies herein, that the duality of
nature often found in ordinary men was by him exhibited at the heights
of genius. That is why he so often seems labouring to destroy the effect
he has created; he is “inconsistent” because he is equally at home in
the two worlds of feeling and of thought. Precisely for this reason he
created a new type of drama. Horace Walpole wrote that “Life is a comedy
to those who think, a tragedy to those who feel”; thus, when a genius of
Euripides’ type addressed itself to the theatre, the result was drama
which could not but shock people who, bred in the school of Æschylus,
had no conception of “tragedy” which could be witty, light, modern,
destructive. Menander is the successor of Euripides, not of Aristophanes.
Anyone who follows out these two strands of instinct will understand
much that might seem strange, much that gave offence, in his work. It
will be well therefore to bring together the faults which have been
found with him in ancient and in later times. Leaving on one side, since
it is by no means certainly a reproach, the celebrated remark[823] of
Sophocles, “I represent people as they should be, Euripides as they
are,” we find our chief material in Aristophanes and Aristotle. The
_Frogs_ contains an elaborate attack upon the tragedian which, whether
fair or not, has a _prima facie_ reasonableness. Euripides is twitted
with moral and literary offences. In the first place, his predilection
for depicting the power of love, especially the adulterous or incestuous
passions of women[824] and the sophistical restlessness of mind which
he inculcates,[825] mark him as a corrupter of Athens. On the technical
side, his music[826] is affected and decadent, the libretto[827] of his
choruses is both elaborate and jejune, the style of his iambics[828]
lacks weight and dignity, his prologues[829] are tiresome and written in
a mechanical fashion. Aristotle in his turn objects to certain weaknesses
of characterization: Menelaus in the _Orestes_ is particularly bad, the
speech of Melanippe—no doubt that celebrated oration on miracles—is
indecorous and out of character; in the Aulid _Iphigenia_ the heroine
is inconsistent.[830] He gives two examples[831] of the irrational,
Ægeus in the _Medea_ and Menelaus once more in the _Orestes_. Euripides’
use of the _deus ex machina_ is also often bad; he instances Medea’s
miraculous chariot. Lastly there is the famous mixture[832] of praise
and blame: “Euripides, faulty as he is in the general management of his
subject, is yet felt to be the most tragic of the poets.” If we pass now
to modern detractors, we find one fault overshadowing all the rest—bad
construction, what Aristotle calls “episodic” plots, namely, plays the
several scenes of which are more or less accidentally combined and form
no organic whole.
There is truth in some of this fault-finding; whether we are to regard
such features as actually blemishes is another matter. Two certainly are
defects of the gravest possible description—“episodic” plots and the
_deus ex machina_. If a man produces plays which have no organic unity,
or which at the close of the action are in such a tangle that a being of
superhuman information and power is necessary to “cut the knot,” he is no
“unskilful dramatist” but merely a blockhead, for he can always fling his
rubbish into the fire. So hopelessly damaging are these two accusations
that one really cannot believe Euripides obnoxious to them. One might as
well allege that Alexander did not understand tactics, or that Pericles
believed Byzantium was in Sicily. The charge of faulty construction has
been considered earlier in connexion with the plays which are supposed
examples thereof. But the _deus ex machina_ needs a few words. “The god
out of the machine” is a phrase of two applications. It may mean a deity
brought in to round off the play by giving information about the future
history of the personages. Or the god may be introduced when the plot,
owing to the human limitations of the characters, has become knotted
and progress is impossible; then a being who miraculously knows all the
facts appears and “cuts” the knot. In the first case the epiphany is
practically outside the drama; in the second it is only too vital to it.
Of the first case there are five[833] instances in the extant plays:
to these, of course, our grave objection cannot apply. Of the second
type there are seven[834] examples if we regard the miraculous car of
Medea as a “deus”. _Granted the story which is known to the audience_,
such interventions are necessary. Medea cannot escape the vengeance of
Corinth, Orestes the verdict of the Argive State, without supernatural
aid; Theseus would, it might seem, never have been persuaded by mortal
witness that Hippolytus is innocent; in the Tauric _Iphigenia_ and the
_Helena_[835] nothing but a miracle can save from death the fugitives
who as a matter of “history” reached home in safety: the _Supplices_
would end without the formal compact between rescuers and rescued if the
goddess did not intervene; as for the _Ion_, Euripides’ contemporaries
knew that Delphi still flourished, so that the annihilating investigation
of Ion must, it appeared, have been somehow arrested. For these seven
plays, then, we can choose between two theories of the _deus ex machina_
(in that second sense of a pseudo-dramatic expedient). The first theory
is that the poet wishes to end with “historical” truth, but in the
course of his action has so blundered that he cannot naturally do so;
therefore he puts forward a god who asserts that the action _shall_
continue as “history” asserts that it did; so might a competitor in a
match of archery employ a confederate who, whenever his arrow missed the
target, should pick it up and plant it in the white. The other theory is
that Euripides intended to work out an interesting situation of legend
as a study in natural psychology and social development. The situation
according to story came to a certain end; according to Euripides that
was not the natural end. And he emphasizes this legendary distortion by
pointing out clearly that to square nature and the story nothing less
than a miracle is required. To assert that he needed the supernatural
intervention to save his play is absolutely to reverse the facts. Can we
doubt which of these theories is sound?
Two further questions at once arise. Why did he select situations
from misleading legends? And, is there then no pseudo-dramatic _deus
ex machina_ at all? The first question is of vital importance. It is
incorrect to say that he was bound by convention to the traditional
stories; Phrynichus, Agathon, and Moschion all defied this “convention”.
Euripides was a student of human thought, of the development of belief,
as well as a dramatist. Convinced that his contemporaries held false
beliefs about the gods and that the myths were largely responsible for
this, hypnotizing thought by their beauty and paralyzing logic by their
authority, he sets himself to show, not only that they are untrue, but
also how, though untrue, they ever won credence. As for the _deus ex
machina_ the truth is that he does not exist (save, of course, in the
rôle of a non-dramatic narrator). He is, like the three unities, a
figment based on uncritical and hasty reading. Outside this poet the
only possible case is that of the _Philoctetes_, which has been shown no
genuine instance.
We may now return to the objections raised by Aristophanes and Aristotle.
They are all due to the two instincts we have described—his interest
in every manifestation of life, and his stern rationalism. Most of the
technical flaws, for instance, alleged against him are proofs that he was
attracted by the possibilities of his own art; he is constantly testing
the limits to which development can go. The iambics of the _Orestes_, for
example, are extraordinarily full of resolved feet; after that play he
restrains himself more. In music too he appears to have been an explorer;
at any rate the fault found with the words of his choruses points to a
development like the modern, in which libretto was becoming subservient
to music. The comic poet, again, fastens eagerly upon the prologues, and
puts into the mouth of Æschylus a famous jest:—[836]
_Æsch._: And now, by Jove, I’ll not smash each phrase word
by word, but with heaven’s aid I’ll ruin your prologues with—a
little oil-flask.
_Eur._: An oil-flask? You ... my prologues?
_Æsch._: Just one little flask. You write so that anything will
fit into your iambics—a little fleece, a little flask, a little
bag. I’ll show you on the spot.
_Eur._: Oh! you will?
_Æsch._: Yes.
_Dion._: Now you must recite something.
_Eur._:
“Ægyptus, as the far-spread story tells,
With fifty sons in voyage o’er the deep
Landing at Argos....”
_Æsch._: (interrupting) ... “lost his flask of oil”.
Several other absurd instances follow.
This celebrated jest means (i) that Euripides constructs the early
sentences of his prologue in such a way that a subordinate clause
(usually containing a participle) leads up to a short main clause at the
end of the sentence; (ii) that his prologues descend to trivial details;
(iii) that the _cæsura_ occurs always in the third foot; (iv) that he
is viciously addicted to resolved feet. The tragedian can be defended
from these charges, such as they are, but the idea at the back of
Aristophanes’ mind is true, namely, that these prologues are often dull
performances. Probably the poet did not intend much more. He wishes to
put his hearers _au fait_ with the precise legend and the precise point
with which he is concerned;[837] as is often said, these passages take
the place of a modern play-bill.
Later in the _Frogs_ Dionysus produces a huge pair of scales; each is to
utter a line into his scale-pan, and the heavier line wins. Euripides
declaims into his pan the opening line of the _Medea_, εἴθ’ ὤφελ’
Ἀργοῦς μὴ διαπτάσθαι σκάφος, and his rival Σπερχειὲ ποταμὲ βουνομοί τ’
ἐπιστροφαί. Dionysus absurdly explains that the latter wins because he
has put in water like a fraudulent woollen-merchant, while Euripides has
offered a “word with wings”. Underlying this nonsense is the truth that
the Æschylean line is ponderous and slow, that of Euripides light and
rapid; it is like contrasting Marlowe and Fletcher. The difference is not
between good and bad, but between old and new. Æschylus’ iambic style is
fitted most admirably for his purpose. But Euripides has not the same
purpose—that is all. It is one of his most remarkable innovations that he
practically invented the prose-drama. A very great deal of his “verse” is
simply prose which can be scanned. To compare such a passage[838] as:
ἥξει γὰρ αὐτὸς σὴν δάμαρτα καὶ τέκνα,
ἕλξων φονεύσων κἄμ’ ἐπισφάξων ἄναξ·
μένοντι δ’ αὐτοῦ πάντα σοὶ γενήσεται,
τῇ τ’ ἀσφαλείᾳ κερδανεῖς· πόλιν δὲ σὴν
μὴ πρὶν ταράξῃς πρὶν τόδ’ εὖ θέσθαι, τέκνον,
or a hundred others, with the beacon-speech in _Agamemnon_ or Athena’s
charge to the Areopagite court, is to ignore the whole point of a
literary revolution. Who would set a page of Hedda Gabler’s conversation
against an extract from _Macbeth_, and affirm that Ibsen could not write
dialogue?
Ibsen, indeed, it is particularly instructive to bear in mind here.
According to him “the golden rule is that there is no golden rule”.[839]
Dr. Stockman’s nobility consists in telling the truth at all costs.
Gregers Werle insists on that course, and is seen to be a meddlesome
prig who ruins his friend’s home. Here the Greek and the Norwegian agree
heartily; for the “sophistry” with which many at Athens were disgusted
is only Euripides’ way of putting his conviction that there is no fixed
rule of conduct, still less any fixed rule for our self-satisfied
attempts to praise or blame the abnormal. An impulse of pity ruins Creon
in the _Medea_; Lycus in the _Heracles_ turns his back on mercy, and is
destroyed also. The pride of glorious birth nerves Macaria to heroism;
of Achilles it makes merely a pathetic sham. Consciousness of sin wrecks
and tortures Phædra, while to Helen in _Orestes_ it means little more
than a picturesque melancholy. Hermione in _Andromache_ and Creusa both
go to all lengths in their passionate yearning for domestic happiness;
one destroys her husband and her own future, the other reaps deeper
bliss than she dared to hope. Iphigenia and Hippolytus serve the same
goddess, but amid what different atmospheres and diverse destinies! This
consciousness that effort brings about results different from its aims,
that chance, whatever chance may be, is too potent to allow any faith
in orthodox deities, only in moods of despair wrings from the poet such
outcry as Hecuba’s, that Fate is “a capering idiot”.[840] But it has
planted surely in his mind the conviction that there is no golden rule of
conduct. And hence that “love of forensic rhetoric” of which we hear so
much—each case must be considered on its own merits.
To this agnosticism we owe not only that treatment of religious legend
which we have already studied but the poet’s greatest achievement.
Socrates, because, as he said, he could not understand metaphysics or
astronomy, gave his attention to man. His friend because he despaired
of a satisfying theology threw his genius into psychological drama. The
centre of his interest is the human heart. Only one fact about destiny
can be stated as consistently held by him, namely, that the spring of
action and the chief factor in happiness or misery is, not the will of
Heaven or dogmatic belief, but the nature (φύσις) of the individual.[841]
Because he studies sin, not to condemn but to understand, he has earned
that reproach of Aristophanes who rages at his predilection for Phædras
and Sthenebœas. What attracted him was not a desire to gloat or even to
pardon; it was the fact that the sinners he depicts are so intensely
alive. A being dead in virtue engaged his interest less than one who,
however evilly, existed with vigour. To this passionate interest in
human life can be referred as basis all the other themes on which he
spent study. Religion, as we have found, only attracts him because it
guides or misleads conduct. His political studies have little concern
with ethnology or economics; they are only an expansion to a wider field
of this same interest in sheer humanity. Philosophy and natural science
are of value for him, as for Lucretius, in that they provide an escape
from paralyzing superstition. If they are presented as a refuge from the
facts of life, he will have none of them. When Electra[842] seeks in
her knowledge of astronomy a far-fetched consolation for self-fostered
misery, she strikes us not as heroic but as own kin to the febrile
“intellectuals” of Tchekov’s _Cherry Orchard_ or the novels of Dostoevsky.
His dislike of convention in morals is answered by his originality in
portraiture as well as in dramatic situations. Nothing is more thrilling
than to observe how in the hands of a great realist whole masses of human
beings come to life. What was the background of one novelist suddenly
begins in the pages of another to stir, to articulate itself, to move
forward and discover a language. “The men” commanded by Captain Osborne
in _Vanity Fair_ become Private Ortheris or Corporal Mulvaney in the
pages of Kipling. So in Euripides the dim and familiar background of
“barbarians” who existed merely to give colour and outline to Achilles
and Odysseus, the women who bore the necessary children and ground the
needed flour, the henchmen without whom horses would not be groomed or
trees felled, suddenly awake and reveal passions of love and hatred,
pathetic histories, opinions about marriage and the grave. In every age
the man who points to the disregarded, the dormant, hitherto supposed
securely neutral and plastic, who cries “it is alive, watching you and
reflecting, waiting its time”—such a man is met in his degree with the
reception given to Euripides by the elder generation of Athenians. The
clamour of “crank!” “faddist!” “this is the thin end of the wedge,” and
kindred watchwords, may be found translated into brilliant Attic by
Aristophanes. But in virtue of these same interests Euripides became the
Bible of later Greek civilization. He would have passed into a fetish had
it not been that the destructively critical side of his genius prevented
the most narrow-minded from reducing him to a system. To the last he
remains inconclusive, provocative, refreshing.
On the other side his sensitiveness to all aspects of life—his “feeling
for Beauty” to use the familiar phrase—held him back from mere cynicism.
The _Hippolytus_ remains as perhaps the most glorious support in
literature for unflinching facing of facts—it shows triumphantly how a
man may feel all the sorrow and waste which wreck happiness, yet declare
the endless value and loveliness of life. We may detect two aspects in
which this joy in life shows itself most markedly—his romance and his wit.
Romance is not improperly contrasted with “classicism,” but as few Greek
or Roman writers are classical in the rigid sense it is not surprising to
find romantic features outcropping at every period of their literature.
Euripides himself is the most romantic author between Homer and
Appuleius, whatever our definition of romance may be. R. L. Stevenson’s
remark that “romance is consciousness of background,” Hegel’s doctrine
that “romantic art is the straining of art to go beyond itself,”[843] and
a more recent _dictum_ that “romance is only the passion which is in the
face of all realism,”[844] each of them definitely recalls some feature
of Euripides’ work already discussed. A modern writer with whom he can
be fruitfully compared, at this point especially, is Mr Bernard Shaw.
In many characteristics these two dramatists are notably alike: their
ruthless insistence upon questioning all established reputations, whether
of individuals, nations, or institutions; their conviction that there is
no absolute standard of conduct; their blazing zeal for justice; their
mastery of brilliant lithe idiom. But in their feeling about romance
they diverge violently. Perhaps the largest ingredient in Mr. Shaw’s
strength is his hatred and distrust of emotion and of that spirit, called
romance, which organizes emotion and sees in it a basic part of life.
But Euripides appreciates it all the more highly that he is not enslaved
by it. Even in such ruthless dramas as the _Medea_ and the _Iphigenia in
Tauris_ one remarks how the thrill and beauty of life gleams out, if only
as a bitter memory or a present pain of contrast—the magic fire-breathing
bulls and the heapy coils of the glaring dragon in the remote land where
Jason won his quest, the strange seas, deserted beaches, and grim savages
among whom Iphigenia cherishes her thoughts of childhood in Argos. The
same sense of glamour which inspires early in his life such a marvellous
flash as the description of Rhesus’ steeds:
στίλβουσι δ’ ὥστε ποταμίου κύκνου πτερόν,[845]
and indeed the whole dashing buoyant drama—this passion survives the
shames and disillusionment wrought by twenty-five years of tyranny and
war; it persists even in those black but glorious hours when he wrote the
_Troades_ and at the close of his life culminates in the splendours of
the _Bacchæ_. No attentive student of his work can ignore this effect,
but if we possessed all his plays we should be in no danger of accepting
the idea that Euripides is beyond all other things a bitter realist. The
_Andromeda_ and the _Phaethon_ would have redressed the balance.
The wit of Euripides cannot easily be discussed; it often depends upon
idiomatic subtlety, and must almost disappear in translation. But
frequently, again, it consists in the method of handling a situation.
Just as the playwright often makes of his drama, among other things, an
elaborate _reductio ad absurdum_ of myth, so is he capable of writing
a whole scene with a twinkle in his eye. The clearest example is the
_Helena_; Menelaus’ stupefaction at learning that Egypt contains an
Helen, daughter of Zeus, is indeed definite comedy:
Διὸς δ’ ἔλεξε παῖδά νιν πεφυκέναι.
ἀλλ’ ἦ τις ἔστι Ζηνὸς ὄνομ’ ἔχων ἀνήρ
Νείλου παρ’ ὄχθας; εἷς γὰρ ὅ γε κατ’ οὐρανόν.[846]
“And she told me that the lady was a daughter of Zeus! What! is there
some person called Zeus living beside the Nile? There’s one in Heaven,
to be sure, but that’s another story.” Such a translation gives
perhaps the intention of the words and colloquial rhythm of the last
sentence. Here is comedy, but that of Congreve, not of Aristophanes.
The distinction is important. Euripides is less comic than witty. As
we turn his pages we rarely laugh, but a thousand times we break into
the slight smile of intellectual enjoyment; one delight in reading an
Euripidean play—tragedy though it be—is the same as that aroused by the
work of Meredith. Euripides’ sense of the ludicrous is a part of his
restlessness in conception. Again and again he startles us by placing
at some tragic moment a little episode which passes the pathetic and
becomes absurd. When Clytæmnestra and Achilles bring each other into
awkward perplexity over the espousal of Iphigenia the effect is amusing,
and the intervention of the old slave who puts his head out of the
tent-door must provoke a smile, even though we realize that he has misery
and death on his lips.[847] After Creusa has given her instructions for
the assassination of Ion, it is, though natural, yet quaint for the
prospective murderer to reply: “Now do you retire to your hotel”.[848] In
the _Medea_ the whole episode of Ægeus, to which Aristotle objected as
“irrational,” is tinged with the grotesque. That the horrible story of
Medea’s revenge must hang upon a slow-witted amiable person like Ægeus
is natural to the topsy-turviness of life as the dramatist saw it. In
fact, just as Euripides on the linguistic side practically invents the
prose-drama, so in the strictly dramatic sphere he invents tragicomedy.
Nothing can induce him to keep tears and laughter altogether apart. The
world is not made like that, and he studies facts, depicting the phases
of great happenings not as they “ought to be” but “as they are”. He would
have read with amused delight that quaint sentence of Dostoevsky: “All
these choruses sing about something very indefinite, for the most part
about somebody’s curse, but with a tinge of the higher humour”.[849]
It is indeed significant that sparkles of incidental mirth are (so far
as a modern student can tell) commonest in that most heartbreaking
play _Orestes_. One dialogue between Orestes and Menelaus, to take a
single passage, is a blaze of wit—it exemplifies every possible grade
of witticism, from the downright pun[850] to subtle varieties of iambic
rhythm. Perhaps the most light-hearted and entertaining example[851] is
provided by Helen who (of all casuists!) evolves a theory of sin as a
method of putting her tigerish niece into good humour and so inducing her
to perform for Helen an awkward task. Even more skilful, but ghastly in
its half-farcical horror, is the dialogue between Orestes and the escaped
Phrygian slave.
Later ages of Greek civilization looked upon Euripides as a mighty leader
of thought, a great voice expressing all the wisdom of their fathers, all
the pains and perplexities familiar to themselves. After generations had
passed it was easy to dwell upon one side only of his genius, and for
Plutarch or Stobæus to regard him as the poet of sad wisdom:—
Amongst us one,
Who most has suffer’d, takes dejectedly
His seat upon the intellectual throne;
And all his store of sad experience he
Lays bare of wretched days![852]
But his own contemporaries, living in the days before Ægospotami and
knowing the many facets of his spirit, could not so well accept a man of
such contradictions, who was in strange earnest about things they felt to
be indifferent, and who smiled at such odd moments. Euripides must often
have felt himself very lonely in Athens. “My soul,” he cries, “lay not
hold upon words of subtlety. Why admit these strange high thoughts, if
thou hast no peers for audience to thy serious musings?”[853] And again;—
Though far beyond my ken a wise man dwell,
Across the earth I greet him for a friend.[854]
It may be that Europeans of our own day are better fitted to estimate him
aright than enthusiasts under the Empire or his companions who saw him
too close at hand. During the last half-century we have witnessed great
changes which have their counterpart in the Athens for which he wrote.
Hopes have been realized only to prove disappointments and the source
of fresh perplexities. In England the spread of knowledge has resulted
not in a cultivated, but in a mentally restless people. Universal
ability to read has for its most obvious fruit not wider knowledge of
literature, but more newspapers and a rank jungle of “popular” writing.
Similarly at Athens the sophists had produced mental avidity where
there was no quickening of spiritual vigour to correspond. Another fact
of vital import has been the rise of our working-class to solidarity
and political power: it probably resembles that “demos” which Cleon led
more closely than “the masses” with which Peel or Russell had to deal.
Again, experience of war has shown how small is the effect which settled
government, social reform, and education have exercised upon the raw,
primitive, human instincts, both base and noble. In Greece, the empire
of Athens, with its tyranny and selfishness, and the Peloponnesian war
which had produced a frightful corruption of conduct and ideals,[855]
tainted society with that cynicism (ἀναίδεια) of which Euripides so often
speaks. Just as we are severed by a wide gulf from the crude but not
ignoble certainty, the superficial worship of progress which marked the
Victorian era, so was Euripides severed from the “men of Marathon” for
whom Æschylus wrote.
So it is that we can judge the poet of “the Greek enlightenment”[856]—or
rather of the Athenian disillusionment—better than most generations of
his readers. To aid us, there have naturally arisen writers to voice, in
a manner often like his, our own disappointment and our renewed interest
in parts of life and the world which we had ignored as unmeaning or
barren. The disinherited are coming into their own. Mr. Thomas Hardy has
written of the English peasant with a richness and profundity unknown
since Shakespeare. He offers indeed another interesting analogy with
Euripides: while the critics are concerned with his “pessimism” he
remains for an unsophisticated reader a splendid witness to the majesty
and charm of the immense slow curves of life, the deep preciousness which
glows from the gradual processes of nature and that dignity of mere
existence which survives all sin and effort. _Tess of the D’Urbervilles_
is the best modern parallel to _Hippolytus_. Meanwhile M. Anatole France
has given us many an example of that ironical wit of which the Greek
poet is so consummate a master. Another Frenchman, Flaubert, has set
as the climax to his dazzling phantasy, _La Tentation de St. Antoine_,
an expression in un-attic vehemence and elaboration of that passionate
sympathy with all existence which blazes in the lyrics of the _Bacchæ_—a
yearning which Arnold in the _Scholar-Gipsy_ has uttered in milder and
still more haunting language.
There is no final synthesis of Euripides. Throughout his life he held
true to those two principles, the worship of beauty, and loyalty to the
dry light of intelligence. Glamour never blinded him to sin and folly;
misery and coarse tyranny never taught his lips to forswear the glory of
existence. One of his own noblest songs sets this triumphantly before
us[857]:—
οὐ παύσομαι τὰς Χάριτας
Μούσαις συγκαταμειγνύς,
ἁδίσταν συζυγίαν.
μὴ ζῴην μετ’ ἀμουσίας,
αἰεὶ δ’ ἐν στεφάνοισιν εἴην.
“I will not cease to mingle the Graces with the Muses—the sweetest
of fellowships. When the Muses desert me, let me die; may the
flower-garlands never fail me.” The Graces and the Muses—such is his
better way of invoking Beauty and Truth, the two fixed stars of his
life-long allegiance.
CHAPTER VI
METRE AND RHYTHM IN GREEK TRAGEDY
§ I. INTRODUCTION
Poetry is illuminating utterance consisting of words the successive
sounds of which are arranged according to a recurrent pattern. The soul
of poetry is this illumination, its body this recurrent pattern of
sounds; and it is with the body that we are now to deal. At the outset
we must distinguish carefully between rhythm and metre. Rhythm is the
recurrence just mentioned—the structure; metre is the gathering together
of sounds into masses upon which rhythm shall do its work. Metre, so to
put it, makes the bricks, while rhythm makes the arch.
Greek metre is based, not upon stress-accent,[858] but upon quantity—the
length of time needed for the pronunciation of a syllable. In English the
line
My bosom’s lord sits lightly in his throne
is “scanned” (that is to say, marked off into “feet”—the metrical units)
as a series of five iambi; the iambus being a foot which consists of an
unaccented, followed by an accented, syllable. The word “bosoms” can
stand where it does because the stress of the voice naturally falls upon
the first syllable of “bosom”; to begin a line with “my seréne bosom”
would clearly be wrong. The _length_ of the syllables has no effect on
the scansion. That “sits” needs as long a time for its utterance as the
first syllable of “lightly” does not alter the fact that “sits light-” is
an accentual iambus.
Greek words, on the other hand, as metrical material, are considered only
from the quantitative point of view, not the accentual. The voice-stress
in the word λόγους rests upon the first syllable, but the word is an
iambus, a “short” followed by a “long” (marked respectively thus ⏑–).
Whereas an English blank verse consists of five accentual iambi, _e.g._
To ént|ertaín | divíne | Zenócr|até,
the corresponding verse of all the Greek dramatists is composed of six
feet each of which is theoretically a quantitative iambus, and most of
which actually are such. Thus _Andromache_, v. 241 is to be scanned
⏑ – ⏑ – ⏑ – ⏑ – ⏑ – ⏑ –
τι δ ου | γυναιξ|ι ταυτ|α πρωτ|α παντ|αχου.
When is a syllable long and when short? A few rules will settle all but a
minority. _All_ syllables are long—
(i) Which contain a necessarily long vowel (η or ω), _e.g._ μη̄ν, τω̄ν.
(ii) Which contain a diphthong or _iota_ subscript, _e.g._ ο̅ι̅νος,
α̅ι̅νο̅υ̅μεν, ρᾳ̅διως; save that the first syllable of ποιῶ and τοιοῦτος
(and their parts) is often short.
(iii) Which end with a double consonant (ζ, ξ, ψ), _e.g._ ο̄ζος, ε̄ξω,
ε̄ψαυσα.
(iv) Which have the circumflex accent, _e.g._ υμῖ̅ν, μῦ̅ς.
_Most_ syllables are long the vowel of which is followed by two
consonants. But there is some difficulty about this very frequent case.
It can arise in three ways:—
(_a_) Both consonants may be in the same word as the vowel. Then the
syllable is long, save when the consonants are (i) a voiced stop (β, γ,
δ) followed by ρ; or (ii) a voiceless stop or spirant (κ, π, τ; θ, φ,
χ) followed by a liquid or nasal (λ, ρ, μ, ν)—in both of which cases
the syllable can be counted long or short at pleasure. Thus ε̄σμεν,
μο̄ρφη, ᾱνδρος; but the first syllables of ιδρις, τεκνον, ποτμος are
“doubtful”—they can be either long or short as suits the poet.
(_b_) One of the consonants may end its word and the other begin the
next. Such syllables are _all_ long. Thus, τηκτο̄ς μολυβδος, ανδρε̄ς
σοφοι, although both these long syllables are “short by nature” (see
below).
(_c_) Both consonants may occur at the beginning of the second word. If
the vowel is naturally short, the syllable is almost always short, though
such scansions as σε̄ κτενω are occasionally found. But if the second
word begins with a double consonant or σ followed by another consonant,
the syllable is always long. Thus ο̄ ξενος, τῑ ζητεις, ταυτᾱ σκοπουμεν.
A vowel, naturally short, when thus lengthened is said to be “lengthened
by position.”
The following types of syllable are _always_ short:—
(i) Those containing a naturally short vowel (ε or ο) not lengthened by
position, _e.g._ ε̆κων, ο̆λος.
(ii) Final α of the third declension neuter singular (σωμᾰ), third
declension accusative singular (ελπιδᾰ, δρασαντᾰ), and all neuters
plural (τᾰ, σωματᾰ, τοιαυτᾰ).
(iii) Final ι (_e.g._ εστῐ, τῐ), save, of course, when it is part of a
diphthong.
(iv) The accusative -ας of the third declension (ανδρᾰς, πονουντᾰς).
But μουσᾱς (first declension). The quantity in both cases is that of the
corresponding nominative.
Hiatus is practically unknown. That is, a word ending in a vowel is not
to be followed by a word beginning with a vowel, unless one vowel or
the other disappears. Almost always it is the first vowel which is thus
cut off, the process being called “elision.” In verse one would not
write πάντα εἶπε, but πάντ’ εἶπε; not ἔτι εἶναι, but ἔτ’ εἶναι. When
the first vowel is long and the second short, the latter is cut off by
“prodelision,” a much rarer occurrence. Thus τούτῳ ἀνεῖπε would become
τούτῳ ’νεῖπε. Two long vowels, as in καλὴ ἡμέρα, are not used together at
all. But the rule as to hiatus does not normally apply at the end of a
verse; usually one can end a verse with an unelided vowel and begin the
next with a vowel. If in any metrical scheme this liberty is not allowed,
it is said that “synapheia[859] prevails.”
We are now in a position to discuss the various metres to be found in
Greek Tragedy.
§ II. THE IAMBIC METRE
Practically all the dialogue and speeches are written in this metre. The
student would do well to grow thoroughly accustomed to reading these
aloud with correct quantities before he attempts the others.
The iambic line consists of six feet, any one of which may be an iambus.
But a “pure” iambic line, one in which every foot is an iambus, as in
_Andromache_, v. 241 (see above), is very rare. A speech written solely
in such feet would be highly monotonous and far too rapid. Other feet are
therefore allowed, under restrictions, to take the place of the iambus.
By far the commonest of these is the spondee, which consists of two long
syllables (λο̄γχη̄, πᾱντω̄ν). This can occur in the first, third, or
fifth places—one, two, or all three. Thus:—
– – ⏑– ⏑ – ⏑ – – – ⏑ –
_δησαι_ | βιᾳ | φαραγγ|ι προς | _δυσχειμ_|ερῳ (_Prom. Vinctus_, 15).
– – ⏑ – – – ⏑ – ⏑ – ⏑ –
_ω τεκν_|α Καδμ|_ου του_ | παλαι | vεα | τροφη (_Œd. Tyr._, I).
Next, the lightness and variety is often greatly increased by the use of
“resolved”[860] (or broken-up) feet. Each long syllable being regarded as
equal to two “shorts,” it follows that the iambus can be “resolved” into
⏑⏑⏑, the spondee into –⏑⏑, ⏑⏑– (and ⏑⏑⏑⏑, but this last is not employed
in iambics).
Of these three the tribrach (⏑⏑⏑) is much the most frequent. As it
corresponds to the iambus, it can occur in any place, save the sixth; it
is exceedingly rare in the fifth place:—
– – ⏑ ⏑ ⏑ – – ⏑ – – – ⏑ –
φαιδρωπ|_ον εδιδ_|ου τοισ|ιν Αιγ|ισθου | φιλοις (_Orestes_, 894).
⏑ – ⏑ – ⏑ – ⏑ ⏑ ⏑ – – ⏑ –
περιξ | εγω | καλυψ|_α βοτρυ_|ωδει | χλοῃ (_Bacchæ_, 12).
The dactyl (–⏑⏑) is allowed in those places to which the spondee is
admitted, save the fifth (just as the tribrach is excluded from the
sixth). Thus:—
– – ⏑ – – ⏑ ⏑ ⏑ – – – ⏑ –
ου φασ|ι πρωτ|_ον Δανα_|ον Αιγ|υπτῳ | δικας (_Orestes_, 872).
⏑ – ⏑ – – ⏑ ⏑ ⏑ – – – ⏑ –
λογους | ελισσ|_ων οτι_ | καθιστ|αιη | νομους (_Ibid._, 892).
It is rare in the first foot.
Least common of all is the anapæst (⏑⏑–), which appears only in the first
foot, unless it is contained entirely in a proper name, when it can occur
in any place save the sixth. This license is due to necessity: such a
name as Ἀντῐγόνη could not otherwise be introduced into iambics at all.
Examples:—
⏑ ⏑ – ⏑– ⏑ – ⏑ – – – ⏑ –
_στεφανους_ | δρυος | τε μιλ|ακος τ|ανθεσφ|ορου (_Bacchæ_, 703).
– – ⏑ – ⏑ – ⏑ – ⏑⏑ – ⏑ –
δεσποιν|α γαρ | κατ οικ|ον Ερμ|_ιονην_ | λεγω (_Androm._, 804).
Occasionally a line is to be found with two or even three resolved feet:—
– – ⏑ ⏑ ⏑ – ⏑ ⏑ ⏑ – ⏑ – ⏑ –
λουτροισ|ιν αλοχ|ου περι|πεσων | πανυστ|ατοις (_Orestes_, 367).
– ⏑ ⏑ ⏑ – – ⏑ ⏑ ⏑ – ⏑ – ⏑ –
μητερα | το σωφρ|ον τ ελαβ|εν αντ|ι συμφ|ορας (_Ibid._, 502).
⏑ ⏑ – ⏑ ⏑ ⏑ – ⏑ ⏑ ⏑ – ⏑ – ⏑ –
αναδελφ|ος απατ|ωρ αφιλ|ος ει | δε σοι | δοκει (_Ibid._, 310).
Two licenses should be noted. The last syllable of the line may be short;
no doubt the pause[861] at the end was felt to help it out. Lines of
this kind are innumerable, _e.g._:—
⏑⏑
Κρατος Βια τε σφῳν μεν εντολη | Διος (_Prom. Vinctus_, 12)
(which is followed by a vowel—ἔχει). It matters little whether such
syllables are marked as short, as long, or with the sign of doubtful
quantity ( ᷋). Next, synizesis (συνίζησις, “collapse”) occurs now and
then—two syllables coalesce and are scanned as one, _e.g._ μ̅η̅ ̅ο̅υ̅,
πολε̅ω̅ς:—
– – ⏑ – – – ⏑ – – – ⏑ –
αλλ _εα_ | με και | την εξ | εμου | δυσβουλ|ιαν (_Antigone_, 95).
– ⏑ – – ⏑ ⏑ ⏑ – ⏑ – ⏑ –
ως _μ̅η̅ ̅ε̅ι̅δ̅_|οθ ητ|ις μ ετεκ|εν εξ | οτου τ|εφυν (_Ion_, 313).
– – ⏑ – – – ⏑ – ⏑ – ⏑ ⏑
σφαζ αιμ|ατου | θ_εα_ς βωμ|ον η | μετεισ|ι σε (_Andromache_, 260).
(Synizesis is specially common in the various cases of θεός and θεά.)
Finally, two important rules of rhythm remain to be stated.
First, there must be a “cæsura”[862] in either the third or the fourth
foot. A cæsura is a gap between words in the middle of a foot. Either the
third foot, then, or the fourth must consist partly of one word, partly
of another. It is indicated in scansion by the sign ‖. Many verses have
this necessary cæsura in the third foot only, _e.g._:—
⏑ – ⏑ – – – ⏑ – – – ⏑ ⏑
απανθ | ο μακρ|ος ‖ καν|αριθμ|ητος | χρονος (_Ajax_, 646).
Many show it in the fourth only:—
– – ⏑ – ⏑ – ⏑ – – – ⏑ ⏑
προς τησδ|ε της | γυναικ|ος ‖ οικτ|ειρω | δε νιν (_Ibid._, 652).
A still larger number have cæsura in both places:—
– – ⏑ – – – ⏑ – – – ⏑ ⏑
φρουρας | ετει|ας ‖ μηκ|ος ‖ ην | κοιμωμ|ενος (_Agamemnon_, 2).
This usage is essential to rhythm. It is of course possible for every
foot in the line to exhibit a cæsura, but one in the midst is necessary
to prevent the line from falling into pieces. That coextension of word
and foot which is naturally frequent must at one point be emphatically
excluded, so that the whole line may be felt as a single rhythmical
whole. Such “lines” as
– – ⏑ – ⏑ – ⏑ – – – ⏑ ⏑
ταυτην αναξ λεγει καλην ειναι πολιν,
or
⏑ – ⏑– – – ⏑ – ⏑ – ⏑ ⏑
Οδυσσεως δουλοι μαχουμενοι ταχα,
are utterly impossible.[863] The first falls into six scraps, and the
second into two mere lumps, of equal length. If a breach of the rule ever
occurs, it is for a special reason. When Sophocles (_Œd. Tyr._, 738)
writes
ὦ Ζεῦ, τί μου δρᾶσαι βεβούλευσαι πέρι;
the dragging rhythm well represents the dawning dread of Œdipus. But the
main cæsura may be dispensed with if the third foot ends with an elision,
apparently because, if the word could be written in full, the fourth foot
would be divided between two words. Thus:—
χαῖρ’· οὐ γὰρ ἐχθαίρω σ’· ἀπώλεσας δ’ ἐμέ (_Alcestis_, 179).
ζητοῦσι τὸν τεκόντ’· ἐγὼ δὲ διαφέρω (_Heracles_, 76).
The other rule is that generally called “the rule of the Final
Cretic”.[864] It is most simply stated thus: if there is a cæsura in the
fifth foot, that foot must be an iambus, _e.g._:—
⏑ – ⏑ –
μη με̄ στυγησῃς· ουχ εκων | γαρ ‖ αγγ|ελω (_Troades_, 710).
⏑ – ⏑ –
τον τουδε νεκρον ουκ αθαπτ|ον ‖ αν | λιποις (_Ibid._, 738).
This rule does not exclude from the first half of the foot long
_monosyllables_ which are in meaning and syntax closely connected with
the “cretic” word or words. Thus τῶν σωμάτων is a quite correct ending,
but not τούτων σωμάτων.
Subjoined is a scheme of the iambic verse as written by the tragedians.
The writers of comedy allowed themselves licenses with which we are not
here concerned. Euripides is much fonder of resolved feet than Æschylus
or Sophocles.
1 2 3 4 5 6
⏑– ⏑– ⏑‖– ⏑‖– ⏑– ⏑–
⏑⏑⏑ ⏑⏑⏑ ⏑‖⏑⏑ ⏑‖⏑⏑ ⏑⏑⏑ ⏑⏑
– – [⏑⏑–] –‖– [⏑⏑–] – –
–⏑⏑ –‖⏑⏑ [⏑⏑–]
⏑⏑– [⏑⏑–]
§ III. THE TROCHAIC TETRAMETER
Under this head we shall deal only with trochees as used in dialogue.
Originally all dialogue was written in this metre,[865] and they
sometimes appear in extant plays when the situation is too hurried or
excited for iambics though not agitated enough for lyrical dialogue.
These passages are not usually long, and it is interesting to note that
the longest are found in the two most melodramatic plays, _Orestes_ and
_Iphigenia at Aulis_.[866] The metre is always the trochaic tetrameter
catalectic[867] (sometimes called the trochaic octonarius), that is,
a line consisting of eight feet, mostly trochees, with “catalexis”.
Catalexis occurs when the last foot of a line has not its full number of
syllables, the remainder being filled by a pause in delivery.
Pure trochaic verses are occasionally to be found:—
– ⏑ – ⏑ – ⏑ – ⏑ – ⏑ – ⏑ – ⏑ –
κατα | πως αφ|ικομ|εσθα | δευρο | ταυτ αμ|ηχαν|ωꞈ| (_Ion_, 548).
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8
The mark ꞈ means that there is a pause equivalent in length to a short
syllable. It is often found in the scansion of lyrics, and there one also
at times uses -̭ ⏗̭ ⏘̭, which mean pauses equivalent to two, three, and
four short syllables respectively. As in iambics, the last syllable may
be short by nature:—
– ⏑ – ⏑ – ⏑ – ⏑ – ⏑ – ⏑ – ⏑ ⏑–
ουχι | σωφρον|ειν γ επ|εμψε | δευρο σ | η Δι|ος δαμ|αρꞈ (_Heracles_,
857).
This metre is plainly analogous to Tennyson’s
Dreary gleams about the moorland flying over Locksley Hall.
But such purely trochaic lines are rare. Other feet are usually admitted,
especially the spondee:—
– ⏑ – – – ⏑ – – – ⏑ – – – ⏑ –
βλεψον | _εις ημ_|ας ιν | _αρχας_ | των λογ|_ων ταυτ_|ας λαβ|ωꞈ (_Iph.
Aul._, 320).
Spondees may occur only in the second, fourth, or sixth foot.
The tribrach also is often employed by Euripides:—
– ⏑ – – – ⏑ – – ⏑ ⏑ ⏑ – – – ⏑ –
ψηφον | αμφ ημ|ων πολ|ιτας | _επι φον_|ῳ θεσθ|αι χρε|ωνꞈ (_Orestes_,
756).
– ⏑ – – – ⏑ ⏑ ⏑ ⏑ – ⏑ – ⏑ – ⏑ –
ευτυχ|εις δ ημ|εις εσ|_ομεθα_ | ταλλα δ | ου λεγ|ουσ ομ|ωςꞈ (_Iph.
Taur._ 1232).
The fifth foot is the favourite place for the tribrach, and next to that
the first:—
⏑ ⏑⏑ – ⏑ – ⏑ – ⏑ ⏑ ⏑ ⏑ – – – ⏑ –
χρονιος | αλλ ομ|ως ταχ|ιστα | κακος εφ|ωραθ|η φιλ|οιςꞈ (_Orestes_,
740).
Euripides, late in his career, introduced a good deal of license, here
as elsewhere. Firstly, tribrachs become far more frequent and occur in
unusual places:—
⏑ ⏑ ⏑ – ⏑ – ⏑ – – ⏑ ⏑ ⏑ – ⏑ ⏑ ⏑ ⏑ ᷋
ανοσι|ος πεφ|υκας | αλλ ου | πατριδος | ως συ | πολεμι|οςꞈ (_Phœnissæ_,
609).
To place a resolved foot practically at the end of the line is bold—the
metre is shaken almost to pieces. Here, as in other respects, Euripides
points forward to the conversational manner of the New Comedy. But he
goes further, and allows feet hitherto not found in trochaics: the
anapæst and the dactyl. The latter, however, is extremely rare[868] and
employed only with proper names:—
– ⏑ – ⏑ – ⏑ ⏑ – ⏑ – ⏑ – – – ⏑ –
συγγον|ον τ εμ|_ην Πυλαδ_|ην τε | τον ταδ|ε ξυνδρ|ωντα | μοιꞈ
(_Orestes_, 1535).
– ⏑ – ⏑ ⏑ – ⏑ ⏑ ⏑ – – ⏑ – ⏑ – ⏑ ᷋
εις αρ | _Ιφιγεν_|ειαν | Ελενης | νοστος | ην πεπρ|ωμεν|οςꞈ (_Iph.
Aul._, 882).
The anapæst is commoner (there is a proper-name instance in the line just
quoted):—
– ⏑ ⏑ ⏑ – – ⏑ – – ⏑ ⏑ ⏑ – ⏑ – ⏑ –
ως νιν | _ικετευσ_|ω με | σωσαι | το γε δικ|αιον | ωδ εχ|ειꞈ
(_Orestes_, 797).
– ⏑ – ⏑ ⏑ ⏑ ⏑ – – – ⏑ ⏑ ⏑ – – ⏑ ᷋
και συ | μητερ | αθεμιτ|ον σοι | μητρος | _ονομαζ_|ειν καρ|αꞈ (_Phœn._,
612).
There is no rule as to cæsura. The end of the fourth foot regularly
coincides with the end of a word; such an arrangement is named
diæresis.[869] In all extant tragedy only one certain exception to this
rule is found:—
– ⏑ – – – ⏑ – – – ⏑ – – – ⏑ ᷋
ει δοκ|ει στειχ|ωμεν | ω _γενν|αιον_ | ειρηκ|ως επ|οςꞈ (_Philoctetes_,
1402).
Since diæresis is practically always found in so many hundreds of lines,
being preserved even in the loosest writing of Euripides, why should we
regard the recognized trochaic verse as an unity? Why not write, _e.g._:—
οὐ γὰρ ἂν ξυμβαῖμεν ἄλλως
ἢ ’πὶ τοῖς εἰρημένοις,
ὥστ’ ἐμὲ σκήπτρων κρατοῦντα
τῆσδ’ ἄνακτ’ εἶναι χθονός (_Phœnissæ_, 590 _sq._).
If the line falls into two clearly marked halves, why not show this to
the eye? There is no unanswerable objection to doing so—the passage above
corresponds exactly in rhythmical form to much English verse, _e.g._:—
Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.
The practice in English is to break up the long trochaic “line” into
two when the words at the diæresis rhyme (as in the above passage
from Longfellow), but not to do so when the only rhymes occur at the
catalectic foot. We print the opening of another poem by Longfellow thus:—
In the market-place of Bruges stands the belfry old and brown;
Thrice consumed and thrice rebuilded, still it watches o’er the town.
In Greek there is, of course, no rhyme-scheme to settle this, but
the regular catalexis is felt to mark off separate units. The entire
question depends upon personal fancy,[870] though the instance from
the _Philoctetes_ shows that Sophocles at any rate regarded the whole
octonarius as the unit.
Subjoined is the scheme:—
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8
–⏑ –⏑ –⏑ –⏑ –⏑ –⏑ –⏑ –ꞈ
⏑⏑⏑ – – ⏑⏑⏑ – – ⏑⏑⏑ – – ⏑⏑⏑
⏑⏑⏑ [–⏑⏑] ⏑⏑⏑ ⏑⏑⏑
⏑⏑– ⏑⏑– ⏑⏑–
[–⏑⏑]
§ IV. THE ANAPÆSTIC METRE
Whereas iambics and trochaics were declaimed by the actors, anapæsts were
used mostly by the chorus, and were chanted in recitative. They are found
when the chorus move into the orchestra, or salute the entrance of a new
character. Most tragedies end with a brief anapæstic system, executed by
the singers as they depart.
The most usual line is a tetrapody—that is, a verse of four feet:—
⏑ ⏑ – ⏑ ⏑ – ⏑ ⏑ – ⏑ ⏑ –
τι συ προς | μελαθροις | τι συ τῃδ|ε πολεις; (_Alcestis_, 29).
But lines consisting of anapæsts alone are very uncommon. The spondee is
often found:—
– – ⏑ ⏑ – ⏑ ⏑ – – –
ουκ ηρκ|εσε σοι | μορον Αδμ|ητου (_Alcestis_, 32).
Dactyls also are frequent:—
– – ⏑ ⏑ – – ⏑ ⏑ – –
σφηλαντ|ι τεχνῃ | νυν δ επι | τῃδ αυ (_Ibid._, 34).
No other foot is admitted, but each of these three may occur at any place
in the line.
Besides the tetrapody, we find now and then a dipody, or verse of two
feet.
Anapæstic systems are invariably closed by a catalectic verse:—
– – ⏑ ⏑ – ⏑ ⏑– –
αυτη | προθανειν | Πελιου | παιςꞈ̄ (_Ibid._, 37).
In systems of considerable length such lines occur at intervals. They are
called “parœmiacs”.[871]
§ V. LYRICS
The metres of Greek songs form a difficult and complicated study. So long
as we do not know the music composed for them, the scansion of lyrics
must remain a more difficult and doubtful question than that of the
iambics, episodic trochaics, and anapæsts.
The best preparation for their study is the habit of reading iambics
and trochaics with correct quantities and natural emphasis. Let us,
so prepared, address ourselves to the following passage[872] from the
_Agamemnon_ (975 _sqq._):—
Τίπτε μοι τόδ’ ἔμπεδον
δεῖμα προστατήριον
καρδίας τερασκόπου ποτᾶται;
μαντιπολεῖ δ’ ἀκέλευστος ἄμισθος ἀοιδά,
οὐδ’ ἀποπτύσαι δίκαν
δυσκρίτων ὀνειράτων
θάρσος εὐπειθὲς ἵζει φρενὸς φίλον θρόνον;
χρόνος δέ τοι πρυμνησίων ξυνεμβολαῖς
ψαμμίας ἐξ ἀκτᾶς βέβηκεν, εὖθ’ ὑπ’ Ἴλιον
ὦρτο ναυβάτας στρατός.
It soon becomes plain that the passage is, at any rate in the main,
trochaic. The first two lines scan easily, ending with a catalectic foot.
We note that the third seems to drag at the end:—
– ⏑ – ⏑ – ⏑ – ⏑ – –
καρδι|ας τερ|ασκοπ|ου ποτ|αται,
for we remember that in the trochaic octonarius the last complete foot is
never a spondee. But in the fourth line we are quite baffled:—
– ⏑ ⏑ – ⏑ ⏑ –
μαντιπ|ολει δ | ακελευστ|ος...?
Anapæsts are very rare in trochaics, iambi unknown. That the iambus
should never replace the trochee is quite natural. It would be hideous
rhythm, in the first line of _Locksley Hall_, instead of “Cómrades, leave
me here a little ...,” to write “Dragoóns, leave me ...”. The foot ο̆λεῑ
cannot be right. The line seems hopeless; or rather, if we have any
knowledge of Homeric and Virgilian metre, we recognize something like the
dactylic hexameter:—
– ⏑ ⏑ – ⏑ ⏑ – ⏑ ⏑ – ⏑ ⏑ – –
μαντιπολ|ει δ ακελ|ευστος αμ|ισθος α|οιδα.
But is such a passage possible in a trochaic passage written for Greek
music? It is known that in Greek music the notes corresponded closely
to the syllables; music composed for trochees will certainly be in
three-eighths time, for dactyls in four-eighths time. All these feet
should have three beats, not four.
The next two lines are plainly similar to the first and second. In
the seventh line we first wonder why, though we are in the midst of a
grammatical sentence, the words should begin farther to the right than is
usual, as if for a new paragraph. When we try to scan, we find once more
the iambus-difficulty:—
– ⏑ – – ⏑ –
θαρσος | ευπειθ|ες ιζ....
If we work backwards from the end, -ος φιλον θρονον gives the familiar
trochaic-octonarius ending, –⏑|–⏑|–ꞈ. But the middle of the line has
fallen to pieces, and for the present we leave it.
The eighth line seems at first more familiar. Is it not the ordinary
iambic senarius of § II? But where is the cæsura? And can we suddenly
insert an iambic line into a trochaic system? Is it then possible
after all to scan it as some kind of trochaics? Begin at the end. ...
ε̅μ̅βο̆λα̅ι̅ςꞈ suits excellently; and if we work backwards we soon find
that the whole would fall readily into trochaics if only we could ignore
the first syllable:—
– ⏑ – – – ⏑ – ⏑ – ⏑ –
χρονος δε | τοι προμν|ησι|ων ξυν|εμβο|λαιςꞈ
But why should we ignore it? And why does the line begin farther to the
left?
The ninth line again offers perplexity in the first half, clearness in
the second:—
– ⏑ – ⏑ – ⏑ ᷋
ηκεν | ευθ υπ | Ιλι|ονꞈ.
Grown by this time bolder, we attack the first half in detail, working
backwards. ᾱς βε̆ is easy. Then ἐξ ακτ ... may be either –⏑ or – –, both
of which are admissible. We are left with ψ̅α̅μμῐᾱς. Reading the whole
line over slowly, marking the trochees carefully, we find ourselves
somehow dwelling on the last syllable of ψαμμίας. Why should we? If that
syllable were only –⏑, all would be well; but it is not. Finally, the
tenth and last line is quite easy:—
– ⏑ – ⏑ – ⏑ ⏑–
ωρτο | ναυβατ|ας στρατ|οςꞈ.
The whole passage then is trochaic; but we have met four difficulties:
(i) the necessity to dwell upon certain syllables, (ii) the irrational
presence of dactyls, (iii) the temptation to ignore the first syllable of
χρόνος, (iv) the insetting of θάρσος. Understanding of these four facts
will carry us a long way. We take them in order.
Our first point indicates that we must revise that division of all
syllables into “longs” of equal value and “shorts” of equal value (each
“long” being exactly equivalent to two “shorts”) which obtains in
iambics. The lyric metres recognize syllables of greater length than
⏑⏑. Most frequent is the length ⏗, equal to ⏑⏑⏑. A syllable of this
length is therefore admitted in lyric trochaic systems as a whole foot,
and investigations, such as we have practised above, will generally show
where such a foot is to be postulated. We can now scan certain portions
which we found troublesome:—
– ⏑ ⏗ – ⏑ ⏗
θαρσος | ευπ | ειθες | ιζ | ...
– ⏑ ⏗ – ⏑ –
ψαμμι|ας | εξ ακτ | ας....
Moreover, as we were suspicious of the final spondee (replacing
the expected trochee) in the third line, we obtain at any rate a
quasi-trochee by scanning thus:—
– ⏑ – ⏑ – ⏑ – ⏑ ⏗ –
καρδι|ας τερ|ασκοπ|ου ποτ|ατ|αιꞈ.
This prolongation of a syllable is called τονή (“stretching”). Such a
syllable may fill a foot, as in trochaics, and this rhythm is said to be
syncopated.[873]
Next comes the dactylic fourth line, which introduces another vital
rule. Trochaic systems admit, not genuine dactyls, but “cyclic” dactyls.
To the “long” of each foot and to the first “short” is given less than
their usual length: the rhythm is accelerated, so that –⏑ is equivalent
to –, and the whole cyclic dactyl, marked ᷋⏑, is equivalent to a
trochee.[874] Whenever we see a number of apparent dactyls, we must
examine the whole passage to find whether it is trochaic or not. Trochaic
systems which contain cyclic dactyls are called “logaoedic”.[875] The
present line, then, being trochaic, we feel the same doubt of the final
spondee (which would equal ⏑⏑⏑⏑, not ⏑⏑⏑, as it should) which we felt in
the third line, and scan the whole:—
– ⏑ ⏑ – ⏑ ⏑ – ⏑ ⏑ – ⏑ ⏑ ⏗ –
μαντιπολ|ει δ ακελ|ευστος αμ|ισθος α|οιδ|αꞈ.
Our third question touched the first syllable of χρόνος in the sixth
line. It is, as a fact, to be regarded as standing outside the metrical
line—a kind of prelude, called “anacrusis”.[876] It is plain that neglect
of anacrusis will often throw our scansion out completely. A useful rule
can be given: in almost[877] any line, whatever comes before the first
long syllable forms an anacrusis. The reason is that the first syllable
of a foot must have an “ictus” (see below) or stress-accent, and the
foot-ictus normally falls on long syllables. It becomes natural then to
pronounce the first short or shorts (if any) quickly, and to give the
first long the ictus; in this way the short is felt as a mere preliminary
to the line. The anacrusis, however, can be of three forms, ⏑, ⏑⏑, –. Its
length must be that of the second part of the characteristic foot, ⏑ for
trochees, – or ⏑⏑ for dactyls, and so forth. It is marked off from the
first foot by the sign ⁝.
The fourth point was the insetting of θάρσος. It happens in the middle
of a grammatical sentence, so that there can be no question of an
ordinary paragraph. But if it does not point to a break in sense, its
only reference can be rhythmical. The whole passage must fall into two
distinct rhythmical paragraphs. Let us scan them separately and endeavour
to find a reason for this break. Take the first, scanning, marking, and
numbering the feet:—
– ⏑ – ⏑ – ⏑ –
τιπτε | μοι τοδ | εμπεδ|ονꞈ‖
1 2 3 4
– ⏑ – ⏑ – ⏑ –
δειμα | προστατ|ηρι|ονꞈ‖
1 2 3 4
– ⏑ – ⏑ – ⏑ – ⏑ ⏗ –
καρδι|ας τερ|ασκοπ|ου ποτ|ατ|αιꞈ‖
1 2 3 4 5 6
– ⏑ ⏑ – ⏑ ⏑ – ⏑ ⏑ – ⏑ ⏑ ⏗ –
μαντιπολ|ει δ ακελ|ευστος αμ|ισθος α|οιδ|αꞈ‖
1 2 3 4 5 6
– ⏑ – ⏑ – ⏑ –
ουδ απ|οπτυσ|αι δικ|ανꞈ‖
1 2 3 4
– ⏑ – ⏑ – ⏑ –
δυσκριτ|ων ον|ειρατ|ωνꞈ‖
1 2 3 4
If we examine this to find structural unity, it soon appears. The first
pair of lines answers to the last, and line three to line four, in the
number of their feet 4 + 4, 6, 6, 4 + 4. The correspondence is indicated
thus:—
⎰ 4
⎛ ⎱ 4
⎜ ⎛ 6
⎜ ⎝ 6
⎝ ⎰ 4
⎱ 4
Each of these masses, it will be noticed, is marked off by the sign ‖.
Such a mass is named a “sentence” or “colon” (κῶλον, “limb”), and such a
balanced structure of cola is named a “period” (περίοδος, “circuit”). It
happens that in the passage just examined the “sentence” division always
occurs at the end of a word, but this is not invariably so. We proceed
now with the second paragraph[878]—the second period as we shall now call
it.
– ⏑ ⏗ – ⏑ ⏗ – ⏑ – ⏑ – ⏑ –
θαρσος | ευπ|ειθες | ιζ‖ει φρεν|ος φιλ|ον φρον|ονꞈ‖
1 2 3 4 1 2 3 4
⏑ – ⏑ – ˃ – ⏑ – ⏑ – ⏑ –
χρον⁝ος δε | τοι πρυμν|ησι|ων ξυν | εμβολ|αιςꞈ‖
1 2 3 4 5 6
– ⏑ ⏗ – ⏑ – ⏑ – ⏑ – ⏑ – ⏑ –
ψαμμι|ας | εξ ακτ|ας βεβ‖ηκεν | ευθ υπ | Ιλι|ονꞈ‖
1 2 3 4 1 2 3 4
– ⏑ – ⏑ – ⏑ –
ωρτο | ναυβατ|ας στρατ|οςꞈ‖
1 2 3 4
That is: 4 + 4, 6, 4 + 4, 4. This would be an obviously well-balanced
structure but for the last colon, to which nothing corresponds. Such
an extra sentence is called a “postlude” (ἐπῳδικόν). Non-corresponding
sentences like this are far from rare.[879] They may occur at the
beginning of the period (“prelude,” προῳδικόν), in the middle (“mesode,”
μεσωδικόν), or at the end. This very period supplies an example of a
mesode as well as of a postlude. The scheme is:—
⎰ 4
⎛ ⎱ 4
⎜ 6—mesode.
⎝ ⎰ 4
⎱ 4
4—postlude.
The whole passage, then, consists of two periods connected by meaning and
grammar, but—for us—by no more intimate musical bond than the common use
of trochees. But the dance and music which accompanied the whole would
clearly demonstrate its unity. The end of a period is indicated by ‖.
It is necessary now to consider briefly the passage which immediately
follows (vv. 988 _sqq._):—
Πεύθομαι δ’ ἀπ’ ὀμμάτων
νόστον, αὐτόμαρτυς ὤν·
τὸν δ’ ἄνευ λύρας ὅμως ὑμνῳδεῖ
θρῆνον Ἐρινύος αὐτοδίδακτος ἔσωθεν
θυμός, οὐ τὸ πᾶν ἔχων
ἐλπίδος φίλον θράσος.
σπλάγχνα δ’ οὔτοι ματάζει πρὸς ἐνδίκοις φρεσίν
τελεσφόροις δίναις κυκλούμενον κέαρ.
εὔχομαι δ’ ἐξ ἐμᾶς τοι[880] ἐλπίδος ψύθη πεσεῖν
ἐς τὸ μὴ τελεσφόρον.
This is an exact counterpart in syllables, feet, cola, and periods, of
the first passage. The first is called the “strophe” (στροφή, “turn”),
the second the “antistrophe” (ἀντιστροφή, “counter-turn”). The chorus,
while singing the one, performed various evolutions about the orchestra,
and these were repeated exactly, but in reversed order, while they sang
the antistrophe. All these lyrics are so constructed; the normal tragic
“chorus” consists of one or more such pairs, though occasionally the
antistrophe is followed by a passage called an “epode”.[881] The epodes
correspond to each other, not to the strophes. This equivalence of
strophe and antistrophe is often of value in determining the quantities
or the text in one of them.
We have now gained some insight into the nature of a Greek choric song.
But before proceeding further it will be well to deepen our impression by
taking from the _Agamemnon_ (vv. 160 _sqq._) another, and a simpler, pair
of strophes:—
Ζεύς, ὅστις ποτ’ ἐστίν, εἰ τόδ’ αὐτῷ φίλον κεκλημένῳ,
τοῦτό νιν προσεννέπω.
οὐχ ἔχω προσεικάσαι, πάντ’ ἐπισταθμώμενος,
πλὴν Διός, εἰ τὸ μάταν ἀπὸ φροντίδος ἄχθος
χρὴ βαλεῖν ἐτητύμως.
οὐδ’ ὅστις πάροιθεν ἦν μέγας, παμμάχῳ θράσει βρύων,
οὐδὲ λέξεται πρὶν ὤν·
ὃς δ’ ἔπειτ’ ἔφυ τριακτῆρος οἴχεται τυχών.
Ζῆνα δέ τις προφρόνως ἐπινίκια κλάζων
τεύξεται φρενῶν τὸ πᾶν.
⏗|⏗|–⏑|–⏑|–⏑|⏗‖–⏑|–⏑|–⏑|–ꞈ‖
–⏑|–⏑|–⏑|–ꞈ‖
–⏑|–⏑|–⏑|⏗‖–⏑|–⏑|–⏑|–ꞈ‖
–⏑⏑|–⏑⏑|–⏑⏑|–⏑⏑|⏗|–ꞈ‖
–⏑|–⏑|–⏑|–ꞈ‖
⎰ 6
⎛ ⎱ 4
⎜ ⎛ 4
⎜ ⎜ 4—mesode.
⎜ ⎝ 4
⎝ ⎰ 6
⎱ 4
The chief interest of this subject is the art wherewith the Greek masters
accompanied variations of emotion and the like with variations of rhythm.
This passage affords a simple and stately example. The heavy opening (⏗⏗)
is followed by the more confident trochees till, at the last line but
one, religious rapture (in the strophe) and the ardour of triumph (in the
antistrophe) burst forth with the leaping cyclic dactyls.
We have now become acquainted with three rhythmical masses: the colon,
the period, the strophe. Are there others? What is a “verse” in lyrics?
There is no such thing.[882] One must, of course, distinguish between a
“line” and a “verse”. Lines there must be—that is an affair of the scribe
and the printer; verses are rhythmical units, and there is no rhythmical
mass in Greek lyrics between the colon and the period. How then are we
to arrange our periods, there being no verse-division? The most obvious
way is to write each colon as a separate line. The difficulty is that we
shall often be compelled to break words:—
θάρσος εὐπειθὲς ἵζ-
ει φρενὸς φίλον θρόνον ...
ψαμμίας ἐξ ἀκτᾶς βέβ-
ηκεν....
Another method is to let each line run on until we reach a colon-ending
which coincides with a word-ending. Here is no new rhythmical rule: it is
purely a question of convenience for the eye. Next, shall we ever write
lines of (say) two cola the first of which does close with a word-ending?
It is natural so to do when to the two cola in question there correspond
(whether periodically or strophically) two cola which _must_ on this
system fill one line only. For instance, in Æsch., _Supplices_, 656, we
shall write—
– ⏑ ⏑ – ⏑ ⏗ –⏑ ⏑ – ⏑ ⏗ – ⏑ ⏑ – ⏑ – ⏑–
και γαρ υποσκιων ‖ νυν στοματων ποτασθ‖ω φιλοτιμος ευχα ‖,
though the first colon ends at the end of ὑποσκίων, because the
corresponding passage of the antistrophe runs—
– ⏑ ⏑ – ⏑ ⏗ – ⏑ ⏑ – ⏑ ⏗ –⏑ ⏑ – ⏑ – ᷋
και γεραροι δε πρεσβ‖υτοδοκοι γεμοντ‖ων θυμελαι φλεγοντων ‖,
where the first colon ends inside a word. It is purely a matter of taste
whether we give a line to each colon, in which case the drawback is
the breaking of words, or continue our line till breaking of words is
excluded, the trouble about which method is the reader’s difficulty in
seeing where some of the cola begin.
We must now consider the most vital and difficult portion of our subject.
How are we to determine the cola? The colon is the very soul of the
rhythm. The period is generally too long for the ear to receive it as one
artistic impression. The foot is too short; moreover, the mere foot too
often tends to play one false: irrational syllables and τονή are against
us. But the colon is neither too long nor too short. The colon-division
serves the same purpose as non-commissioned officers in a regiment, or
the determination of watersheds in geography—it gives a sense both of
grouping and of control.
What precisely _is_ a colon? It is as much of a strophe as can be uttered
without making a new start. It is the embodiment of rhythm, as the foot
is the embodiment of metre. In other words, it is a series of feet
bound into a rhythmical unity by the presence of one main ictus. Three
questions, then, arise. (i) What is an ictus? (ii) Which is the main
ictus of a series? (iii) Can we with certainty determine the beginning
and end of a colon when we have identified the main ictus?
(i) Ictus is stress-accent. The ictus of any single word is usually
obvious. In the word “maritime” it falls upon the first syllable, in
“dragoon” upon the second, in “cultivation” upon the third. In πάντων,
λυσαμένοις, and κατάπαστος, it falls upon the first, second, and third
respectively. Greek metre is based upon quantity, but Greek rhythm
(like all other rhythm) is based upon ictus. A strophe can, and must,
be scanned foot by foot on quantity alone; but when we go beyond the
foot-division to exhibit the structure of the whole, we must refer to
ictus and nothing but ictus—for structure is an affair of cola, and the
colon is created by the main ictus.
(ii) Among the many word-ictuses of a considerable passage, a few will
be found which are heavier than the rest. These are simply the ictuses
of the most important words. Each of these prominent ictuses gathers
the neighbouring minor ictuses into a group round itself. We should
begin then by fixing some obvious example, one (that is) where the main
ictus is unmistakable, and on this basis attempt, by the help of the
correspondences which we expect, to determine other main ictuses. The
strophe will thus gradually fall into cola. This leads us at once to our
third question.
(iii) Can we with certainty determine the extent of each colon?
Unfortunately no simple invariable rule can be given for the settlement
of this vital point. But certain useful principles may be mentioned.
(_a_) A well-trained ear is the chief guide. Intelligent and careful
reading aloud of an English prose-passage will show this. Take first (the
best-known version of) a famous sentence of John Bright:—
The Angel of Death is abroad in the land: you may almost hear
the beating of his wings.
It is plain that this falls into two rhythmical parts, though we shall
not expect them to correspond, since this is prose, not verse. If we
set a dash for each syllable and mark the ictuses by one or more dots
according to their strength, we find this scheme:—
⁚ ⁝ ⁚ ·
- - - - - - - - - - - ‖
· ⁚ ⁝ ⁚
- - - - - - - - - - - ‖
(It will be noticed that in this superb passage the two periods do, as it
happens, correspond in length.)
Who hath believed our report? And to whom is the arm of the
Lord revealed? (_Isaiah_ liii. 1).
· ⁚ ⁝ · ⁚ ⁝ ⁚
- - - - - - - ‖ - - - - - - - - - - - ‖
So with longer passages, where, however, we shall find at times that our
voice quite naturally makes a colon-ending in the midst of a grammatical
sentence.
Therefore let us also, ‖ seeing we are compassed about ‖ with
so great a cloud of witnesses, ‖ lay aside every weight, ‖ and
the sin which doth so easily beset us, ‖ and let us run with
patience ‖ the race that is set before us ‖ (_Hebrews_ xii. 1,
R.V.).
· ⁚ ·
- - - - - -
· ⁚ ·
- - - - - - - -
· ⁚ ⁝
- - - - - - - - -
· ⁚ ⁝
- - - - - - -
⁚ ⁝ ⁚
- - - - - - - - - - - -
· ⁚ ⁝
- - - - - - -
⁝ ⁚ ·
- - - - - - - -
(Observe how, in the last two cola, first the mounting and then the
declining emphasis provide a splendid close.)
Let us now attempt so to catch the rhythm of a passage from Sophocles
(_Antigone_, 582 _sqq._) if set out as prose.
εὐδαίμονες οἷσι κακῶν ἄγευστος αἰών. οἷς γὰρ ἂν σεισθῇ θεόθεν
δόμος, ἄτας οὐδὲν ἐλλείπει, γενεᾶς ἐπὶ πλῆθος ἕρπον· ὅμοιον
ὥστε ποντίαις οἶδμα δυσπνόοις ὅταν θρῄσσαισιν ἔρεβος ὕφαλον
ἐπιδράμῃ πνοαῖς, κυλίνδει βυσσόθεν κελαινὰν θῖνα, καὶ δυσάνεμοι
στόνῳ βρέμουσιν ἀντιπλῆγες ἀκταί. ἀρχαῖα τὰ Λαβδακιδᾶν οἴκων
ὁρῶμαι πήματα φθιτῶν ἐπὶ πήμασι πίπτοντ’, οὐδ’ ἀπαλλάσσει
γενεὰν γένος, ἀλλ’ ἐρείπει θεῶν τις, οὐδ’ ἔχει λύσιν. νῦν γὰρ
ἐσχάτας ὑπὲρ ῥίζας ὃ τέτατο φάος ἐν Οἰδίπου δόμοις, κατ’ αὖ νιν
φοινία θεῶν τῶν νερτέρων ἀμᾷ κονίς, λόγου τ’ ἄνοια καὶ φρενῶν
Ἐρινύς.
If we first mark the quantities (ignoring, as we must at first, the
possibility of ⏗ and ⏘) and go over the whole carefully, we soon find
that it falls into two corresponding portions: εὐδαίμονες ... ἀκταί
is the strophe, ἀρχαῖα ... Ἐρινύς the antistrophe. Next we look for
rhythmical units. On the one hand, there is the great difficulty that,
since we must have both periodic and strophic equivalence, certain cola
may take in words not belonging to the same sense-groups or grammatical
clauses. On the other hand, the fact that we have two great masses which
correspond exactly will help us. First, then, we note that εὐδαίμονες
... αἰών looks promising, and observing that this points to ἀρχαῖα ...
ὁρῶμαι as a colon also, and that this is in itself likely, we mark off
both these groups. Conversely, at the end of the antistrophe, λόγου ...
Ἐρινύς attracts us, and this is supported by the naturalness of στόνῳ ...
ἀκταί at the end of the strophe. Working backwards, and seeing a pause in
the punctuation at precisely the same place in both halves, namely, after
πνοαῖς and δόμοις, we assume that κυλίνδει ... δυσάνεμοι and κατ’ αὖ ...
κονίς are correspondent masses. But each is too long—sixteen syllables—to
be pronounced as a unit. We soon perceive that κυλίνδει ... κελαινάν,
θῖνα ... δυσάνεμοι, κατ’ αὖ ... τῶν, νερτέρων ... κονίς, are all separate
cola. Going backwards again, we find that ἐπιδράμῃ[883] πνοαῖς and
Οἰδίπου δόμοις, ὕφαλον ... πνοαῖς and φάος ... δόμοις, Θρῄσσαισιν ...
πνοαῖς and ῥίζας ... δόμοις, and indeed longer masses still, all give a
metrical correspondence. Which pair are we to select? οἶδμα ... πνοαῖς (=
νῦν ... δόμοις) is too long; ἐπιδράμῃ πνοαῖς (= Οἰδίπου δόμοις) is too
short. For we seek the longest unit which is convenient. We therefore
mark off οἶδμα ... ὅταν, νῦν ... ὑπέρ, Θρῄσσαισιν ... πνοαῖς, ῥίζας ...
δόμοις as cola. The same method will give us ὅμοιον ... ποντίαις and θεῶν
... λύσιν. Then we find ourselves left with οἷς γάρ ... ἕρπον and πήματα
... ἐρείπει, which we divide after ἄτας and πίπτοντ’.
At last we can set out the passage according to its structure. The
strophe runs thus:—
˃ – ⏑ ⏑ – ⏑ ⏑ – ⏑ – ⏑ ⏗ –
ευ⁝δαιμονες | οισι κακ|ων α|γευστος | αι|ωνꞈ‖
– ⏑ – ˃ – ⏑ – ⏑ ⏑ ⏗ –
οις γαρ | αν σεισθ|ῃ θεο|θεν δομος | ατ|αςꞈ‖
– ⏑ – ˃ – ⏑ ⏑ – ⏑ ⏑ – ⏑ – ⏑
ουδεν | ελλειπ|ει γενε|ας επι | πληθος | ερπον ‖
⏑ – ⏑ – ⏑ – ⏑ –
ο⁝μοιον | ωστε | ποντι|αιςꞈ‖
– ⏑ – ⏑ – ⏑ –
οιδμα | δυσπνο|οις οτ|ανꞈ‖
˃ – ⏑ ⏑ ⏑ ⏑ ⏑ ⏑ ⏑ ⏑ ⏑ ⏑ – ⏑ –
Θρησσ⁝αισιν | ερεβος | υφαλον | επιδραμ|ῃ πνο|αιςꞈ‖
⏑ – ˃ – ⏑ – ⏑ – ˃
κυ⁝λινδει | βυσσο|θεν κελ|αιναν ‖
– ⏑ – ⏑ – ⏑ –
θινα | και δυσ|ανεμ|οιꞈ‖
⏑ – ⏑ – ⏑ – ⏑ – ⏑ ⏗ –
στον⁝ῳ βρεμ|ουσιν | αντιπλ|ηγες | ακτ|αιꞈ‖
There are two periods:—
I II
⎛ 6 ⎛ 6
⎝ 6 ⎜ ⎰ 4
⎜ ⎛ ⎱ 4
⎜ ⎜ 6—mesode.
⎜ ⎜ ⎰ 4
⎜ ⎝ ⎱ 4
⎝ 6
To this the antistrophe of course corresponds, though here and there an
irrational long corresponds to a short (e.g. -εῑπε͐ι to ε̄ρπο̆ν); the
last syllable of πήματα is lengthened by the following φθ.
It should be noted that this scheme differs somewhat from that given
in Jebb’s edition of the _Antigone_ (pp. lxi. _sq._). One reader’s ear
differs from that of another: hence the frequent divergencies to be
observed between editors in the arrangement of many lyrics.
(_b_) The ancient writer Aristoxenus gives certain rules as to the
maximum length of cola. They may be stated as follows:—
(i) There are three types of colon, the equal, the unequal, and the
quinquepartite. The equal cola are the dipody of 1 + 1 feet, the
tetrapody of 2 + 2; the unequal are the tripody of 2 + 1, and the
hexapody of 4 + 2; the quinquepartite is the pentapody of 3 + 2.
(ii) Equal cola must not be of greater length than sixteen “shorts”.
Therefore we may have a dipody of any foot, and a tetrapody of any save
those of more than four shorts in value; that is (_e.g._) a dipody of
cretics (–⏑–) is allowed, but not a tetrapody of that foot, which would
give 5 × 4 = 20 “shorts”.
(iii) Unequal cola may have the length of eighteen “shorts”. A tripody,
therefore, of any foot is allowed, but a hexapody of trochees only: a
hexapody of spondees would give 4 × 6 = 24 “shorts”.
(iv) Quinquepartite cola may extend to the value of twenty-five “shorts”.
Pentapodies are therefore possible of trochees, dactyls, spondees and
five-time feet.
(_c_) Certain detailed hints may be added:—
(i) The tetrapody is the most frequent length, the pentapody the rarest.
(ii) The end of a colon is often indicated in dactyls by a spondee, in
trochees by a single long syllable (whether ⏗ or –ꞈ).
(iii) In any one period there is a tendency to conformity in length. If 6
+ 5 + 4 and 6 + 6 + 4 are _prima facie_ equally possible, the latter is
as a rule to be preferred. In spite of the difference in sum-total (6 +
6 + 4 = 16; 6 + 5 + 4 = 15), this question often arises, because of the
possibility of τονή. It has to be decided[884] whether (_e.g._) παντός at
the close of a colon is to be scanned as two feet or one:
⏗ –
παντ|οςꞈ‖
or
– ⏑
| παντος ‖.
* * * * *
It is now time to offer an account of the various feet used in lyrics.
(_a_) _Trochees._—With these we are now familiar. This foot is often
called a choree, chorees with anacrusis being iambi,[885] without
anacrusis trochees. The trochee is the most frequent foot in lyrics. Such
systems express ordinary strong interest. Whenever more definite emotion
is to be conveyed, either cyclic dactyls are introduced, or a change is
made to some other metre:—
Κολχίδος τε γᾶς ἔνοικοι
παρθένοι, μάχας ἄτρεστοι (_Prom. Vinctus_, 415).
–⏑|–⏑|–⏑|–⏑‖
–⏑|–⏑|–⏑|–⏑‖.
So in English:—
Then, upon one knee uprising,
Hiawatha aimed an arrow.—(Longfellow.)
Resolution into tribrachs is frequent:—
⏑ ⏑ ⏑ – ⏑ – ⏑ – ⏑
Αραβι|ας τ αρ|ειον | ανθος ‖ (_Prom. Vinctus_, 420).
Anacrusis is common.
(_b_) _Dactyls._—These are found pure, or mingled with spondees or
quasi-trochees (⏗⏑). They are often employed to express excitement and
awe:—
ὦ Διὸς ἁδυεπὲς φάτι, τίς ποτε τᾶς πολυχρύσου[886]
Πυθῶνος ἀγλάας ἔβας; (_Œd. Tyr._, 151).
–⏑⏑|–⏑⏑|–⏑⏑‖–⏑⏑|–⏑⏑|– –‖
–⁝⏗⏑|⏗⏑|⏗⏑|–ꞈ̄‖
Anacrusis is found, as in the second line above and in _Medea_, 635:—
– – ⏑ ⏑ – ⏑ ⏑ – – ⏗ – – – ⏗ ⏑ –
στεργ⁝οι δε με|σωφροσυν|α δωρ‖ημα | καλλιστ|ον θε|ωνꞈ̄‖.
The tetrapody without spondees or catalexis gives an exquisite heaving
effect in Soph. _Electra_, 147-9:—
ἀλλ’ ἐμέ γ’ ἁ στονόεσσ’ ἄραρεν φρένας,
ἃ Ἴτυν αἰὲν Ἴτυν ὀλοφύρεται,
ὄρνις ἀτυζομένα, Διὸς ἄγγελος.
Ariel’s lines in _The Tempest_ (V. i.):—
Merrily, merrily, shall I live now,
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough,
are dactylic tetrapodies with catalexis.
(_c_) _Spondees._—It is not certain that these are used as a base, though
as a variant in anapæstic and dactylic metre they are common. _Iph.
Taur._, 123-5, may be taken as spondees:—
εὐφαμεῖτ’ ὦ
πόντου δισσὰς συγχωρούσας
πέτρας Ἀξείνου ναίοντες.
– –|– –|
– –|– –|– –|– –|
– –|– –|– –|– –|
But they may be quasi-anapæsts, the whole passage which they introduce
being an anapæstic entrance-march, though heavily spondaic. _Ion_, 125-7:
ὦ Παιάν, ὦ Παιάν,
εὐαίων, εὐαίων
εἴης, ὦ Λατοῦς παῖ,
is scanned by Dr. J. H. H. Schmidt as molossi, a molossus being – – –.
Spondaic systems are scarcely to be found in English.[887]
(_d_) _Cretics._—This foot (–⏑–) is rare; it generally expresses piteous
agitation:—
φρόντισον, καὶ γενοῦ πανδίκως
εὐσεβὴς πρόξενος·
τὰν φυγάδα μὴ προδῷς,
τὰν ἕκαθεν ἐκβολαῖς
δυσθέοις ὀρμέναν (Æsch., _Supplices_, 418 _sqq._).
–⏑–|–⏑–|–⏑–‖
–⏑–|–⏑–‖
–⏑⏑⏑|–⏑–‖
–⏑⏑⏑|–⏑–‖
–⏑–|–⏑–‖
Few cretics are found in English, though Tennyson’s brief poem _The Oak_
is written entirely in this metre, _e.g._:—
All his leaves
Fall’n at length,
Look, he stands,
Trunk and bough,
Naked strength.
Most English verse of cretic appearance is shown by the context to be
trochaic with alternate τονή. So in _A Midsummer Nights Dream_, II. i.:—
Over hill, over dale,
Thorough bush, thorough brier,
Over park, over pale,
Thorough flood, thorough fire,
which is followed by
I do | wander | every|where ꞈ |
Swifter | than the | moones | sphere ꞈ | etc.
We are forbidden to view the Greek cretics given above in the same
way, by the resolved feet. If we scan φρόντισον καὶ γενοῦ πανδίκως
as –⏑|⏗|–⏑|⏗|–⏑|–ꞈ‖, this method will give us in the fourth line
–⏑|⏑⏑|–⏑|–‖, where the second foot is impossible. ⏑⏑ can take the place
of –, but never of ⏗.
(_e_) _Bacchiacs._—This curious foot consists of – –⏑, the system being
invariably introduced by anacrusis. Bacchiacs are regularly associated
with dochmiacs (see below). They express strong emotion, generally
mingled with perplexity or vacillation; resolved feet are therefore often
found:—
τίς ἀχώ, τίς ὀδμά
προσέπτα μ’ ἀφεγγής; (_Prom. Vinctus_, 115).
⏑⁝– –⏑|– –ꞈ‖
⏑⁝– –⏑|– –ꞈ‖.
στενάζω; τί ῥέξω; γελῶμαι πολίταις.
ἔπαθον ὦ δύσοιστα (_Eumenides_, 788 _sq._).
⏑⁝– –⏑|– –⏑‖– –⏑|– –ꞈ‖
⏑⁝⏑⏑–⏑|– –ꞈ‖.
Ye storm-winds of Autumn!
Who rush by, who shake
The window, and ruffle
The gleam-lighted lake.—(M. Arnold.)
⏑⁝– –⏑|– –ꞈ‖
⏑⁝– –⏑|–⏗̭‖
⏑⁝– –⏑|– –ꞈ‖
⏑⁝– –⏑|–⏗̭‖.
But it should be noted that, though bacchiac scansion seems soundest for
the above—“storm-winds” for instance has two ictuses—the poet probably
meant the lines for dactylic dipodies with anacrusis: “storm-winds of”
thus would be an accentual dactyl. But that would slur “winds” unduly.
(_f_) _Ionics._—These are formed by – –⏑⏑. When anacrusis is found—the
usual form—the foot is often called _Ionicus a minore_ (_i.e._ ⏑⏑– –);
otherwise it is called _Ionicus a maiore_:—
κυανοῦν δ’ ὄμμασι λεύσσων φονίου δέργμα δράκοντος
πολύχειρ καὶ πολυναύτας Σύριόν θ’ ἅρμα διώκων (_Persæ_, 81 _sq._).
⏑⏑⁝– –⏑⏑|– –⏑⏑‖– –⏑⏑|– –ꞈ̄‖.
A strange variant is ⏑–⏑–; the variation is called “anaclasis”
(“breaking-up”). Thus the above passage proceeds—
ἐπάγει δουρικλύτοις ἀνδράσι τοξόδαμνον Ἄρη.
⏑⏑⁝– –⏑⏑|– –⏑⏑‖–⏑–⏑|–ꞈ̄‖.
Ionics are employed to express strong excitement governed by confident
courage. The first lyric of the _Persæ_ begins with a splendid example.
It is sung by the Persian counsellors in expectation of Xerxes’ triumph,
and makes a strong contrast with the piteous rhythms of the close. This
poem should be studied carefully in comparison with another in the same
metre—the opening of the first chorus in the _Bacchæ_ (vv. 64 _sqq._):—
Ἀσίας ἀπὸ γαίας
ἱερὸν Τμῶλον ἀμείψασα θοάζω
Βρομίῳ πόνον ἡδύν
κάματόν τ’ εὐκάματον, Βάκχιον εὐαζομένα.
τίς ὁδῷ; τίς ὁδῷ; τίς μελάθροις; ἔκτοπος ἔστω,
στόμα τ’ εὔφημον ἅπας ἐξοσιούσθω·
τὰ νομισθέντα γὰρ ἀεὶ Διόνυσον ὑμνήσω.
⏑⏑⁝⏘⏑⏑|– –ꞈ̄‖
⏑⏑⁝– –⏑⏑|– –⏑⏑|– –ꞈ̄‖
⏑⏑⁝⏘⏑⏑|– –ꞈ̄〛
⏑⏑⁝– –⏑⏑|– –⏑⏑|– –⏑⏑|⏘ꞈ̄〛
⏑⏑⁝⏘⏑⏑|– –⏑⏑|– –⏑⏑|– –ꞈ̄‖
⏑⏑⁝– –⏑⏑|– –⏑⏑|– –ꞈ̄‖
⏑⏑⁝– –⏑⏑|– –⏑⏑|–⏑–˃|⏘ꞈ̄〛
I
⎛ 2
⎜ 3—mesode.
⎝ 2
II
⎛ 2
⎝ 2
III
⎰ 2
⎛ ⎱ 2
⎜ 3—mesode
⎝ ⎰ 2
⎱ 2
This song of the Bacchantes, like that of the Persians, expresses both
excitement and confidence; both are magnificent, and the _metre_ is the
same. But the difference is unmistakable; it lies in the _rhythm_. In
Æschylus the practically unvaried rhythm and the gorgeous language give
to such a passage as πολύχειρ καὶ πολυναύτας Σύριόν θ’ ἅρμα διώκων an
almost intolerable weight and austere pomp. Euripides, by use of the
doubly-lengthened syllable, by varying the extent of his cola, and by
the irrationality of the penultimate foot, has, within the limits of the
same metre, produced a sense of exotic beauty and urgency, a thrill of
wildness as well as of awe.
(_g_) _Choriambics._—These consist of –⏑⏑–. Anacrusis is not found:—
δεινὰ μὲν οὖν, δεινὰ ταράσσει σοφὸς οἰωνοθέτας
οὔτε δοκοῦντ’ οὔτ’ ἀποφάσκονθ’· ὅτι λέξω δ’ ἀπορῶ (_Œd. Tyr._,
483 _sq._).
–⏑⏑–|–⏑⏑–‖–⏑⏑–|–⏑⏑–‖
–⏑⏑–|–⏑⏑–‖–⏑⏑–|–⏑⏑–‖
This measure expresses great agitation and perplexity. In the passage
just cited they pass into ionics, which indicate a gradual comparative
calming of mind. For example, the antistrophe reads:—
ἀλλ’ ὁ μὲν οὖν Ζεὺς ὅ τ’ Ἀπόλλων συνετοὶ καὶ τὰ βροτῶν
εἰδότες· ἀνδρῶν δ’ ὅτι μάντις πλέον ἢ ’γω φέρεται
κρίσις οὐκ ἔστιν ἀληθής· σοφίᾳ δ’ ἂν σοφίαν
παραμείψειεν ἀνήρ.
–⏑⏑–|–⏑⏑–‖–⏑⏑–|–⏑⏑–‖
–⏑⏑–|–⏑⏑–‖–⏑⏑–|–⏑⏑–‖
⏑⏑⁝– –⏑⏑|– –⏑⏑‖– –⏑⏑|⏘ꞈ̄‖
⏑⏑⁝– –⏑⏑|⏘ꞈ̄‖.
The late Rupert Brooke left some exquisite _Experiments_ in this metre,
_e.g._:—
Ah! Not now, when desire burns, and the wind calls, and the suns of
spring
Light-foot dance in the woods, whisper of life, woo me to wayfaring.
That is—
⏗⏗|–⏑⏑–|–⏑⏑–‖–⏑⏑–|⏗⏗‖
(_h_) _Dochmiacs._—It is convenient to discuss these here, though the
dochmius is not a foot, but a colon. The rule both of metre and music
is that all feet or bars should have the same time-value; a trochaic
colon may contain ⏗ or ᷋⏑ as well as –⏑, but not –⏑⏑. Dochmiacs are
generally regarded as an exception to this rule. The dochmius is a colon
of which the simplest form[888] is ⏑– –⏑–, to be divided ⏑⁝– –⏑|–ꞈ||,
_e.g._ κακορρημόνων. The dochmius is always catalectic, but the anacrusis
of one serves to complete the trochee of the preceding colon:—
φανήτω μόρων ὁ κάλλιστ’ ἐμῶν
ἐμοὶ τερμίαν ἄγων ἁμέραν (_Antigone_, 1329 _sq._).
⏑⁝– –⏑|–⏑‖– –⏑|–ꞈ‖.
But this simplest form is not the most frequent, and a considerable
sequence is rare. Resolution of one or more long syllables is very
common. The favourite form is ⏑⁝⏑⏑–⏑|–ꞈ‖:—
περίβαλον γάρ οἱ πτεροφόρον δέμας (_Agamemnon_, 1147).
⏑⁝⏑⏑–⏑|–⏑‖⏑⏑–⏑|–ꞈ‖
This metre is frequent in passages of lamentation, and as these are
extremely numerous the dochmiac measure is one of the most important.
It is also perhaps the most difficult, because of the many varieties
admitted. In all, twenty-two[889] forms are said to be found, though
several of these are rare; this great number is due to resolution and
irrational long syllables. Thus—
ἰὼ σκότου
νέφος ἐμὸν ἀπότροπον, ἐπιπλόμενον ἄφατον
ἀδάματόν τε καὶ δυσούριστον ὄν (_Œd. Tyr._, 1313).
⏑⁝⏘⏑|–ꞈ‖
⏑⁝⏑⏑⏑⏑⏑|⏑⏑⏑‖⏑⏑⏑⏑⏑|⏑⏑ꞈ‖
⏑⁝⏑⏑–⏑|–⏑‖– –⏑|–ꞈ‖.
The second line of course would by itself have no rhythm at all, being
so completely broken to pieces, in order to express the extreme limit of
agitation possible in articulate speech. But it gains rhythm from the
clearer lines of the context. The antistrophe shows a further variety—an
irrational syllable in the last line:—
ἰὼ φίλος,
σὺ μὲν ἐμὸς ἐπίπολος ἔτι μόνιμος· ἔτι γάρ
ὑπομένεις με τὸν τυφλὸν κηδεύων.
(κηδευ͐ων). Evidently it is important to accustom one’s ear thoroughly to
the basic form ⏑– –⏑– and to ⏑⏑⏑–⏑–. Another instance may be of use:—
ἆρα πύλαι κλῄθροις χαλκόδετ’ ἔμβολά τε
λαϊνέοισιν Ἀμφίονος ὀργάνοις
τείχεος ἥρμοσται; (_Phœnissæ_, 114 _sqq._).
˃⁝⏑⏑–˃|–˃‖⏑⏑–⏑|⏑⏑ꞈ‖
⏑⁝⏑⏑–⏑|–˃‖⏑⏑–⏑|–ꞈ‖
˅⁝⏑⏑–˃|–ꞈ‖.
The last division of our subject is the different types of period, the
various ways in which cola are combined and correspond. It should be
noted that a colon with anacrusis can correspond to one without; so of
catalexis and τονή.
(i) The simplest form is the _stichic_ (στίχος “a row”), in which the
cola are of the same length. The scheme
⎧ _a_ ⎧ 2 ⎧ 4 ⎧ 6 ⎧ _a_
is ⎨ —that is ⎨ or ⎨ or ⎨ , etc.—or ⎨ _a_ and so forth:
⎩ _a_ ⎩ 2 ⎩ 4 ⎩ 6 ⎩ _a_
πᾶς γὰρ ἱππηλάτας
καὶ πεδοστιβὴς λεώς (_Persæ_, 126 _sq._).
–⏑|⏗|–⏑|–ꞈ‖
–⏑|–⏑|–⏑|–ꞈ〛.
Where correspondence is indicated by
⎛ 4
⎝ 4.
It makes no difference that ⏗ is answered by –⏑ in the second foot.
(ii) To the stichic corresponds the _palinodic_ period (παλινῳδία,
“repetition”), in which not a single colon but a group of cola is
repeated so far as length is concerned:—
μείξουσιν ἢ πρὸς Πυθίαις ἢ λαμπάσιν ἀκταῖς,
οὗ πότνιαι σεμνὰ τιθηνοῦνται τέλη (_Œd. Col._, 1047 _sq._).
–⁝⏗⏑|– –|⏗⏑|– –‖–⏑⏑|– –‖
–⁝⏗⏑|⏘|–⏑⏑|– –‖⏗⏑|–ꞈ̄‖
⎰ 4 ⎞
⎛ ⎱ 2 ⎟ ⎞
⎝ ⎰ 4 ⎠ ⎟
⎱ 2 ⎠
This type of period is frequent in English poetry, where the use of rhyme
and the absence of τονή make the cola perfectly plain, _e.g._:—
Love still has something of the sea
From whence his Mother rose;
No time his slaves from care sets free,
Or gives their hearts repose.—(Sedley.)
⎰ 4 ⎞
⎛ ⎱ 3 ⎟ ⎞
⎝ ⎰ 4 ⎠ ⎟
⎱ 3 ⎠
(iii) _Antithetic_ periods are formed by the inverted repetition whether
of different cola or of different groups of cola.
(_a_) The simplest type is that in which a series of ungrouped cola is
repeated in inverse order:—
διανταίαν λέγεις δόμοισι καί
σώμασιν πεπλαγμέναν
ἀναυδάτῳ μένει
ἀραίῳ τ’ ἐκ πατρὸς διχόφρονι πότμῳ (_Septem_, 895 _sqq._).
⏑⁝⏗|⏗|–⏑|–⏑|–⏑|–ꞈ‖
–⏑|–⏑|–⏑|–ꞈ‖
⏑⁝⏗|⏗|–⏑|–ꞈ‖
⏑⁝⏗|⏗|–⏑|–⏑|–⏑⏑|–˃〛.
6 ⎞
4 ⎞ ⎟
4 ⎠ ⎟
6 ⎠
(_b_) In a similar manner groups may be repeated antithetically.
Each group retains its internal order; hence such periods are called
“palinodic-antithetic”:—
δι’ αἰῶνος μακροῦ πάνολβον·
ἔνθεν πᾶσα βοᾷ χθών,
“φυσιζόου γένος τόδε Ζηνός ἐστιν ἀληθῶς·
τίς γὰρ ἂν κατέπαυσεν Ἥρας νόσους ἐπιβούλους;”
Διὸς τόδ’ ἔργον καὶ τόδ’ ἂν γένος λέγων
ἐξ Ἐπάφου κυρήσαις (Æsch., _Supplices_, 582 _sqq._).
⏑⁝⏗|⏗|–⏑|–⏑|⏗|–ꞈ‖
–˃|–⏑⏑|⏗|–ꞈ‖
⏑⁝–⏑|–⏑|–⏑|⏗‖–⏑|–⏑⏑|⏗|–ꞈ‖
–⏑|–⏑⏑|–⏑|⏗‖–⏑|–⏑⏑|⏗|–ꞈ‖
⏑⁝–⏑|–˃|–⏑|–⏑|–⏑|–ꞈ‖
–⏑⏑|–⏑|⏗|–ꞈ〛.
⎰ 6 ⎞
⎛ ⎱ 4 ⎟ ⎞
⎜ ⎰ 4 ⎞ ⎟ ⎟
⎜ ⎛ ⎱ 4 ⎟ ⎞ ⎟ ⎟
⎜ ⎝ ⎰ 4 ⎠ ⎟ ⎟ ⎟
⎜ ⎱ 4 ⎠ ⎟ ⎟
⎝ ⎰ 6 ⎠ ⎟
⎱ 4 ⎠
(iv) Any of the three periods just described, the stichic, the palinodic,
the antithetic (whether simple or palinodic-antithetic) may be “mesodic,”
that is, it may be grouped round a central colon (the mesode), to which
no colon corresponds, save of course the mesode of the other _strophe_.
The schemes, then, are:—
(_a_) Stichic-mesodic.
_a_ ⎞
_x_ ⎟
_a_ ⎠
(_b_) Palinodic-mesodic.
⎰ _a_ ⎞
⎛ ⎱ _b_ ⎟ ⎞
⎜ _x_ ⎟ ⎟
⎝ ⎰ _a_ ⎠ ⎟
⎱ _b_ ⎠
(_c_) Antithetic-mesodic.
_a_ ⎞
_b_ ⎞ ⎟
_x_ ⎟ ⎟
_b_ ⎠ ⎟
_a_ ⎠
(_d_) Palinodic-antithetic-mesodic.
⎰ _a_ ⎞
⎛ ⎱ _b_ ⎟ ⎞
⎜ ⎰ _c_ ⎞ ⎟ ⎟
⎜ ⎛ ⎱ _d_ ⎟ ⎞ ⎟ ⎟
⎜ ⎜ _x_ ⎟ ⎟ ⎟ ⎟
⎜ ⎝ ⎰ _c_ ⎠ ⎟ ⎟ ⎟
⎜ ⎱ _d_ ⎠ ⎟ ⎟
⎝ ⎰ _a_ ⎠ ⎟
⎱ _b_ ⎠
(_a_) The stichic-mesodic:—
ἀμηχανῶ φροντίδος στερηθείς
εὐπάλαμον μέριμναν
ὅπα τράπωμαι, πίτνοντος οἴκου (_Agamemnon_, 1530 _sqq._).
⏑⁝–⏑|⏗|–⏑|–⏑|⏗|–ꞈ‖
–⏑⏑|–⏑|⏗|–ꞈ‖
⏑⁝–⏑|⏗|–⏑|–⏑|⏗|–ꞈ‖.
6 ⎞
4 ⎟
6 ⎠
(_b_) The palinodic-mesodic:—
ἐμοὶ χρῆν συμφοράν,
ἐμοὶ χρῆν πημονὰν γενέσθαι,
Ἰδαίαν ὅτε πρῶτον ὕλαν
Ἀλέξανδρος εἰλατίναν
ἐτάμεθ’, ἅλιον ἐπ’ οἶδμα ναυστολήσων (_Hecuba_, 629 _sqq._).
⏑⁝⏗|⏗|–⏑|–ꞈ‖
⏑⁝⏗|⏗|–⏑|–⏑|⏗|–ꞈ‖
–˃|–⏑⏑|–⏑|–˃‖
⏑⁝⏗|–⏑|–⏑⏑|–ꞈ‖
⏑⁝⏑⏑⏑|⏑⏑⏑|–⏑|–⏑|⏗|–ꞈ‖.
⎰ 4 ⎞
⎛ ⎱ 6 ⎞ ⎟
⎜ 4 ⎟ ⎟
⎝ ⎰ 4 ⎟ ⎠
⎱ 6 ⎠
(_c_) The antithetic-mesodic:—
σύ τοι σύ τοι κατηξίωσας,
ὦ βαρύποτμε, κοὐκ
ἄλλοθεν ἔχει τύχᾳ
τᾶδ’ ἀπὸ μείζονος·
εὖτέ γε παρὸν φρονῆσαι ... (_Philoctetes_, 1095 _sqq._).
⏑⁝–⏑|–⏑|–⏑|–⏑‖
–⏑|⏑⏑⏑|–ꞈ‖
˃⁝⏑⏑⏑|–⏑|–ꞈ‖
–⏑⏑|–⏑|–ꞈ‖
˃⁝⏑⏑⏑|–⏑|⏗|–ꞈ‖.
4 ⎞
3 ⎞ ⎟
3 ⎟ ⎟
3 ⎠ ⎟
4 ⎠
(_d_) The palinodic-antithetic-mesodic:—
μή μοι μὴ προδίδου·
μόνος μόνῳ κόμιζε πορθμίδος σκάφος.
χαιρέτω μὲν αὖλις ἥδε, χαιρέτω δὲ θυμάτων
ἀποβώμιος[890] ἃν ἔχει θυσίαν
Κύκλωψ Αἰτναῖος ξενικῶν κρέων κεχαρμένος βορᾷ.
νηλής, ὦ τλᾶμον
ὅστις δωμάτων ἐφεστίους ... (_Cyclops_, 351 _sqq._).[891]
–˃|–⏑⏑|–ꞈ‖
⏑⁝–⏑|–⏑|–⏑|–⏑|–⏑|–ꞈ‖
–⏑|–⏑|–⏑|–⏑‖–⏑|–⏑|–⏑|–ꞈ‖
ω⁝–⏑⏑|–⏑|–⏑⏑|–ꞈ‖
–˃|–˃|–⏑⏑|–⏑‖–⏑|–⏑|–⏑|–ꞈ‖
–˃|–˃|–ꞈ‖
⏗|⏗|–⏑|–⏑|–⏑|–ꞈ〛.
⎰ 3 ⎞
⎛ ⎱ 6 ⎟ ⎞
⎜ ⎛ ⎰ 4 ⎞ ⎟ ⎟
⎜ ⎜ ⎱ 4 ⎟ ⎞ ⎟ ⎟
⎜ ⎜ 4 ⎟ ⎟ ⎟ ⎟
⎜ ⎜ ⎰ 4 ⎠ ⎟ ⎟ ⎟
⎜ ⎝ ⎱ 4 ⎠ ⎟ ⎟
⎜ ⎰ 3 ⎠ ⎟
⎝ ⎱ 6 ⎠
Most of the periodic structures which have been described are by no means
obvious to the ear. A trained sense of rhythm, attention to quantity,
and careful practice, will reduce the difficulties. But in any case
Greek periods are far less easy to grasp than English. Their variety
and length, the frequent occurrence of prolongation, resolution, and
irrational syllables, the possibility of preludes or postludes—all these
are formidable to modern students, who lack the help of the music. We may
perhaps work out the period with ease on paper, but our ear often cannot
appreciate the balance and contour of the whole as it can in English
lyrics, where we have the immense assistance of a rhyme-scheme. But it
is no sound deduction that the study of Greek lyric metre and rhythm is
therefore useless. We cannot always hear the period—that is a question of
music; but we can always hear the colon—that is a question of language.
To utter the cola correctly is easy after a little practice; and it is
these “sentences” which, by their own internal rhythmical nature and by
the identities or contrasts existing between them, reinforce and more
pungently articulate the sense of the words wherefrom they are moulded.
FOOTNOTES
[1] See Haigh, _The Tragic Drama of the Greeks_, pp. 19 _sq._
[2] It arose in a similar fashion to tragedy, from the phallic songs to
Dionysus at his winter festival.
[3] τί ταῦτα πρὸς τὸν Διόνυσον; (Plutarch, _Symposiaca_, 615 A).
[4] Pp. 39-41.
[5] These first paragraphs give a summary of the view almost universally
held as to the origin of Greek tragedy. Of late, however, Professor Sir
William Ridgeway (_The Origin of Tragedy, with Special Reference to
the Greek Tragedians_, Cambridge, 1910) has combated current beliefs
with great vigour. His belief is (p. 186) “that Tragedy arose in the
worship of the dead, and that the only Dionysiac element in the Drama
was the satyric play”. Aristotle’s evidence (see p. 4) he dismisses as
mistaken, because “Aristotle was only interested in Tragedy as a fully
developed art, and paid little heed to its early history” (p. 57). The
present writer is bound to confess that, after following and estimating
to the best of his ability the numerous and heterogeneous statements put
forward in evidence, he cannot regard Professor Ridgeway’s contention
as proved. It is undoubtedly true that many extant tragedies centre
more or less vitally upon a tomb, but many do not. The mimetic ritual
in honour of the slain Scephrus (p. 37) is real evidence, so far as it
goes; but the utmost it proves is that Greek tragedy _could_ have arisen
from such funeral performances—it does not show that it did. The most
remarkable point in the book is the discussion of the well-known passage
in Herodotus (V, 67): τά τε δὴ ἄλλα οἱ Σικυώνιοι ἐτίμων τὸν Ἄδρηστον καὶ
δὴ πρὸς τὰ πάθεα αὐτοῦ τραγικοῖσι χοροῖσι ἐγέραιρον, τὸν μὴν Διόνυσον οὐ
τιμέωντες, τὸν δὲ Ἄδρηστον. Κλεισθένης δὲ χοροὺς μὲν τῷ Διονύσῳ ἀπέδωκε,
τὴν δὲ ἄλλην θυσίην Μελανίππῳ (see Ridgeway, p. 28): “The men of Sicyon
paid honours to Adrastus, and in particular they revered him with tragic
choruses because of his sufferings, herein honouring not Dionysus, but
Adrastus. Cleisthenes gave the choruses to Dionysus, and the rest of the
offering to Melanippus.” It may well be that Professor Ridgeway is right
in asserting that ἀπέδωκε means not “restored” but “gave”—that is, these
tragic choruses were originally of the funereal kind which he suggests
for all primitive Greek tragedy. This is excellent evidence for his
contention, so far as it goes, but it only proves one example. Herodotus’
words, on the other hand, imply that he believed tragedy to be normally
Dionysiac. To sum up, we cannot regard Professor Ridgeway as having
succeeded in damaging the traditional view.
[6] Aristotle, _Poetic_, 1448_a_: διὸ καὶ ἀντιποιοῦνται τῆς τε τραγῳδίας
καὶ τῆς κωμῳδίας οἱ Δωριεῖς.
[7] _Ol._, XIII, 18 _sq._: ταὶ Διωνύσου πόθεν ἐξέφανεν σὺν βοηλάτᾳ
χάριτες διθυράμβῳ; _i.e._ as the context shows, the dithyramb appeared
first at Corinth.
[8] α for η, and sometimes -ᾶν as the inflexion of the feminine genitive
plural.
[9] _Poetic_, 1449_a_: γενομένη δ’ οὖν ἀπ’ ἀρχῆς αὐτοσχεδιαστική ... ἀπὸ
τῶν ἐξαρχόντων τὸν διθύραμβον ... κατὰ μικρὸν ηὐξήθη προαγόντων ὅσον
ἐγίγνετο φανερὸν αὐτῆς, καὶ πολλὰς μεταβολὰς μεταβαλοῦσα ἡ τραγῳδία
ἐπαύσατο, ἐπεὶ ἔσχε τὴν αὐτῆς φύσιν. καὶ τό τε τῶν ὑποκριτῶν πλῆθος ἐξ
ἑνὸς εἰς δύο πρῶτος Αἰσχύλος ἤγαγε καὶ τὰ τοῦ χοροῦ ἠλάττωσε καὶ τὸν
λόγον πρωταγωνιστὴν παρεσκεύασεν, τρεῖς δὲ καὶ σκηνογραφίαν Σοφοκλῆς.
ἔτι δὲ τὰ μέγεθος ἐκ μικρῶν μύθων καὶ λέξεως γελοίας διὰ τὸ ἐκ σατυρικοῦ
μεταβαλεῖν ὀψὲ ἀπεσεμνύνθη. τό τε μέτρον ἐκ τετραμέτρου ἰαμβεῖον ἐγένετο·
τὸ μὲν γὰρ πρῶτον τετραμέτρῳ ἐχρῶντο διὰ τὸ σατυρικὴν καὶ ὀρχηστικωτέραν
εἶναι τὴν ποίησιν ... ἔτι δὲ ἐπεισοδίων πλήθη. καὶ τὰ ἄλλ’ ὡς ἕκαστα
κοσμηθῆναι λέγεται.... Here and elsewhere, in quoting from the _Poetic_,
I borrow Butcher’s admirable translation.
[10] These narratives and conversations were naturally regarded as
interruptions in the main business, and this feeling is marked by the
name always given to the “acts” of a play, ἐπεισόδια (“episodia”), _i.e._
“interventions” or “interruptions”.
[11] The text of the treatise is, however, incomplete. The author of the
pseudo-Platonic _Minos_ (321 A) speaks of the current belief that Thespis
was the originator of tragedy.
[12] This is a mere name for a really anonymous collection of information
on philosophical and other history.
[13] _Ars Poetica_, 275-7.
[14] _Poetic_, 1449_a_.
[15] βασιλεὺς ἦν Χοίριλος ἐν σατύροις (Plotius, _De Metris_, p. 2633,
quoted by Haigh, _Tragic Drama_, p. 40).
[16] _Frogs_, 689: εἴ τις ἥμαρτε σφαλείς τι Φρυνίχου παλαίσμασιν. The
allusion in the first instance points undoubtedly to the famous _general_
Phrynichus; but his political machinations are jokingly referred to as a
“wrestling-bout” because of the celebrated description in his namesake
the playwright.
[17] Herod. VI, 21.
[18] _Wasps_, 220 (μέλη ἀρχαιομελισιδωνοφρυνιχήρατα).
[19] _Birds_, 748-51, reading ὥσπερ ἡ μέλιττα.
[20] λάμπει δ’ ἐπὶ πορφυρέαις παρῇσι φῶς ἔρωτος. Notice the exquisite
alliteration. Sophocles no doubt had this line in mind when he wrote
_Antigone_ 782.
[21] The writer of the Argument to the _Persæ_ says: Γλαῦκος ἐν τοῖς περὶ
Αἰσχύλου μύθων ἐκ τῶν Φοινίσσων Φρυνίχου φησὶ τοὺς Πέρσας παραπεποιῆσθαι.
The late Dr. Verrall (_The Bacchantes of Euripides and Other Essays_, pp.
283-308) believed that not only is the _Persæ_ modelled on the _Phœnissæ_
but _Æschylus_ incorporated a large portion of Phrynichus’ play with
little change (_Persæ_ vv. 480-514 especially).
[22] By M. Croiset, _Hist. de la Litt. grecque_, III, p. 49.
[23] This is asserted by his epitaph:—
Αἴσχυλον Εὐφορίωνος Ἀθηναῖον τόδε κεύθει
μνῆμα καταφθίμενον πυροφόροιο Γέλας,
ἀλκὴν δ’ εὐδόκιμον Μαραθώνιον ἄλσος ἂν εἴποι
καὶ βαθυχαιτήεις Μῆδος ἐπιστάμενος.
These verses are said to come from the pen of Æschylus himself. For once
such tradition appears to be true. No forger would have had the audacity
to omit all reference to the plays.
[24] This, however, is certainly stated by Aristotle (_Nic. Ethics_,
1111_a_). On the other hand, Æschylus says in the _Frogs_ (886); Δήμητερ,
ἡ θρέψασα τὴν ἐμὴν φρένα, εἶναί με τῶν σῶν ἄξιον μυστηρίων.
[25] Aristotle, Poetic, 1449_a_.
[26] The following plays were performed with two actors only: of
Æschylus, _Supplices_, _Prometheus_, _Persæ_, _Seven against Thebes_; of
Euripides, _Medea_, and perhaps _Alcestis_.
[27] By Plutarch, _Life of Cimon_, VIII. Haigh (_The Tragic Drama of the
Greeks_, p. 128²) gives good reasons for rejecting the story.
[28] One of these occasions was that on which he presented the _Œdipus
Tyrannus_.
[29] A fragment of Ion’s Ἐπιδημίαι remarks: τὰ μέντοι πολιτικὰ οὔτε σοφὸς
οὔτε ῥεκτήριος ἦν, ἀλλ’ ὡς ἄν τις εἷς τῶν χρηστῶν Ἀθηναίων.
[30] Aristophanes, too, in the _Frogs_ (v. 82), bears witness to his
charm: ὁ δ’ εὔκολος μὲν ἐνθάδ’, εὔκολος δ’ ἐκεῖ· “Sophocles, on the other
hand, is gentle here (_i.e._ in Hades) as he was in life.”
[31] _Œd. Col_. 1225-8.
[32] _Poetic_, 1460_b_: Σοφοκλῆς ἔφη αὐτὸς μὲν οἵους δεῖ ποιεῖν,
Εὐριπίδην δὲ οἷοι εἰσίν.
[33] Plutarch, _De Profectu in Virtute_, 79 B: ὁ Σοφοκλῆς ἔλεγε, τὸν
Αἰσχύλου διαπεπαιχὼς ὄγκον, εἶτα τὸ πικρὸν καὶ κατάτεχνον τῆς αὐτοῦ
κατασκευῆς, τρίτον ἤδη τὸ τῆς λέξεως μεταβάλλειν εἶδος ὅπερ ἐστὶν
ἠθικώτατον καὶ βέλτιστον.
[34] See Haigh, _Tragic Drama_, p. 162.
[35] Aristotle, _Poetic_, 1449_a_.
[36] Suidas (_s.v._ Σοφοκλῆς): καὶ αὐτὸς ἦρξε τοῦ δρᾶμα πρὸς δρᾶμα
ἀγωνίζεσθαι, ἀλλὰ μὴ τετραλογίαν.
[37] In the Anonymous _Life_.
[38] See Haigh, _Attic Tragedy_, pp. 139 _sq._, where this excellent
point is made.
[39] The most celebrated is the description of the sun as a “clod”
(_Orestes_, 983). _Alcestis_, 904 _sqq._, may very possibly refer to the
death of Anaxagoras’ son.
[40] XV, 20.
[41] A passage in his _Life_ suggests that he was indifferent to the
strictly “theatrical” side of his profession: οὐδεμίαν φιλοτιμίαν περὶ
τὰ θέατρα ποιούμενος· διὸ τοσοῦτον αὐτὸν ἔβλαπτε τοῦτο ὅσον ὠφέλει τὸν
Σοφοκλέα.
[42] _Oxyrhynchus Papyri_, Vol. IX, pp. 124-82.
[43] Pp. 29 _sq._
[44] ἀκριβῶς ὅλως περιείληφεν τὸν Ἀναξαγόρειον διάκοσμον ἐν τρισὶν
περιόδοις.
[45] Aristotle, _Poetic_, 1452_b_.
[46] Not all. The elegance of his iambic style excited Aristophanes’
admiration: indeed he confessed to imitating it, and the great Cratinus
invented a significant compound verb εὐριπιδαριστοφανίζειν. See Meineke,
_Frag. Comicorum Græcorum_, II, 1142.
[47] _Frogs_, v. 1122: ἀσαφὴς γὰρ ἦν ἐν τῇ φράσει τῶν πραγμάτων.
[48] vv. 846-54.
[49] vv. 518-44.
[50] _Frogs_, 939 _sqq._
[51] _Ibid._ 948 _sqq._
[52] _Ibid._ 959: σύνεσμεν may recall Grant Allen’s famous sentence about
taking Hedda Gabler down to dinner.
[53] Of these three points the first two come from Suidas (under the
article Νεόφρων), the third from the argument to the extant _Medea_: τὸ
δρᾶμα δοκεῖ ὑποβαλέσθαι τὰ Νεόφρονος διασκευάσας, ὡς Δικαίαρχός τε περὶ
τοῦ Ἑλλάδος βίου καὶ Ἀριστοτέλης ἐν ὑπομνήμασι.
[54] vv. 1211-6.
[55] There is good reason to suppose that what we possess is a second
version. The scholiast on Aristophanes mentions passages as parodies of
lines in the _Medea_ which we no longer read there.
[56] In his ὑπομνήματα, quoted by the Argument to the _Medea_.
[57] πρῶτος εἰς τὸ νῦν μῆκος τὰ δράματα κατέστησεν.
[58] Unless we except the _Rhesus_ (996 lines).
[59] The original form of it seems to have been:—
ὥστ’ οὐχ ὑπάρχων ἀλλὰ τιμωρούμενος
ἀγωνιοῦμαι.
[60] The name is not certain. The book is variously called ὑπομνήματα
(“notes”), ἐπιδημίαι (“visits”), and συνεκδημητικός. The first is not a
“name”—it merely describes the book. The second was explained by Bentley
to mean “accounts of the visits to our island of Chios by distinguished
strangers”. The third could mean something like “traveller’s companion”.
[61] Plutarch (_De Profectu in Virtute_, 79 E), no doubt quoting from
Ion, tells us that at a critical moment in a boxing match Æschylus nudged
Ion and said: “You see what a difference training makes? The man who has
received the blow is silent, while the spectators cry aloud.”
[62] Plutarch, _Pericles_, Chap. V.
[63] v. 835. To the scholium on this line we owe much of our information
about Ion.
[64] One of them bears the curious title “Great Play” (μέγα δρᾶμα), but
nothing is known of it.
[65] _Frogs_, 1425.
[66] XXXIII, 5 (Prof. Rhys Roberts’ translation).
[67] Diog. Laert. II, 133.
[68] Croiset III, p. 400 (n.), thus explains the strange words of Suidas,
ἐπεδείκνυτο δὲ κοινῇ σὺν καὶ Εὐριπίδῃ.
[69] Haigh, _Tragic Drama of the Greeks_, p. 409.
[70] Ath. X, 451 C.
[71] Aristotle, _Poetic_, 1451_b_.
[72] _Ibid._ 1456_a_ (Butcher’s translation).
[73] Plutarch, _Symposiaca_, 645 E.
[74] _Thesm._ 100: μύρμηκος ἀτραπούς.
[75] Aristotle, _Poetic_, 1456_a_.
[76] _Ibid._
[77] _Ibid._
[78] Such a sentence as that of M. Orgon in _Le jeu de l’amour et du
hasard_ (I, ii.): “Va, dans ce monde, il faut être un peu trop bon pour
l’être assez,” strikes one as thoroughly Agathonesque.
[79] _Protagoras_, 315 E.
[80] _Symposium_, 198 C. Socrates says of Agathon’s panegyric upon Eros:
καὶ γάρ με Γοργίου ὁ λόγος ἀνεμίμνησκεν. The whole speech of Agathon
is intended to show these characteristics. Cp., for example, 197 D:
πρᾳότητα μὲν πορίζων, ἀγριότητα δ’ ἐξορίζων· φιλόδωρος εὐμενείας, ἄδωρος
δυσμενείας κτἑ.
[81] _Thesm._ 130 _sqq._
[82] _Ibid._ 54 _sqq._
[83] It is noteworthy that Socrates’ famous “prophecy of Shakespeare”
(_Symposium_, 223 D), “one who can write comedy can write tragedy and
_vice versa_,” is addressed to Agathon and Aristophanes jointly.
[84] The attribution of this play to Critias is not certain, but
probable; it is accepted by Wilamowitz. The new life of Euripides by
Satyrus (see above, p. 18) attributes it to that poet.
[85] _Eratosthenes_, II.
[86] _Poetic_, 1453_b_.
[87] _De Gloria Atheniensium_, 349 E.
[88] _Poetic_, 1455_a_, _b_.
[89] Aristotle, _Rhetoric_, III, 12, 2: βαστάζονται δὲ οἱ ἀναγνωστικοί,
οἷον Χαιρήμων· ἀκριβὴς γὰρ ὥσπερ λογογράφος.
[90] “You know how to feel contempt before you have learnt wisdom,” or,
to reproduce (however badly) the play upon words, “You practise contempt
before using contemplation”.
[91] Athenæus, fr. 10: δρᾶμα πολύμετρον.
[92] _Poetic_, 1447_b_.
[93] vv. 677-774.
[94] Symonds, _Studies in the Greek Poets_, II, p. 26.
[95] _Adversus Indoctos_, 15.
[96] Athenæus III, 98 D, reports, for example, that he called a javelin
βαλλάντιον (properly “purse”), because “it is thrown in the face of the
foe” (ἐναντίον βάλλεται).
[97] _Poetic_, 1454_b_.
[98] 1455_a_.
[99] _Rhetoric_, II, 1400_b_.
[100] _Ibid._ 1417_b_, but the passage is obscure.
[101] _Eth. Nic._ 1150_b_, 10.
[102] Ælian, V.H. XIV, 40.
[103] _Orator_, 51.
[104] _Poetic_, 1452_a_.
[105] _Ibid._ 1455_b_.
[106] “First there came a circle with a dot in the middle,” etc.
[107] θέλω τύχης σταλαγμὸν ἢ φρενῶν πίθον.
[108] That he belongs to the fourth century is not certain, though
extremely probable.
[109] We have only one title (_Telephus_) which implies a legendary theme.
[110] Meineke suggests that the subject is an incident related by
Xenophon, _Hellenica_, VI, iv. 33, 34.
[111] He might at least have written τοῖς ἀμείνοσιν.
[112] The meaning of this name is unknown.
[113] Athenæus XIII, 595 F.
[114] He uses the diminutive δραμάτιον.
[115] κατὰ ἰατρῶν (Stobæus, 102, 3). He was thus a precursor of Molière
and Mr. Bernard Shaw.
[116] Diogenes Laertius, VII, 173.
[117] This point is made by Bernhardy, _Grundriss der Gr. Litteratur_ II,
ii. p. 72.
[118] His date is not, however, certain, and there is some reason to
assign his _floruit_ to the time of Alexander the Great.
[119] The most amazing example is that of the “Three Unities”—those of
Action, Time, and Place—of which such a vast amount has been heard and
which ruled tyrannically over French “classical” tragedy. It is difficult
to believe that Aristotle never mentions the “Three Unities”. On the
Unity of Action he has, of course, much to say; the Unity of Time is
dismissed in one casual sentence. As to the Unity of Place there is not a
word. (It is signally violated in the _Eumenides_ and the _Ajax_.)
[120] _Poetic_, 1454_a_.
[121] _Ibid._
[122] See Wilamowitz-Moellendorff’s magnificent _Einleitung in die
griechische Tragödie_, pp. 48-51 (_e.g._ “nicht mehr Aristoteles der
aesthetiker sondern Aristoteles der historiker ist der ausgangspunkt
unserer betrachtung” and “unser fundament ist und bleibt was in der
poetik steht”).
[123] _Poetic_, 1449_b_: ἔστιν οὖν τραγῳδία μίμησις πράξεως σπουδαίας καὶ
τελείας μέγεθος ἐχούσης, ἡδυσμένῳ λόγῳ χωρὶς ἑκάστῳ τῶν εἰδῶν ἐν τοῖς
μορίοις, δρώντων καὶ οὐ δι’ ἀπαγγελίας, δι’ ἐλέου καὶ φόβου περαίνουσα
τὴν τῶν τοιούτων παθημάτων κάθαρσιν.
[124] 1448_a_.
[125] 1451_a_, _b_.
[126] 1462_a_.
[127] 1462_a_, _b_. (The phrasing in the summary above is borrowed from
Butcher.) See further 1449_b_.
[128] 1450_b_.
[129] 1450_a_.
[130] 1451_a_.
[131] 1451_a_.
[132] 1451_b_.
[133] 1452_a_.
[134] 1452_a_.
[135] 1452_b_.
[136] οἱ ἐν τῷ φανερῷ θάνατοι.
[137] 1453_a_.
[138] 1453_b_.
[139] 1454_a_, _b_.
[140] pp. 163-5.
[141] pp. 313-5.
[142] 1454_b_, 1460_a_.
[143] 1452_b_: ἔστιν δὲ πρόλογος μὲν μέρος ὅλον τραγῳδίας τὸ πρὸ χοροῦ
παρόδου, ἐπεισόδιον δὲ μέρος ὅλον τραγῳδίας τὸ μεταξὺ ὅλων χορικῶν μελῶν,
ἔξοδος δὲ μέρος ὅλον τραγῳδίας μεθ’ ὃ οὐκ ἔστι χοροῦ μέλος, χορικοῦ δὲ
πάροδος μὲν ἡ πρώτη λέξις ὅλη χοροῦ, στάσιμον δὲ μέλος χοροῦ τὸ ἄνευ
ἀναπαίστου καὶ τροχαίου, κόμμος δὲ θρῆνος κοινὸς χοροῦ καὶ τῶν ἀπὸ σκηνῆς.
[144] p. 4.
[145] Chap. VI.
[146] 1455_b_.
[147] 1452_a_.
[148] 1450_b_.
[149] Plato (_Symposium_, 175 E) makes Socrates congratulate Agathon
on his success in the presence of “more than 30,000 Greeks”. Modern
archæologists, by statistics based on the seating-accommodation, would
reduce this figure to 17,000.
[150] There are fourteen of these at Athens.
[151] This account is based on Dörpfeld (_Das griechische Theater_,
Abschnitt VII) who believes there was no stage, and on Haigh (_Attic
Theatre_³, edited by Mr. Pickard-Cambridge, Chap. III) who believes there
was a stage.
[152] That is, shorter, viewed from left to right by the spectators. The
depth of the Vitruvian stage was 10 feet.
[153] Vitruvius V, vii, 3-4.
[154] By Wieseler and others.
[155] Haigh³, pp. 165-74.
[156] ἀναβαίνω: _Knights_, 148; _Acharnians_, 732; _Wasps_, 1342.
[157] καταβαίνω: _Eccles._ 1151; _Wasps_, 1514.
[158] Euripides, _Ion_, 727, _Electra_, 4 _sq._, _Herc. Fur._ 119. As
Haigh (3rd ed., p. 167) points out, “in the last passage it is the chorus
which makes the complaint; so that in this case, if there was any visible
ascent, it cannot have been the ascent to the stage”.
[159] This is a strong and favourite argument for the stage; when Haigh
(3rd ed., p. 168) denies this because “a sufficient reason is ...
the fact that, if they had gone into the palace, the scene of action
would have been left empty for the time being,” he forgets that such a
departure of the chorus is quite possible. It occurs in _Eumenides_,
_Ajax_, _Alcestis_, and _Helena_, not to mention Comedy.
[160] Haigh³, p. 170 _sq._
[161] _Symposium_, 194 B.
[162] _Ars Poetica_, 278: Æschylus et modicis instravit pulpita tignis.
[163] _Das Gr. Theater_, p. 350.
[164] He wrote a lexicon to Plato in the third century after Christ.
[165] Dörpfeld gives various optical diagrams to exhibit the effects.
[166] We incessantly see this effect in modern theatres. But in Greece
the presence of the chorus performing below would force spectators to
regard the building as suspended.
[167] Save, of course, those on the new lowest seats, which went down to
the new level of the excavated half. Dörpfeld has discovered evidence
that the present lowest seats at Athens were added after the rest.
[168] _Das griechische Theater_, p. 364. After the publication of this
view Dörpfeld altered his opinion, and suggested (_Bull. Corr. Hell._
1896, p. 577 _sqq._) that V. means not the ordinary Greek Theatre, but
the Græco-Roman type found in Asia Minor. But this seems worse than his
first thought. See Haigh³, pp. 147 _sq._
[169] _Ibid._ pp. 146 _sq._
[170] In Plato’s time this was notably so (_Laws_, 659 A-C, 700 C, 701 A).
[171] Plutarch, _Nicias_, 524 D.
[172] Aristotle, _Rhetoric_, III, i.
[173] This is the usual term employed. See, however, Haigh³, p. 13,
note 3: “the word τετραλογία was applied only to a group of four plays
connected in subject,” etc.
[174] This was certainly the number for comedy; it is assumed for tragedy.
[175] τράγος. This was supposed to be the origin of the word “tragedy”
(τραγῳδία “goat-song”).
[176] Vitruvius, V, vi., and Pollux, iv., 126.
[177] Professor Ridgeway makes much use of this custom in his theory that
Greek drama originated in celebrations at the tombs of great persons. See
his _Origin of Tragedy_, and pp. 2 _sq._ above.
[178] Haigh³, p. 187.
[179] _Clouds_, 225.
[180] Pollux (iv. 128), who gives the most definite description, adds:
“one must understand it at each door, as it were in each house,” but his
unsupported testimony on any subject is not trustworthy.
[181] In fact Pollux, who is fond of making a particular case into a
general rule, may have had this instance in his head. He writes (iv.
128): “the eccyclema is a lofty stand raised upon timbers and carrying a
chair” (ἐπὶ ξύλων ὑψηλὸν βάθρον ᾧ ἐπίκειται θρόνος).
[182] Ar. _Knights_, 1249.
[183] This story occurs in the anonymous _Life_ of Æschines.
[184] They are mutes, for the lines supposed to be uttered by one or both
behind the scenes were probably delivered by one of the actors not needed
“in front”.
[185] The _Œdipus Coloneus_ is an exception. See Jebb’s _Introduction_,
3rd ed., pp. 7, 8.
[186] Cp. the vigorous protest of Pratinas (p. 6).
[187] Pherecrates, _Cheiron_, frag. 1, cp. Arist. _Thesmoph._ 100.
[188] Ar. _Frogs_, 1314.
[189] We hear from the scholiast on _Choephorœ_, 900, that the same actor
took the part of Pylades and of the servant who gives the alarm. The
latter after arousing Clytæmnestra rushes within, and when the Queen has
uttered five lines Pylades appears accompanying Orestes. This example is
given by Haigh³, p. 232.
[190] Told by the scholiast on Aristophanes, _Frogs_, 303.
[191] The slovenliness in this regard of many modern actors is mostly due
to “long runs”. After saying the same thing hundreds of times, an actor
naturally tends to mechanical diction. The writer has heard a performer
in an emotional crisis suddenly (as it appeared) call for champagne.
Feeling sure that “Pommery” could not be right, he reflected, and
discovered that the mysterious syllables meant “Poor Mary!” Even actors
at the head of the profession are guilty of such things as “the lor of
Venice”.
[192] See Haigh³, p. 279 _sq._, for some highly interesting extracts.
[193] _Poetic_ 1456_a_ (tr. Butcher).
[194] _Ibid._
[195] This was the normal mode of entry, but the plot sometimes demanded
others. In the _Eumenides_ the Chorus rush in pell-mell; so probably in
the _Bacchæ_; in the Euripidean _Supplices_ they are discovered grouped
around the Queen.
[196] See pp. 344 _sq._
[197]
ὥστ’ εἴ τις ὀρχοῖτ’ εὖ, θέαμ’ ἦν· νῦν δὲ δρῶσιν οὐδέν,
ἀλλ’ ὥσπερ ἀπόπληκτοι βάδην ἑστῶτες ὠρύονται.
[198] Haigh³, p. 318. Both the gestures described sound like a curious
anticipation of the gestures favoured by the performers of “coon-songs”.
[199] This was not always an advantage when comedy held the scene. There
is a delightfully impudent passage in the _Frogs_ (v. 297) where Dionysus
to escape a hobgoblin appeals to his own priest for protection.
[200] For a detailed description of the seating see Haigh³, pp. 94-101.
[201] It is a fact familiar to students of comparative religion that
obscenity is often a part of ritual. This is true of several Greek
worships, including that of Dionysus. Hence even tragedy retained its
satyric complement, though satyric drama regularly showed obscene
features.
[202] Puchstein would date it earlier (end of the fifth century).
[203] Plutarch, _Liber Amatorius_, 756 B, C.
[204] ἐκσυρίττειν (“to hiss off”).
[205] Demosthenes, _De Falsa Legatione_, § 337.
[206] _Ethics_, X, 1175 B.
[207] _Date_: uncertain. Professor Tucker thinks the year 492-1 probable;
Æschylus was then thirty-three years old. Historical considerations are
here of doubtful value, but the technique of the play seems to prove
beyond question that it is an early work.
_Arrangement_: protagonist, Danaus, Egyptian herald; deuteragonist, King
of Argos.
[208] In the centre of the orchestra, as always.
[209] Danaus is necessarily dismissed so that the actor who impersonates
him may appear as the Egyptian herald.
[210] vv. 991-2.
[211] vv. 994-1013.
[212] Ζεύς (or words derived therefrom) occurs about sixty times.
[213] vv. 91-5 (Professor Tucker’s translation).
[214] vv. 230-1.
[215] _Date_: 472 B.C. _Arrangement_: protagonist, Atossa and Xerxes;
deuteragonist, Messenger and Darius.
[216] The actor who presents the queen has now to present the king.
[217] This was a satyric play, and must not be confused with the extant
_Prometheus_.
[218] See Patin, _Eschyle_, p. 211.
[219] _Henry V_, IV, viii.
[220] vv. 361-2.
[221] _Arrangement_: protagonist: Eteocles and Antigone; deuteragonist,
messenger, and herald. The part of Ismene was taken by a member of the
chorus.
[222] _Frogs_, 1021.
[223] vv. 591-4.
[224] _Life of Aristides_, III.
[225] Dr. Verrall, however, in his Introduction (pp. xiv, xv) sees
technical drama of the highest kind in the choosing of the champions. As
the Theban warriors are told off one by one, the chorus (and audience)
see with ever-increasing horror that Eteocles must be left as the
opponent of Polynices.
[226] Müller-Heitz (_Griechische Litteraturgeschichte_, ii. p. 88)
point out, also, that this play needs more elaborate machinery than any
other extant drama. But it may well be doubted whether all the effects
mentioned by the poet are realized.
[227] Bia (“Violence”), also present, is a mute.
[228] See H. Weil’s masterly _Note sur le Prométhée d’Eschyle_ (_Le drame
antique_, pp. 86-92).
[229] Zeus had intended to wed Thetis. On hearing the secret, he married
her to Peleus, who became the father of Achilles.
[230] It is fairly certain that it dealt with Menelaus’ visit to Egypt on
his way back from Troy. He was shipwrecked on an island and the prophetic
Proteus gave him advice, sending him first to Egypt. See _Odyssey_, IV,
351-586.
[231] _Arrangement_: protagonist, Clytæmnestra; deuteragonist, Herald,
Cassandra; tritagonist, Sentinel, Agamemnon, Ægisthus.
[232] See especially his _Introduction_ (pp. xiii-xlvii of the 2nd
edition).
[233] This is noted by an admirable touch. Almost always a tragedy
ends with words of the chorus as the least impassioned parties. In the
_Agamemnon_ the closing words are uttered by Clytæmnestra.
[234] _Choephorœ_, 889.
[235] _The Relapse_, V, iv. 135.
[236] _Arrangement_: protagonist, Orestes; deuteragonist, Electra,
Clytæmnestra; tritagonist, Pylades, nurse, attendant, Ægisthus.
[237] This is of course a conventional _mise-en-scène_; we are to imagine
the tomb as distant from the palace.
[238] On this and the other “tokens” see below, p. 258.
[239] The dead man is undoubtedly supposed to send aid in a mysterious
way, but no ghost appears, as in the _Persæ_. This discrepancy points
to a change in religious feeling. Clytæmnestra’s shade “appears” in the
_Eumenides_, but as a dream (see v. 116).
[240] vv. 870-4. It seems most natural to suppose that they altogether
quit the orchestra, returning before v. 930.
[241] Not quite, however. The poet is to depict a man, with whom we are
to sympathize, almost in the act of slaying his mother. Not only Orestes,
but the spectator also, needs as much spiritual fortification as can be
provided.
[242] vv. 313: δράσαντι παθεῖν.
[243] _Arrangement._—Croiset gives: protagonist, Orestes; deuteragonist,
Apollo; tritagonist, Athena, priestess, ghost of Clytæmnestra. This
_grouping_ is certainly right, but it is not easy to suppose that the
part of Athena was given to the tritagonist. It seems better to give
Athena, etc., to the protagonist, Apollo to the second, and Orestes to
the third actor.
[244] Probably the _eccyclema_ was used. See pp. 66-8.
[245] vv. 517-9:—
ἔσθ’ ὅπου τὸ δεινὸν εὖ
καὶ φρενῶν ἐπίσκοπον
δεῖ μένειν καθήμενον.
[246] The actual rule of the Areopagite Court was that if the votes were
even the defendant was acquitted. This rule was explained as derived from
the “Vote of Athena” in the trial of Orestes. It seems then that Athena’s
vote here makes inequality, not equality. Therefore her pebble is not put
into either urn, but laid between them.
[247] It is implied by the title of the drama that they assume the title
Eumenides or “Gracious Ones,” but this title is not used in the play
itself. Their most usual name was Σεμναί, “Awful Ones”.
[248] v. 644.
[249] In her great speech to the court she plainly adopts the language of
the Furies. See below.
[250] v. 747: ἡμῖν γὰρ ἔρρειν, ἢ πρόσω τιμὰς νέμειν.
[251] Dr. Verrall (_Introduction_ to his edition, pp. xxxii, xxxiii)
explains the reconciliation of the Furies as the result of a mystic
revelation conveyed not in words but through a kind of spiritual
magnetism exercised by Athena when she draws near to them at v. 886 (he
notes the break in syntax at this point); such an influence could not be
shown forth in words—it is too sacred and mysterious. But if a poet does
undertake to dramatize the truths of religion, he must do so in dramatic
form; he ought not suddenly to throw up his task. Several places in
Æschylus can be found where he does put such ideas into words.
[252] This appears to me certain from Athena’s language to the court, but
the reader should not suppose that the Furies say so definitely; they
acquiesce.
[253] vv. 696-8.
[254] This vital point is admirably demonstrated by Dr. Verrall on v.
1046.
[255] This number is not certain. It is probably an under-statement.
[256] ποδαπὸς ὁ γύννις;
[257] ἐνθουσιᾷ δὴ δῶμα, βακχεύει στέγη.
[258] βρῦτον.
[259] _On the death of Kirk-White_: “’Twas thine own genius gave the
fatal blow,” etc. The fiery verse, ὅπλων ὅπλων δεῖ· μὴ πύθῃ τὸ δεύτερον,
recalls the famous line: “A horse, a horse! My kingdom for a horse!”
[260] _Frogs_, 911-3.
[261] Meineke, II, p. 1177.
[262]
οἱ θεῶν ἀγχίσποροι
οἱ Ζηνὸς ἐγγύς ὧν κατ’ Ἰδαῖον πάγον
Διὸς πατρῴου βωμός ἐστ’ ἐν αἰθέρι,
κοὔπω σφιν ἐξίτηλον αἷμα δαιμόνων.
Cp. Plato, _Republic_, 391 E.
[263] _Oration_ 52.
[264] Only one has survived, that of Sophocles.
[265] _Titus Andronicus_, II, i. 5-7.
[266] _Frogs_, 924-5.
[267] _Ag._ 494-5. In spite of Dr. Verrall’s ingenious remarks, it seems
best to take this phrase in the traditional way, as a mere extravagance.
[268] _P.V._ 170.
[269] _Septem_, 493-4.
[270] _Choeph._ 451-2.
[271] _Eum._ 137-8.
[272] _Frogs_, 1261-95.
[273] _Suppl._ 836-7. I see no reason for supposing that the Greek is
defective.
[274] _Ibid._ 12.
[275] _Ibid._ 608.
[276] _Persæ_, 115.
[277] _Ibid._ 346.
[278] _Persæ_ 395.
[279] _Ibid._ 815.
[280] _Septem_, 593.
[281] _P.V._ 89-90.
[282] _Ibid._ 993.
[283] _Ag._ 1434.
[284] _Choeph._ 647.
[285] _Eum._ 694.
[286] Haigh, _Tragic Drama_, pp. 82 _sq._
[287] _Frogs_, 932.
[288] Professor Gilbert Murray, _Literature of Ancient Greece_, p. 217.
[289] vv. 908 _sqq._
[290] Frogs, 1119 _sqq._
[291] Dr. Verrall’s theory is still, I believe, accepted only by a
minority.
[292] _P.V._ vv. 350-2.
[293] _Danaides._
[294] Cp. _Septem_, 592-4 (Aristides), _P.V._ 1068 (Themistocles), and
the references to the Areopagus (vv. 681-710) and to the Athenian Empire
(vv. 398-401) in the _Eumenides_.
[295] _Choeph._ 313 _sq._: δράσαντι παθεῖν, τριγέρων μῦθος τάδε φωνεῖ.
[296] _Ag._ 750-7.
[297] _Septem_, 689-91.
[298] _Choeph._ 1076.
[299] Æschylus never worked himself entirely free from this savage
conception of sin as a material defilement. Orestes, among the proofs
that he has expiated his offence, mentions the use of swine’s blood as a
cleansing power (_Eum._ v. 283).
[300] See Dr. Verrall’s discussion of the prologue to the _Eumenides_,
_Euripides the Rationalist_, pp. 220-4.
[301] _Eum._ vv. 640-51.
[302] _Arrangement_: protagonist, Ajax, Teucer (Ajax, when dead, is
represented by a lay figure); deuteragonist, Odysseus, Tecmessa;
tritagonist, Athena, messenger, Menelaus, Agamemnon.
[303] For the arguments see Jebb’s _Introduction_ (pp. li-liv) to the
_Ajax_. He thinks _Antigone_ the earlier.
[304] vv. 520-1: “Nay, have thought even of me. A man should sure be
mindful of any joy that hath been his.” But of course the quality spoken
of evaporates in such a “translation”.
[305] In the address to his child he throws a half-line to the mother
(v. 559) and at the beginning of his disguised farewell to the chorus he
expresses pity for Tecmessa (vv. 650-3), but there is nothing to show
that this is not feigned, like his implied renunciation of suicide.
[306] See Jebb’s _Introduction_ to the play (pp. xxviii-xxxii).
[307] The _arrangement_ is uncertain. Jebb gives, protagonist: Antigone,
Tiresias, Eurydice; deuteragonist: Ismene, guard, Hæmon, the messengers;
tritagonist: Creon. Croiset gives, protagonist: Antigone, Hæmon;
deuteragonist: Ismene, guard, Tiresias, messengers; tritagonist: Creon,
Eurydice.
[308] vv. 904-12. See Jebb’s discussion in his _Appendix_.
[309] vv. 450-70.
[310] _Rhetoric_, III, xvi. 9.
[311] Jebb’s _Introduction_, pp. xvii-xx.
[312] See pp. 8, 15.
[313] _Arrangement_ probably: protagonist, Electra; deuteragonist,
Orestes and Clytæmnestra; tritagonist, Pædagogus, Chrysothemis, Ægisthus.
[314] Jebb, however, gives substantial reasons for putting it later. See
his _Introduction_, pp. lvi-lviii.
[315] vv. 1424-5.
[316] _Choeph._ 1075-6 (Verrall’s translation).
[317] vv. 1508 _sqq._ (Jebb’s translation).
[318] vv. 616-21.
[319] This seems a fair deduction, not only from the whole situation, but
from the pause after Αἴγισθον in v. 957; also perhaps from the emphatic
ἐμοί of v. 974. Cp. also 582 _sqq._ and especially the comment of the
chorus in v. 1080 (διδύμαν ἑλοῦσ’ Ἐρινύν).
[320] vv. 1331-3.
[321] _Arrangement_: protagonist, Œdipus; deuteragonist, Priest, Jocasta,
servant of Laius; tritagonist, Creon, Tiresias, the two messengers.
[322] vv. 774 _sqq._
[323] It is true that when the prophet mentions the parents of Œdipus
quite definitely (v. 436) the king is startled. But this is one point
only. All the other remarks of Tiresias are ignored.
[324] See Aristotle, _Poetic_, 1454_b_.
[325] vv. 130-1.
[326] See pp. 127-8.
[327] vv. 124-5.
[328] The entry of Fortinbras at the end of _Hamlet_ is closely similar.
Perhaps it is fear of anti-climax which causes producers nowadays to omit
this finale.
[329] Note his preciosity, vv. 942, 959, 1028.
[330] He first (v. 1026) says that he found the infant Œdipus; only later
(1038) does he admit that another man has been concerned.
[331] vv. 758-64.
[332] vv. 1117-8.
[333] v. 1141.
[334] _Arrangement_: protagonist, Deianira, Heracles; deuteragonist,
Hyllus, Lichas; tritagonist, nurse, messenger, old man.
[335] See Jebb’s _Introduction_, pp. xxxviii _sq._
[336] vv. 575-7 (Jebb’s translation).
[337] vv. 547-9.
[338] These remarks are not vitiated by the fact (see Jebb on v. 1224)
that legend wedded Iole to Hyllus. If the command of Heracles is as
objectionable as Jebb appears to think, why did Sophocles go out of his
way to cause the hero himself, instead of some other, to enjoin the
marriage?
[339] vv. 719 _sq._
[340] This accounts also for the absurd behaviour of the nurse (vv. 927
_sq._) who instead of interfering hastens away to Hyllus, entirely unlike
other such women in tragedy.
[341] See the speech of Lichas (vv. 248-86).
[342] Deianira’s plan, moreover, reads like a sort of dilution of
Medea’s, and her last moments (vv. 900-22) recall the description in the
_Alcestis_ (vv. 158-84).
[343] v. 427. Cp. Eur. _Helena_, 567: ποίας δάμαρτος;
[344] Jebb points out that _Trach._ 416 and _Supplices_ 567 are
practically identical.
[345] v. 1140.
[346] 268.
[347] vv. 9-14.
[348] That even the equable Sophocles did on occasion embody criticism
of other playwrights in his works is shown by such passages as _Electra_
1288 _sqq._, _Œd Col._ 1148-9.
[349] _Arrangement_: protagonist, Philoctetes; deuteragonist,
Neoptolemus; tritagonist, Odysseus, merchant, Heracles.
[350] vv. 1007-15.
[351] _E.g._ Mahaffy (_History of Gk. Lit., Poets_, pp. 309-12).
[352] Christ (_Geschichte der Gr. Lit._ p. 210) who compares Heracles
here to the δαιμόνιον σημεῖον of Socrates.
[353] K. O. Müller (_Gr. Lit._, ii. p. 124) who is opposed by Bernhardy
(II, ii. p. 370).
[354] vv. 1404 _sqq._
[355] When he threatens to shoot Odysseus (vv. 1299 _sqq._).
[356] v. 670: εὐεργετῶν γὰρ καὐτὸς αὔτ’ ἐκτησάμην.
[357] See Jebb’s 2nd edition (p. xxvii with footnote).
[358] _Or._ 52.
[359] vv. 936 _sqq._, 987 _sq._, etc.
[360] vv. 187-90 (Jebb’s reading and translation).
[361] v. 1455.
[362] vv. 282-4. Notice also the phrase ξὺν ᾗ (v. 268) used of his malady.
[363] Jebb (_Introd._ pp. xl, xli, 2nd ed.) seems unwilling to allow any
direct allusions. But see vv. 385 _sqq._, 456 _sqq._, and particularly
1035 _sqq._; all three passages show a peculiar emphasis; vv. 1047-51 are
quite in the tone of Thucydides’ “Melian dialogue”.
[364] The _arrangement_ of the parts is not certain. But the important
fact seems clear that a fourth actor was here used not tentatively (as
in other cases) but in a very remarkable degree. Jebb gives: protagonist,
Œdipus; deuteragonist, Antigone; tritagonist, Ismene and Creon; fourth
actor, “Stranger,” Theseus, Polynices, messenger. Croiset: protagonist,
Œdipus; deuteragonist, Antigone; fourth actor, Theseus; all the other
parts to the tritagonist.
[365] Creon, vv. 854 _sq._; Antigone, v. 1195.
[366] v. 106.
[367] vv. 1563 _sq._ The same word recurs in Antigone’s lament (v. 1682):
ἄσκοποι δὲ πλάκες ἔμαρψαν.
[368] Note specially the word τοὐπιεικές (v. 1127) though the idea is of
course expressed by the whole play.
[369] vv. 670-80 (Jebb’s version).
[370] See below, p. 185.
[371] σμικρὸς λόγος four times (vv. 569, 620, 1116, 1152), σμικρὸν ἔπος
once (v. 443), and ἓν μόνον ἔπος once (v. 1615 _sqq._). Dr. Mackail
(_Lectures on Greek Poetry_, p. 150) has indicated this point. See also
_Electra_, 415.
[372] vv. 670 _sqq._: The parallel I owe to Jebb’s note.
[373] vv. 1503 _sq._
[374] _King Lear_, III, iv.
[375] vv. 1627 _sq._ Cp. 1 Sam. iii. 10.
[376] Deut. xxxiv. 6.
[377] Heb. xi. 22.
[378] vv. 62 _sq._: “Such ... are these haunts, not honoured in story,
but rather in the life that loves them” (Jebb).
[379] v. 472.
[380] v. 506.
[381] vv. 964 _sq._
[382] vv. 1422-5.
[383] See Jebb, _Introduction_, pp. xxi _sq._
[384] See his splendid exculpatory speeches to the chorus (vv. 258-91)
and to Creon (vv. 960-1013).
[385] See pp. 10, 12 _sq._
[386] _Ad Quintum Fratrem_, II, xv. 3.
[387] Fr. 344: πόνου μεταλλαχθέντος οἱ πόνοι γλυκεῖς, and fr. 345: μόχθου
γὰρ οὐδεὶς τοῦ παρελθόντος λόγος; recall _Æneid_, I, 203: _forsan et haec
olim meminisse iuuabit_.
[388] _De Subl._ XV, 7: ἄκρως πεφάντασται.
[389] For the Recognition-scene of this play, cp. Aristotle, _Poetic_,
1454_b_.
[390] _Birds_, vv. 100 _sqq._
[391] These have been published and annotated by Dr. A. S. Hunt (who,
with Dr. B. P. Grenfell, discovered these and so many other precious
remains) in Vol. IX of the _Oxyrhynchus Papyri_.
[392] Welcker thought that the wanderings of Europa formed the subject.
[393] The word ῥοῖβδος is inserted as a stage-direction (παρεπιγραφή). It
no doubt means that the babe Hermes is playing his lyre “within”.
[394] The passage is amusing: χαίρει ἀλύων, “he is in a rapture of joy,”
is an excellent phrase for this earliest of _maestri_; but, as Dr. Hunt
remarks, his audience of one (Cyllene) seems not to share his ecstasy:
παραψυκτήριον κείνῳ μόνον.
[395] The name is not certain. All that can be asserted is that the
tragedy dealt with Eurypylus’ death, in defence of Troy, at the hands of
Neoptolemus.
[396] See pp. 15-17.
[397] See _e.g._ the remarks in Creon’s opening speech (_Ant._ vv.
175-90).
[398] _O.T._ 587-8:
ἐγὼ μὲν οὖν οὔτ’ αὐτὸς ἱμείρων ἔφυν
τύραννος εἶναι μᾶλλον ἢ τύραννα δρᾶν.
[399] _Electra_, vv. 328 _sqq._
[400] See p. 16.
[401] _Electra_, 303-16.
[402] For this and other metrical terms which follow see Chapter VI.
[403] There are no less than thirty iambic lines thus divided. The name
for such division is ἀντιλαβή.
[404] _Phil._ vv. 287-92.
[405] _O.C._ 1697, translated by Jebb: “Ah, so care past can seem lost
joy!”
[406] _Electra_, 1165 _sq._
[407] Dr. J. W. Mackail (_Lectures on Greek Poetry_, p. 150 _sq._) has
described these lines with brilliant aptness. “The language is so simple,
so apparently unconscious and artless, that its overwhelming effect makes
one gasp: it is like hearing human language uttered, and raised to a new
and incredible power, by the lips of some one more than human.”
[408] _O.C._ 607 _sqq._ The wonderful version of these first few fines is
by Professor Gilbert Murray.
[409] _Ajax_, 815 _sqq._
[410] _O.C._ 1586 _sqq._
[411] This figure includes the _Rhesus_, the authenticity of which is not
certain.
[412] It is almost certain that only two actors were employed, Alcestis
being mute in the last scene (_i.e._ the character was apparently
borne by a supernumerary, not the actor who had delivered her earlier
speeches), and the few lines of the child Eumelos being sung by a
chorister. Croiset suggests: protagonist, Apollo, Alcestis, Heracles,
Pheres; deuteragonist, Thanatos, maidservant, Admetus, attendant.
[413] The true explanation, as Dr. Hayley points out, is that the two
actors are already engaged (as A. and H.) so that the queen is presented
by a mute. I cannot, however, agree that this is “a clumsy device”.
Admetus deserved some modification of his delight; we may, moreover,
feel that Alcestis would not wish to show precipitation in greeting the
husband who had interred her with such strange promptitude.
[414] The celebrated “tag” beginning πολλαὶ μορφαὶ τῶν δαιμονίων (vv.
1159-63), which is found also at the close of _Medea_ (practically),
_Helena_, _Andromache_, and _Bacchæ_.
[415] There are no satyrs and no indecency of language.
[416] _E.g._ v. 58: πῶς εἶπας; ἀλλ’ ἦ καὶ σοφὸς λέληθας ὤν; “What! _you_
among the philosophers!”
[417] The late Dr. A. W. Verrall’s brilliant theory of this play it will
be better to discuss later (see pp. 190 _sq._).
[418] vv. 763 _sq._
[419] vv. 280-325.
[420] _Euripides the Rationalist_, pp. 1-128.
[421] The hurried obsequies probably do not fall into this category. We
are almost certainly to assume that as Alcestis’ sacrifice is to be made
on a certain day, that day must see her not only expire, but actually
delivered up to the power of death. See Dr. H. W. Hayley’s _Introduction_
to the play (pp. xxxi _sq._) and my _Riddle of the Bacchæ_, pp. 143 _sq._
[422] I cannot write with decision about the _Alcestis_, because on the
one hand universal testimony and opinion date it as only seven years
anterior to the _Medea_, while my own instinct would put it quite twenty
years earlier than that play. To me it reads essentially like the work of
a young but highly-gifted playwright who has recently lost his wife.
[423] These celebrated lines (vv. 230-51) are not in character. They form
a splendid and moving criticism of the attitude adopted by the poet’s
own Athenian contemporaries towards women, but have only a very partial
application to herself.
[424] (i) In vv. 1231-5, there is a very clear dittography. That is,
either 1231-2, or 1233-5 would serve excellently as a speech of the
chorus-leader; but it is unlikely that the poet meant both to be used;
(ii) vv. 1236-50 read like another and far shorter version of the great
soliloquy 1021-80; (iii) it seems odd that Medea, after finally gaining
courage to slay her children, should before doing so, be seen again
and join in conversations; (iv) vv. 1375-7 give the impression (as Dr.
Verrall has pointed out) that the play is to end, not as it does, but
with some kind of arrangement between Medea and Jason; (v) one or two
ancient quotations purporting to come from this play are not to be found
in our texts.
[425] See pp. 21 _sq._
[426] v. 389 _sqq._
[427] _Poetic_, 1454_b_.
[428] _Four Plays of Euripides_, pp. 125-30.
[429] vv. 1381-3.
[430] v. 472: ἀναίδεια.
[431] v. 364: κακῶς πέπρακται πανταχῇ· τίς ἀντερεῖ;
[432] vv. 801 _sq._
[433] v. 450.
[434] v. 1367.
[435] vv. 944 _sq._ Two MSS., however (followed by Murray), give the
second line to Medea.
[436] v. 349: αἰδούμενος δὲ πολλὰ δὴ διέφθορα.
[437] vv. 309 _sq._
[438] v. 454.
[439] vv. 930 _sq._
[440] vv. 824-45.
[441] vv. 1081-1115.
[442] _Arrangement_: protagonist, Iolaus, Eurystheus; deuteragonist,
Demophon, Alcmena; tritagonist, Copreus, Macaria, attendant, messenger.
There were a great number of mutes: Acamas, the sons of Heracles, and
probably some Athenian soldiers.
[443] It has only 1055 lines, but there are probably gaps in our text.
[444] This name is not mentioned by Euripides. The scholiasts have taken
it from _Iliad_, XV, 639.
[445] In the Peloponnesian war. The Spartans were believed the
descendants of Hyllus and his brothers.
[446] Professor Murray, however, supposes another lacuna here, and thinks
there were two semi-choruses, one party supporting Alcmena, the other
disagreeing.
[447] Even in ancient times it seems to have enjoyed little attention.
[448] v. 638.
[449] v. 625.
[450] vv. 9 _sq._, 540.
[451] vv. 869 _sqq._
[452] vv. 910 _sqq._
[453] Down to v. 847 his story contains nothing superhuman. Then “up
to this point I saw with mine own eyes; the rest of my tale depends on
hearsay,” τἀπὸ τοῦδ’ ἤδη κλύων λέγοιμ’ ἂν ἄλλων, δεῦρο δ’ αὐτὸς εἰσιδών·
And when he mentions the identification of the miraculous lights with
Hebe and Heracles, he attributes the theory to οἱ σοφώτεροι, “cleverer
heads than mine,” as we may translate it.
[454] The oracle has demanded the daughter of “a well-born father,” and
she of course mentions her own qualification in this respect, without
proceeding to dilate (as one would think inevitable in Euripides—or
anyone else) on the quite unrivalled “nobility” of her father.
[455] vv. 513, 563.
[456] _Hercules Furens_, vv. 151-64.
[457] vv. 997-9; v. 990, referring to the hostility of Hera, is too vague
to stand as a warrant for the divine birth of Heracles.
[458] vv. 240 _sq._
[459] It has been thought that vv. 819-22 indicate the sacrifice of the
maiden. They describe the soothsayers’ offering just before the battle:
ἀφίεσαν λαιμῶν βροτείων εὐθὺς οὔριον φόνον. If βροτείων is right (though
βοτείων, “of sheep,” is a tempting alteration) the reference to the
girl’s heroism is brutally curt.
[460] vv. 597 _sqq._
[461] There is, however, in vv. 45-7 an isolated statement which vaguely
contradicts this.
[462] Her remark on hearing the news (v. 665): τοῦδ’ οὐκέθ’ ἡμῖν τοῦ
λόγου μέτεστι δή, sets the seal upon her utter feebleness of mind.
[463] vv. 1035-7.
[464] vv. 1049-52 and elsewhere in the last scene.
[465] vv. 1020-5.
[466] _Arrangement_ (according to Croiset): protagonist, Hippolytus;
deuteragonist, Aphrodite, Phædra, Theseus (the body of Phædra being
represented by a lay-figure); tritagonist, Artemis, servant (who
announces the suicide), nurse, messenger.
[467] This additional name (_The Crowned H._) was given to distinguish
the play from the earlier Ἱππόλυτος Καλυπτόμενος (now lost), or
_Hippolytus Veiled_.
[468] vv. 73-87.
[469] vv. 121-5.
[470] vv. 208-31. Cp. vv. 219-21 with vv. 1375 _sq._
[471] vv. 732-51.
[472] vv. 828-9.
[473] vv. 1423-30.
[474] vv. 616-68. He seems to begin listening to the sound of his own
voice at v. 654.
[475] vv. 728-31.
[476] vv. 831-3. Hippolytus agrees, vv. 1379-83.
[477] vv. 967-9, where note the emphatic ἐγώ. And the word νόθος is
frequent in the play; see especially Hippolytus’ exclamation in vv.
1082-3, which, by a finely dramatic stroke, immediately turns Theseus’
anger to hot fury.
[478] vv. 337-41.
[479] Professor Murray.
[480] vv. 29-33.
[481] Cp. vv. 490 _sq._
[482] vv. 191-7 (Professor Murray’s translation).
[483] vv. 439-61.
[484] Cp. vv. 474 _sq._:—
λῆξον δ’ ὑβρίζουσ’· οὐ γὰρ ἄλλο πλὴν ὕβρις
τάδ’ ἐστί, κρείσσω δαιμόνων εἶναι θέλειν.
[485] vv. 493-6.
[486] vv. 507 _sq._
[487] vv. 1034 _sq._
[488] vv. 415 _sqq._ Compare her whole attitude. Indeed the poet
suggests, as at any rate a collateral reason for her destruction of
Hippolytus, a fear that he will reveal her secret (vv. 689-92).
[489] vv. 373-430.
[490] _Agamemnon_, vv. 160-83.
[491] In the first edition of the play, to which it seems that most of
the ancient strictures apply.
[492] vv. 135-40.
[493] v. 384: τερπνὸν κακόν.
[494] v. 281: ἔκδημος ὦν γὰρ τῆσδε τυγχάνει χθονός.
[495] v. 384: μακραί τε λέσχαι καὶ σχολή, τερπνὸν κακόν.
[496] vv. 337, _sqq._
[497] v. 328, etc.
[498] vv. 503-6.
[499] v. 512.
[500] See Professor Murray’s admirable remarks (p. 81 of his translation).
[501] In the trivial question, v. 516: πότερα δὲ χριστὸν ἢ ποτὸν τὸ
φάρμακον; she is dangerously toying with the proposal. The nurse’s reply
is a half-quaint, half-heartbreaking quotation from childish days when
the little Phædra was querulous with her “medicine” as now: ὄνασθαι, μὴ
μαθεῖν, βούλει, τέκνον.
[502] We notice incidentally the amazing dexterity shown by the line
(565) in which she announces her discovery: σιγήσατ’, ὦ γυναῖκες,
ἐξειργάσμεθα. It is a perfectly clear piece of Greek; it is also a series
of gasps.
[503] v. 1035.
[504] See the Greek _Argument_.
[505] In our play the poet leaves his heroine silent on this topic, but
hints it himself for us. See vv. 151-54, 967-70.
[506] _Frogs_, 1041; _Thesm._ 497, 547.
[507] _Frogs_, 101, 1467; _Thesm._ 275-6.
[508] _Hipp._ 612.
[509] vv. 960 _sq._, 1076 _sq._
[510] vv. 1060-3.
[511] Aristophanes in the _Clouds_ (v. 1165 _sq._) parodies vv. 174 _sq._
The _Clouds_ was produced in 423 B.C. In _Hecuba_, v. 462, reference
seems to be made to the re-establishment of the Delian festival in 426
B.C.
[512] Its popularity in Byzantine times is no bar to this statement.
Probably all the three plays, _Hecuba_, _Phœnissæ_, and _Orestes_, were
chosen because the Greek was comparatively easy. Euripides was already
sufficiently ancient to make this an important consideration.
Miss L. E. Matthaei’s essay should, however, be read (_Studies in Greek
Tragedy_, pp. 118-57). With admirable insight and skill this scholar
seeks to show that the _Hecuba_ is a study, first, of “conventional”
justice, the claim of the community, shown in the sacrifice of Polyxena;
and, secondly, of “natural” justice, seen in Hecuba’s revenge. Miss
Matthaei’s treatment, however subjective, is trenchant and illuminating,
especially as regards the psychology of Hecuba and Odysseus, the value
of Polyxena’s surrender, and the _finale_. But concerning the vital
point, lack of dramatic unity, she has little to say, apparently only the
suggestion (p. 140) that “the cumulative effect of finding the body of
Polydorus after having seen Polyxena taken away is the deciding factor;
otherwise the end of the play would have been simply unbelievable”. The
strength of this argument is very doubtful.
[513] See Mr. Hadley’s admirable _Introduction_ to the play (pp. ix-xii).
[514] vv. 779 _sq._
[515] vv. 428-30, 671, 894-7, 1287 _sq._
[516] v. 230.
[517] vv. 814-9, 1187-94.
[518] In 427 B.C.
[519] vv. 905 _sqq._
[520] vv. 342-78.
[521] vv. 518-82.
[522] vv. 953-67.
[523] vv. 796 _sq._ provide an example:—
ἔκτεινε, τύμβου δ’, εἰ κτανεῖν ἐβούλετο,
οὐκ ἠξίωσεν, ἀλλ’ ἀφῆκε πόντιον.
[524] Note his absurd insistence (vv. 531-3) on his own trivial part in
the sacrifice-scene.
[525] vv. 592-603 (the last line being an apology for the digression),
864-7.
[526] vv. 799 _sqq._
[527] vv. 585 _sqq._, 806-8.
[528] v. 421: ἡμεῖς δὲ πεντήκοντά γ’ ἄμμοροι τέκνων. Comment seems
obvious: “Actually enough children to row a galley!” (πεντηκόντορος ναῦς).
[529] vv. 68 _sqq._
[530] vv. 702 _sqq._
[531] Probably it was composed during the early years of the
Peloponnesian war, as the scholiast suggests in a note on v. 445.
[532] Schol. on v. 445.
[533] Her son, who is not given a name in the play, no doubt obtains it
from this prophecy.
[534] Mention of such a conflict naturally occurs (vv. 588 _sq._) in the
heat of their quarrel, but it comes to nothing. That the old king has no
military following seems certain from the silence of both parties. See
particularly vv. 752 _sqq._
[535] vv. 732 _sqq._ Note the stammering repetition of τις—he cannot even
suggest a name.
[536] It may be answered that here, as elsewhere, the time consumed by
the choric ode is conventionally supposed long enough to allow for the
alleged synchronous action. But how much time is required? Orestes is
to place Hermione in Menelaus’ care, journey to Delphi, and arrange his
plot; then the slaves are to carry the body home. This certainly means
three days; one would expect a week. Thus Peleus only hears of Hermione’s
departure three days (perhaps a week) after it has occurred. Is this
credible? See also the conversation between him and the chorus which
implies that the news has reached him within an hour or two.
[537] _Four Plays of Euripides_, pp. 1-42.
[538] vv. 1239 _sqq._ (Δελφοῖς ὄνειδος).
[539] It is usually supposed to mean “one of the second-rate plays”.
[540] vv. 929-53.
[541] vv. 595-601.
[542] v. 964: ἦλθον δὲ σὰς μὲν οὐ σέβων ἐπιστολάς, κτἑ. There can be
hardly a doubt that these words refer to their parting before her
marriage, when she forbade him to see her again.
[543] vv. 639, 708 _sqq._ Cp. Verrall, p. 38.
[544] _Eg._ vv. 229 _sq._
[545] Cp. Verrall, pp. 29 _sq._
[546] v. 166. This is the type of drama at which Sophocles shook his
head and which Aristophanes reviled. But it must have made many a
slave-holding citizen in the theatre suddenly raise his brows and fall to
thinking of words let drop an hour ago at home.
[547] vv. 1147 _sqq._: The some one of course might be anyone. The
speaker elects to assume that the god is actually present.
[548] vv. 1002 _sqq._, especially 1004.
[549] vv. 464-94.
[550] vv. 147-80.
[551] vv. 164 _sqq._
[552] vv. 445-63.
[553] _Eg._ vv. 632 _sqq._
[554] _Arrangement_ (according to Croiset): protagonist, Amphitryon,
Madness; deuteragonist, Megara, Iris, Theseus; tritagonist, Lycus,
Heracles, messenger. Of course the dead bodies are lay figures. Other
arrangements are possible.
[555] vv. 637-700.
[556] vv. 70-9, 460-89.
[557] vv. 1255-1310, 1340-93.
[558] vv. 140-235.
[559] _Four Plays of Euripides_, pp. 134-98.
[560] vv. 339 _sqq._, etc.
[561] vv. 798 _sqq._
[562] vv. 1340-6.
[563] Especially vv. 1269 _sqq._
[564] The appearance of Pallas (vv. 1002-6) is regarded by Verrall as “a
chance blow received by the madman from the falling ruins of the chamber”.
[565] In vv. 562-82 he raves, however eloquently. One man cannot capture
a whole fortress and punish a hostile population as Amphitryon (vv.
585-94) feels, though his caution and prosaic advice are painfully
ludicrous considering the vast claims he has made for his son an hour ago.
[566] v. 1222.
[567] Compare the similar explanation of a wonderful feat actually
offered by Lycus (vv. 153 _sq._).
[568] Cp. Verrall, pp. 147 _sq._
[569] _Ibid._ pp. 156, 162.
[570] vv. 65-6.
[571] vv. 485-9.
[572] _Probable Arrangement_: protagonist, Theseus, messenger;
deuteragonist, Adrastus, Evadne; tritagonist, Æthra, herald, Iphis,
Athena.
[573] The plot strongly recalls the incident after the battle of Delium
(424 B.C.), when the victorious Bœotians at first refused to surrender
the Athenian dead, and the alliance between Athens and Argos (420 B.C.).
[574] The Hypothesis says: τὸ δὲ δρᾶμα ἐγκώμιον Ἀθηναίων (altered by
Dindorf with general approval to Ἀθηνῶν).
[575] vv. 195-218.
[576] vv. 403-56.
[577] vv. 297-331.
[578] She has arrayed herself, not in black but in festal robes (vv.
1054-6)—an interesting parallel with the fine ending of the second act of
Mr. Shaw’s _Doctor’s Dilemma_.
[579] _Probable Arrangement_: protagonist, Ion, Pædagogus; deuteragonist,
Hermes, Creusa; tritagonist, Xuthus, servant, prophetess, Athena.
[580] vv. 1537 _sq._
[581] ἀμαθής (v. 916, used by Creusa).
[582] ὁ κακός (v. 952, used by the Pædagogus).
[583] v. 1595.
[584] vv. 550 _sqq._ are probably significant (and Ion actually the son
of Xuthus).
[585] Cp. v. 1324 and the rest of the short conversation between her and
Ion, which is of course charming on any view of the play.
[586] vv. 859 _sqq._
[587] vv. 1029 _sqq._
[588] Cp. v. 1419: οὐ τέλεον, οἷον δ’ ἐκδίδαγμα κερκίδος, and Ion’s
acknowledgment (v. 1424): ἰδού· τόδ’ ἐσθ’ ὕφασμα, θέσφαθ’ ὡς εὑρίσκομεν.
This latter surely means that Ion is as satisfied as one can expect to be
in tracing the fulfilment of oracles.
[589] Cp. v. 1565: μηχαναῖς ἐρρύσατο.
[590] v. 1550: πρόσωπον.
[591] οὐ πέδον τίκτει τέκνα says the elder man (v. 542), casually turning
his back on the glory of his wife’s family (cp. vv. 265-8).
[592] vv. 585 _sqq._
[593] vv. 738-46.
[594] v. 768 _sqq._
[595] vv. 1215 _sqq._
[596] His very religion, when put to the test, is mostly intellectual.
Apollo’s moral shortcomings only cause him to shake his head gravely; but
when the god’s truthfulness is exploded, the whole fabric of his belief
collapses.
[597] vv. 369-72.
[598] vv. 436-51. The above paraphrase is probably not too colloquial
(cp. especially v. 437: τί πάσχει; and v. 439: μὴ σύ γε). In fact, as the
speech is so very explicit and unadorned, and as Ion is probably uttering
it while he performs his tasks (see 434-6, after which these reflections
begin in the middle of a line), we perhaps overhear thoughts rather than
words.
[599] vv. 589 _sqq._
[600] vv. 1312 _sqq._
[601] vv. 1546 _sqq._
[602] vv. 369 _sqq._
[603] vv. 308, etc.
[604] vv. 1397 _sqq._
[605] vv. 1468 _sq._
[606] _Arrangement_ (probable): protagonist, Hecuba; deuteragonist,
Athena, Cassandra, Andromache, Helen; tritagonist, Poseidon, Talthybius,
Menelaus.
[607] Ælian, _Var. Hist._ ii. 8.
[608] There are reminders of the western lands in vv. 220 _sqq._
[609] vv. 703 _sqq._
[610] vv. 1158 _sqq._
[611] v. 764: ὦ βάρβαρ’ ἐξευρόντες Ἕλληνες κακά (Andromache’s phrase).
[612] vv. 884 _sqq._ (The first line refers to air.) If we possess any
evidence as to the theological belief of the poet himself it is probably
contained in these lines.
[613] vv. 469 _sqq._, 841 _sqq._, 1060 _sqq._ (especially the poignant
μέλει μέλει μοι), 1240 _sqq._
[614] vv. 1204 _sqq._:—
τοῖς τρόποις γὰρ αἱ τύχαι,
ἔμπληκτος ὡς ἄνθρωπος, ἄλλοτ’ ἄλλοσε
πηδῶσι.
The phrasing points back effectively to Poseidon’s description of
Athena’s fickleness (vv. 67 _sq._: τί δ’ ὧδε πηδᾷς ἄλλοτ’ εἰς ἄλλους
τρόπους;).
[615] The _arrangement_ is uncertain. Perhaps: protagonist, Iphigenia;
deuteragonist, Orestes, messenger, Athena; tritagonist, herdsman,
Pylades, Thoas.
[616] Murray and others place it about 414-2, Wilamowitz, 411-9.
[617] v. 1205: πιστὸν Ἑλλὰς οἶδεν οὐδέν.
[618] v. 626: πῦρ ἱερὸν ἔνδον, χάσμα δ’ εὐρωπὸν πέτρας—a marvellous line.
[619] vv. 823-6.
[620] v. 677: Φωκέων τ’ ἐν πολυπτύχῳ χθονί.
[621] See especially the lovely song, vv. 1089 _sqq._
[622] vv. 968 _sqq._
[623] One can hardly doubt that this is the intention of the scene on the
Taurian beach (vv. 281-94).
[624] vv. 711 _sqq._ The feelings of the Delphian hierarchy, when Orestes
after all actually returned, bringing with him the image—about which they
cared not a farthing—may be imagined by the irreverent.
[625] v. 77.
[626] v. 275.
[627] vv. 380 _sqq._
[628] vv. 719 _sq._
[629] See Verrall, _Eur. the Rationalist_, pp. 217-30 (_Euripides in a
Hymn_).
[630] Longinus, _de Subl._ xv. 3.
[631] vv. 970 _sqq._
[632] v. 73: ἐξ αἱμάτων γοῦν ξάνθ’ ἔχει τριχώματα, a grotesque thought
which we have just heard (as Murray points out in his _apparatus_) from
Iphigenia as part of her dream.
[633] vv. 281 _sqq._
[634] vv. 961 _sqq._
[635] θεᾶς βρέτας is now the prescription, as we may call it. Cp. vv.
980, 985-6, and 1038-40.
[636] vv. 939 _sqq._
[637] ψῆφος (v. 945). He means “assembly (which votes),” but he has ψῆφος
on the brain, as well he might have (vv. 965 _sq._).
[638] vv. 739 _sq._ and 1046: Πυλάδης δ’ ὅδ’ ἡμῖν ποῦ τετάξεται φόνου—if
this is a task set by Apollo there must be murder in it.
[639] v. 933.
[640] _Arrangement_: protagonist, Electra; deuteragonist, Orestes,
Clytæmnestra; tritagonist, farmer, old man, messenger, Castor. Pylades
and Polydeuces were represented by a mute actor.
[641] From vv. 1347-56 it is clear that the Sicilian expedition had
already sailed, but that news of the disaster had not yet reached Athens.
[642] Bernhardy, _Geschichte der griechischen Poesie_ II, ii. p. 490.
[643] vv. 1041-3.
[644] vv. 9-10.
[645] 1142-6.
[646] vv. 652-60.
[647] v. 54.
[648] The peasant tells us that Electra’s banishment to the country is
due to her mother’s efforts when Ægisthus wished to kill her (vv. 25
_sqq._). Electra puts the matter very differently (vv. 60 _sq._). The
horrible story in vv. 326 _sqq._ is probably untrue; cp. ὡς λέγουσιν.
[649] vv. 77-8, 354 _sq._
[650] vv. 367 _sqq._
[651] vv. 255 _sqq._
[652] vv. 1294, 1296 _sq._, 1302.
[653] vv. 737-45.
[654] Expedit esse deos.
[655] “If God did not exist, it would be necessary to invent Him.”
[656] vv. 1245 _sq._
[657] vv. 1327 _sqq._
[658] vv. 1301-7. The first line, μοῖρά τ’ ἀνάγκης ἦγ’ ᾗ τὸ χρεών, is an
exceptionally fine instance of misty verbiage.
[659] See Verrall’s discussion in his edition of the _Choephorœ_ (Introd.
pp. xxxiii-lxx).
[660] _Probable Arrangement_: protagonist, Helen, the god (whether
Castor or Pollux); deuteragonist, Teucer, Menelaus, Egyptian messenger;
tritagonist, old woman, Greek messenger, Theonoe, Theoclymenus.
[661] v. 616: ὦ χαῖρε, Λήδας θύγατερ, ἐνθάδ’ ἦσθ’ ἄρα;
[662] v. 151.
[663] vv. 832, 1048, 491, 1050-2.
[664] vv. 183 _sqq._
[665] vv. 1107 _sqq._
[666] vv. 878 _sqq._
[667] vv. 1013-6:—
καὶ γὰρ τίσις τῶνδ’ ἐστὶ τοῖς τε νερτέροις
καὶ τοῖς ἄνωθεν πᾶσιν ἀνθρώποις. ὁ νοῦς
τῶν κατθανόντων ζῇ μὲν οὔ, γνώμην δ’ ἔχει
ἀθάνατον, εἰς ἀθάνατον αἰθέρ’ ἐμπεσών.
The precision of the wording is remarkable.
[668] _Troades_, 884 _sqq._
[669] See _Four Plays of Euripides_, pp. 43-133 (_Euripides’ Apology_).
[670] vv. 1301 _sqq._
[671] The idea is taken from the famous recantation of Stesichorus, which
asserted that Helen never went to Troy.
[672] In the inflated affectation of such things as vv. 355-6 and 629
parody of some contemporary lyrist is quite possible.
[673] vv. 20-1, 256-9 (rejected by Murray, after Badham).
[674] vv. 138 _sqq._, 205 _sqq._, 284-5.
[675] vv. 744-60.
[676] _Arrangement_ (according to Croiset): protagonist, Jocasta, Creon;
deuteragonist, Antigone, Polynices, Menœceus; tritagonist, pædagogus,
Eteocles, Tiresias, messengers, Œdipus.
[677] Perhaps one reason was the great sweep of story which it covers.
[678] See Mr. J. U. Powell’s careful and lucid account in his edition
(pp. 7-32).
[679] Verrall, _Eur. the Rationalist_, pp. 236 _sq._
[680] Mr. J. U. Powell, whose edition should be consulted.
[681] vv. 1233 _sq._:—
ὑμεῖς δ’ ἀγῶν’ ἀφέντες, Ἀργεῖοι, χθόνα
νίσεσθε, βίοτον μὴ λιπόντες ἐνθάδε,
are out of the question as work of Euripides. There are several other
faults.
[682] vv. 1259 _sqq._
[683] Mr. Powell, however, rightly remarks that vv. 1265-6 are “strained”.
[684] vv. 1758 _sq._
[685] vv. 1524 _sq._
[686] So the scholiast: ὅ τε ἐπὶ πᾶσι μετ’ ᾠδῆς ἀδολέσχου φυγαδευόμενος
Οἰδίπους προσέρραπται διὰ κενῆς.
[687] vv. 1090-1199 (the ῥῆσις containing the description of the Seven).
[688] vv. 1182 _sqq._
[689] Verrall (_Eur. the Rationalist_, pp. 231-60) believed that those
parts which introduce Antigone are un-Euripidean. The terrace-scene
has already been discussed. In the body of the play, as he argues
with much point, wherever mention of Antigone occurs, it is obtrusive
and embarrassing. Her lament with Œdipus at the close contains many
inappropriate features. He concludes that Œdipus is an allegory of
Euripides himself, leaving Athens in sorrow at the end of his life, and
that Antigone represents his literary offspring, the plays. The Sphinx
is “the spirit of mystery and darkness,” which the poet has fought and
quelled. All this was composed by a poet of the Euripidean circle to
commemorate the master; it includes a compliment—the quotation from the
_Œdipus Tyrannus_—to Sophocles, who had shown public respect to his rival
when the news of his death reached Athens.
[690] One notices the criticism (vv. 751 _sq._) of Æschylus, _Septem_
(vv. 375 _sqq._) when Eteocles declares that to give a list of his
champions would be waste of time.
[691] The “popular” character of the _Phœnissæ_ is brought out by the
relish with which the _Argument_ enumerates its murderous happenings.
[692] In this passage an allusion has by some been supposed to
Alcibiades’ return to Athens (411 B.C.).
[693] Cp. vv. 302 _sq._ (γηραιὸν πόδ’ ἕλκω) with v. 316 (περιχορεύουσα).
[694] vv. 528 _sqq._
[695] Croiset gives the probable _arrangement_: protagonist, Orestes,
messenger; deuteragonist, Electra, Menelaus, Phrygian; tritagonist,
Helen, Tyndareus, Pylades, Hermione, Apollo.
[696] See Murray’s text.
[697] vv. 1167 _sqq._
[698] vv. 491-525.
[699] vv. 28 _sqq._
[700] vv. 285 _sqq._ Menelaus (v. 417) casually calls Apollo “stupid”.
[701] vv. 380 _sqq._
[702] v. 386.
[703] v. 388.
[704] v. 390.
[705] vv. 544 _sqq._ The flatness of the translation given above is
not, I think, inappropriate, νῦν δὲ σὴν ταρβῶ τρίχα (v. 550), is merely
hideous. μαστοῖς τὸν ἔλεον θηρώμεναι (v. 568), is even worse.
[706] v. 551.
[707] v. 634.
[708] v. 397.
[709] vv. 640 _sq._
[710] vv. 658-61.
[711] vv. 932 _sqq._
[712] v. 1576: ποτέρον ἐρωτᾶν ἢ κλύειν ἐμοῦ θέλεις;
[713] v. 396.
[714] His “progression, upward in strength and downward in reason, is
visible throughout,” says Dr. Verrall (_Four Plays_, p. 245), whose
eloquent and vivid essay on this drama should be carefully studied.
[715] vv. 1204 _sqq._: ὦ τὰς φρένας μὲν ἄρσενας κεκτημένη....
[716] vv. 615 _sqq._
[717] vv. 72-92. Compare the amusing little passage-of-arms, vv. 107-11
(see Verrall, _Four Plays_, pp. 219 _sq._).
[718] vv. 126 _sqq._
[719] vv. 1-3.
[720] vv. 78 _sq._
[721] v. 121.
[722] vv. 960 _sqq._
[723] At v. 1539 (very late in the day) they discuss whether it is
their duty to inform the State of the murderous plot against Helen and
Hermione. Even then they decide to do nothing.
[724] vv. 1547 _sqq._
[725] Note vv. 743, 745, 747, 749, and the excitement in the last two
verses.
[726] vv. 481 _sqq._
[727] vv. 371 _sqq._
[728] v. 1323.
[729] vv. 37 _sqq._
[730] vv. 395 _sqq._
[731] Contrast v. 420: μέλλει· τὸ θεῖον δ’ ἐστὶ τοιοῦτον φύσει; with v.
423: ὡς ταχὺ μετῆλθόν σ’ αἷμα μητέρος θεαί.
[732] vv. 360 _sqq._
[733] v. 373.
[734] First Menelaus says that Glaucus spoke to him “from the waves” (v.
362), but from v. 365 (ἐμφανῶς κατασταθείς) it seems that the person
is standing on the shore. Such inconsistencies are significant, and in
Euripides common. They indicate how much accuracy the narrator commands.
[735] vv. 1493 _sqq._
[736] vv. 1662-3.
[737] Professor Gilbert Murray (_Euripides and his Age_, pp. 160 _sqq._)
has some beautiful and striking observations on the epiphany of Apollo
and its effect on the raving mortals below: a trance falls upon them from
which they awake purged of hate and anger. But could Euripides, can we,
attribute this to a god who has commanded matricide? And the effect is
largely spoiled by Orestes (vv. 1666 _sqq._): “Prophetic Loxias, what
oracles are thine! Thou art not, then, a lying prophet, but a true. Yet
had I begun to dread lest, when I heard thy voice as I thought, it was
that of a fiend.” ... These are not the tones of blissful faith.
[738] Paley says that this play is more frequently quoted by ancient
writers than all the works of Æschylus and Sophocles together.
[739] vv. 174 _sqq._
[740] _Arrangement_: Protagonist, Pentheus, Agave; deuteragonist,
Dionysus, Tiresias; tritagonist, Cadmus, guard, messengers.
[741] Before Cadmus’ speech, a passage has been lost in which the
mourners adjusted the torn fragments.
[742] There is another gap at this point. A considerable number of
Dionysus’ lines are missing, and no doubt also further conversation
between Cadmus and Agave.
[743] See Professor Murray (_Euripides and his Age_, pp. 183 _sq._). I
now think that what I wrote about the psychology of Dionysus and Pentheus
(_The Riddle of the Bacchæ_, pp. 66 _sq._, 87-101) is over-elaborated.
[744] vv. 824-45.
[745] vv. 732-51.
[746] Professor Murray’s beautiful translation of these lyrics will be
familiar to most readers.
[747] Murray, _Euripides and his Age_, p. 196. My quotation, of course,
does not imply that Professor Murray is guilty of the confusion of
thought in question.
[748] The view mentioned in this paragraph will be found worked out in
the present writer’s _Riddle of the Bacchæ_. This theory has met with
much scepticism, but received the honour of almost entire acceptance
by the late Dr. Verrall in _The Bacchantes of Euripides_. Dr. Verrall
improved the statement of the theory, in particular by rejecting the
supposition of a plot between Tiresias and the Stranger. Mr. W. H.
Salter, in his delightful _Essays on Two Moderns_, also accepts this view
of the play in the main (pp. 50-68). Dr. R. Nihard, in _Le Problème des
Bacchantes d’Euripide_ (Louvain, 1912), a useful study, rejects it.
[749] vv. 632 _sq._:—
πρὸς δὲ τοῖσδ’ αὐτῷ τάδ’ ἄλλα Βάκχιος λυμαίνεται·
δώματ’ ἔρρηξεν χαμᾶζε. συντεθράνωται δ’ ἅπαν ...
συντεθράνωται, however, is elsewhere only known to us by the explanation
of Hesychius, συμπέπτωκε, and Verrall points out that it ought to mean
“it has all been put together again”.
[750] To this view no complete answer has yet been made. All that can
possibly be said is what Professor Gilbert Murray (_Euripides and his
Age_, pp. 186 _sq._) and (in a letter to the present writer) Professor
U. von Wilamowitz-Moellendorff suggest, that the palace is in the main
destroyed, but the façade is more or less undamaged. This does away
with the testimony to Dionysus’ imposture which the audience receive
from their own eyes, but it leaves untouched the incredible silence of
Pentheus. Moreover, Dionysus’ words as they stand mean that the building
is utterly destroyed. That they do not mean this is only suggested in
despair, because, if they do mean this, they are absurdly and patently
false.
[751] v. 233 _sq._: ξένος, γόης ἐπῳδός.
[752] The attachment between Artemis and Hippolytus is a remarkable
exception. The stories concerning the “loves” of gods and goddesses for
mortals are evidently beside the question.
[753] vv. 1325 _sq._
[754] _Bellerophon_, _fr._ 294, 7: εἰ θεοί τι δρῶσιν αἰσχρόν, οὐκ εἰσὶν
θεοί.
[755] _Arrangement_: Croiset gives: protagonist, Agamemnon, Achilles;
deuteragonist, Old Man, Iphigenia, messenger; tritagonist, Menelaus,
Clytæmnestra.
[756] For these see Professor Murray’s text, especially his preface.
[757] It contains, for instance, unmetrical verses.
[758] vv. 1366 _sq._
[759] vv. 919-74.
[760] For what follows cp. Professor Murray, _Euripides and his Age_, pp.
173-5.
[761] v. 414.
[762] The elision of αι in v. 407.
[763] _Poetic_, 1454_a_.
[764] _Arrangement_: protagonist, Odysseus; deuteragonist, Silenus;
tritagonist, Polyphemus.
[765] The _Detectives_ (Ἰχνευταί) of Sophocles is now known to us by
extensive fragments, see pp. 175 _sq._
[766] Murray puts it “perhaps even before 438”.
[767] It attracted little attention from ancient scholars. There are no
scholia, and the hypothesis is incomplete.
[768] _Odyssey IX._ 105-566.
[769] Cp. vv. 549, 672-5, with _Od. IX._ vv. 366, 408-12.
[770] Cp. vv. 460-3 with _Od. IX._ 384-8.
[771] See p. 2.
[772] Anapæsts in other feet than the first, and occasional violations of
the rule of the final cretic (see Chapter VI).
[773] vv. 316-41.
[774] The _arrangement_ of the cast is not clear; perhaps: protagonist,
Hector, Odysseus; deuteragonist, Æneas, Rhesus, Diomedes, charioteer;
tritagonist, Dolon, herdsman, Athena, Muse. The brief part of Paris may
have been taken by Diomedes or Odysseus, possibly by a fourth actor.
[775] ἀνθρωποδαίμων (v. 971).
[776] vv. 474-84.
[777] vv. 546-56.
[778] An excellent summary of the evidence (to which I am indebted) is to
be found in the _Introduction_ to Professor Murray’s verse-translation.
[779] Its author, however, is by no means convinced by them. He gives
also interesting information on other points.
[780] That is, the two prologues mentioned in the _Argument_ were added
for later performances.
[781] Another argument on this side, which is perhaps new, lies in the
fact that almost all the action takes place at night—an unique feature.
The ancient theatre, of course, could not be darkened. It might be urged
that the drama was meant for readers only, and so comes from one of the
ἀναγνωστικοί of the fourth century (see p. 32).
[782] vv. 319-23.
[783] vv. 422-53.
[784] It suffices to mention Scaliger, Böckh, Hermann, Valckenaer, and
Wilamowitz-Moellendorff.
[785] Upheld, _e.g._ by Christ and Murray.
[786] Schol. on v. 528.
[787] vv. 962-73.
[788] On the whole question see Mr. W. H. Porter’s excellent paper, “The
Euripidean _Rhesus_ in the Light of Recent Criticism” (_Hermathena_,
xvii. pp. 348-80), and his useful edition of the play.
[789] Cp. pp. 119 _sq._, 165 _sq._
[790] Euripides revises even the diction of his predecessor. Æschylus
wrote φαγέδαινα δ’ ἥ μου σάρκας ἐσθίει ποδός; Euripides repeats the line
with the verb altered to θοινᾶται (Aristotle, _Poetic_, 1458_b_).
[791] vv. 1520-7.
[792] _Quomodo historia conscribenda_, § 1.
[793] See Hartung’s masterly treatment in _Euripides Restitutus_, II, pp.
344-60.
[794] Ruskin, _Mornings in Florence_, I, 14.
[795] The statements in this sentence are taken from Hartung, who bases
his conception here upon other authors; there are no Euripidean fragments
to this effect.
[796] Eratosthenes (_Catast._ 15, quoted by Nauck) says: οὐχ εἵλετο τῷ
πατρὶ συμμένειν οὐδὲ τῇ μητρί, ἀλλ’ αὐθαίρετος εἰς τὸ Ἄργος ἀπῆλθε μετ’
ἐκείνου εὐγενές τι φρονήσασα. The last three words suggest a scene of
irresolution followed by a speech of high resolve, as in the _Iphigenia
at Aulis_.
[797] I, 33.
[798] See Goethe’s enthusiastic and brilliant discussion, _Altgriechische
Literatur_ (Works, Vol. V, p. 127, edition of 1837).
[799] Hartung’s brilliant sketch of Phaethon’s character (_Eur.
Restitutus_, II, pp. 192 _sq._), however imaginary, will be read with
interest.
[800] This is an acute suggestion of Goethe.
[801] ὡς πανταχοῦ γε πατρὶς ἡ βόσκουσα γῆ.
[802] δένδρεα φίλοισιν ὠλέναισι ψυκτήρια λέξεται.
[803] The chorus in their terror bid the queen seek refuge with her
father Oceanus.
[804] See _Oxyrhynchus Papyri_, VI, pp. 19-106.
[805] The scholiast on _Frogs_, v. 53, which was performed in 405 B.C.
(the year after Euripides’ death) mentions the _Hypsipyle_ among recent
plays.
[806] The critic Didymus, for instance, knew the _Hypsipyle_ better than
the _Bacchæ_. For “Achelous” as a synonym for “water” he quotes the
former play rather than _Bacchæ_, 625. See Macrobius, V, xviii. 12.
[807] That is, “the beginning of doom”.
[808] Hartung, _Eur. Rest._ II, p. 442.
[809] Μελανίππη ἡ σοφή, so called to distinguish it from Μ. δέσμωτις,
or _Melanippe in Prison_. The latter play seems to have been much less
important. Unfortunately there is often a doubt, when authorities quote
the “_Melanippe_,” from which of the two the quotation comes.
[810] See pp. 313-5.
[811] ἔχει δὲ διπλοῦν σχῆμα, τὸ μὲν τοῦ ποιητοῦ, τὸ δὲ τοῦ προσώπου τοῦ
ἐν τῷ δράματι, τῆς Μελανίππης (quoted by Nauck).
[812] _Jupiter Tragœdus_, 41.
[813] Hartung assigns it to 448 B.C.
[814] Cp. Aristotle’s criticism, _Poetic_, 1454_a_: τοῦ δὲ ἀπρεποῦς καὶ
μὴ ἁρμόττοντος (παράδειγμα) ... ἡ τῆς Μελανίππης ῥῆσις.
[815] _Moralia_, 110 D, 998 E.
[816] _Poetic_, 1454_a_.
[817]
κοίλοις ἐν ἄλυχνος ὥστε θὴρ μόνος (_fr._ 425).
[818]
τίς δ’ οἶδεν εἰ τὸ ζῆν μέν ἐστι κατθανεῖν,
τὸ κατθανεῖν δὲ ζῆν κάτω νομίζεται;
[819] 1 Cor. xv. 33.
[820] _Fr._ 1034:—
ἅπας μὲν ἀὴρ ἀετῷ περάσιμος,
ἅπασα δὲ χθὼν ἀνδρὶ γενναίῳ πατρίς.
[821] _Fr._ 475.
[822] Mr. F. Manning, _Scenes and Portraits_ (_Preface_, p. viii).
[823] Aristotle, _Poetic_, 1460_b_: Σοφοκλῆς ἔφη αὐτὸς μὲν οἵους δεῖ
ποιεῖν, Εὐριπίδην δὲ οἷοί εἰσιν.
[824] _Frogs_, vv. 850, 1043 _sq._
[825] _Ibid._ 954-8.
[826] _Ibid._ 1304-8, 1314, 1348.
[827] _Ibid._ 1309-63.
[828] _Ibid._ 1378-1410.
[829] _Ibid._ 1198 _sqq._
[830] _Poetic_, 1454_a_.
[831] _Ibid._ 1461_b_.
[832] _Ibid._ 1453_a_. ὁ Εὐριπίδης εἰ καὶ τὰ ἄλλα μὴ εὖ οἰκονομεῖ ἀλλὰ
τραγικώτατός γε τῶν ποιητῶν φαίνεται.
[833] _Andromache_, _Electra_, _Bacchæ_, _Rhesus_, and the original text
of the _Iphigenia at Aulis_ (see Murray’s _Apparatus_ at the end of the
play). Aristotle naturally allows such as these (_Poetic_, 1454_b_):
μηχανῇ χρηστέον ἐπὶ τὰ ἔξω τοῦ δράματος, κτἑ.
[834] In the extant plays. Of course there were others, which we cannot
discuss with knowledge, _e.g._ the close of _Melanippe the Wise_.
[835] For the _Iphigenia_ carries the _Helena_ with it (see the
discussion of the latter, pp. 260 _sqq._). As a matter of cold fact, to
be sure, Theoclymenus could never have overtaken the Greeks.
[836] _Frogs_, 1198-1247.
[837] He seems in private conversation to have maintained the necessity
of this; compare the criticism of Æschylus which he utters in the
_Frogs_, 1122: ἀσαφὴς γὰρ ἦν ἐν τῇ φράσει τῶν πραγμάτων. φ.τ.π. is
precisely “prologue” in the Euripidean sense.
[838] _Herc. Fur._, 601 _sqq._
[839] Mr. G. B. Shaw.
[840] _Troades_, vv. 1204-6. Cp. _Helena_, 1140-3.
[841] See Mr. W. H. S. Jones, _The Moral Standpoint of Euripides_, pp. 28
_sq._ This view is also set forth by Jebb, _The Growth and Influence of
Classical Greek Poetry_, p. 218, and by Nestle, _Euripides der Dichter
der Gr. Aufklärung_, p. 174.
[842] _Orestes_, vv. 982 _sqq._: μόλοιμι τὰν οὐρανοῦ κτἑ.
[843] See Mr. E. F. Carritt, _The Theory of Beauty_, p. 156.
[844] _Ibid._ p. 89.
[845] v. 618.
[846] _Helena_, vv. 489 _sqq._
[847] _Iph. Aul._, vv. 819 _sqq._
[848] _Ion_, v. 1039.
[849] _The Possessed_, Ch. I.
[850] v. 674: ὦ πατρὸς ὅμαιμε θεῖε.
[851] _Orestes_, vv. 71-111.
[852] M. Arnold, _The Scholar-Gipsy_. Cp. Mrs. Browning’s well-known
lines on “Our Euripides the human”.
[853] _Fr._ 916:—
μή μοι
λεπτῶν θίγγανε μύθων, ψυχή·
τί περισσὰ φρονεῖς, εἰ μὴ μέλλεις
σεμνύνεσθαι παρ’ ὁμοίοις;
[854] _Fr._ 894:—
σοφὸν γὰρ ἄνδρα, κἂν ἑκὰς ναίῃ χθονός,
κἂν μήποτ’ ὄσσοις εἰσίδω, κρίνω φίλον.
And Nestle (p. 368) aptly quotes from Schiller’s _Don Carlos_ (III, 10):
Das Jahrhundert
Ist meinem Ideal nicht reif. Ich lebe
Ein bürger derer, welche kommen werden.
[855] See the celebrated sketch of progressive degradation in Thucydides
(III, 82, 83).
[856] Dr. W. Nestle’s work is entitled _Euripides der Dichter der
griechischen Aufklärung_.
[857] _Herc. Fur._, 673 _sqq._
[858] A totally different thing from the written Greek accents ΄, `, and
῀, which refer to pitch, not stress.
[859] συνάφεια, “connexion,” “continuity.”
[860] These cause almost all the difficulty of scanning iambics. Till one
is quite familiar with them it is a good plan to begin at the end. Nearly
all resolved feet occur in the third or fourth place.
[861] Sophocles sometimes neglects this pause. Not only does he
occasionally end a line with a word (such as the definite article) which
belongs closely to the first word of the next line; in a few places he
elides a vowel at the end before a vowel in the following line. See, for
instance, _Œd. Tyr._, 29.
[862] Latin, _cæsura_ “a cutting”.
[863] No such lines are extant in Greek, but an analogy can be found in
Ennius’ hexameter:
Sparsis hastis longis campus splendet et horret.
In the _Peruigilium Veneris_, the trochee is much too often contained in
a single word, _e.g._:
Hybla totos funde flores, quotquot annus adtulit.
[864] It is so called because the second half of the fifth foot _plus_
the sixth will obviously have the metrical form –⏑–, which sequence of
syllables, when it forms a single foot (as, of course, it does not in
iambics), is called a cretic. The rule is therefore often thus stated:
“When the final cretic extends over a whole word or whole words, it must
be preceded by a short syllable”.
[865] Iambics were adopted because nearer to the rhythm of everyday
speech. It has been held, for instance by Dr. J. H. H. Schmidt, that
iambics are nothing but trochaics with “anacrusis” (for this term see
below, p. 342). So near is the iambic metre to ordinary talk that one now
and again finds accidental “lines” in prose. Thus Demosthenes (_Olynth._,
I, 5) writes δῆλον γάρ ἐστι τοῖς Ὀλυνθίοις ὅτι.... George Eliot, early in
_Middlemarch_, actually produces two consecutive “lines”: “Obliged to get
my coals by stratagem, and pray to heaven for my salad-oil”.
[866] Euripides is much fonder of this metre than the other two
masters. Sophocles in particular is very sparing of it. That passage
(_Philoctetes_, 1222 _sqq._), where Odysseus and Neoptolemus hurry upon
the scene in violent (iambic) altercation, would infallibly have been put
into trochaics by Euripides.
[867] From καταλήγω, “to stop short”.
[868] The two instances given are, in fact, all that I have found.
[869] διαίρεσις, “division”.
[870] For example, the splendid poem by Anacreon beginning πῶλε Θρῃκίη is
printed by some in long lines, by others in short, even though the first,
third, etc., long lines are not catalectic.
[871] The meaning of this term is uncertain.
[872] I have, here and later, printed the readings and arrangement best
suited to my purpose.
[873] Greek συγκοπή, “coalescence”. But ⏗ need not fill a foot: for
instance in a true _dactylic_ system we find (_Œd. Col._, 1082):—
– ⏑ ⏑ – ⏑ ⏑ – – ⏗ ⏑ ⏗ ⏑ – –
αιθερι|ας νεφελ|ας κυρσ|αιμ αν|ωθ αγ|ωνων.
Analogously to ⏗ as a trochee, dactyls admit ⏘ (= ⏑⏑⏑⏑) as a foot.
– ⏑⏑ ⏘ ⏘ ⏗ ⏑ – – – ⏑ ⏑ ⏘ –
θησεα | και | τας | διστολ|ους αδμ|ητας αδ|ελφ|αςꞈ̄(_Œd. Col._, 1055).
[874] Before condemning this statement as a mere evasion, the student
should reflect that all such poetry is written for music, which would in
performance make the rhythm “come right”.
[875] λογαοιδικός, “mingled of prose and verse”.
[876] ἀνάκρουσις, “striking up”.
[877] Not all, for the first short syllable may be part of a resolved
foot.
[878] The first syllable of πρυμνησίων in the second line, though long,
is musically equivalent to a short. Such syllables are marked with the
sign ˃, and the foot τοῑ πρυ͐μν- may be called an “accelerated spondee”.
Syllables which carry a musical length different from their metrical
length are named “irrational”.
[879] The existence of these cola forms (to us who have not the music
written for Greek lyrics) one of the greatest obstacles to a clear and
easy perception of periodic structure.
[880] In lyrics a long syllable (if it does not end with a consonant) may
be shortened—instead of disappearing by elision—before a vowel.
[881] ἡ ἐπῳδός. The masculine word, ὁ ἐπῳδός, has a different meaning,
with which we are familiar from the _Epodes_ of Horace—a poem which
repeats from beginning to end the same period, each period being usually
two cola “which either have equal length, or the second of which is
catalectic or ‘falling’ or is even shortened by an entire measure” (see
Schmidt’s _Introduction_, Eng. tr. by Prof. J. W. White, pp. 93 _sqq._).
[882] Though my obligations to Dr. J. H. H. Schmidt’s volumes, especially
_Die Eurhythmie in den Chorgesängen der Griechen_, are very great, I
cannot see in his verse-pause—according to him (_Eurhythmie_, p. 89)
the foundation of his system—anything but a delusion. Dr. Schmidt’s own
appendices show a good minority of “verses” which end with no pause.
[883] The first two syllables (⏑⏑) correspond to the first (–) of Οἰδίπου.
[884] How? By examination of the whole period. If we look at the seventh
line of the strophe from _Antigone_, scanned above, it may seem arbitrary
to write
– ˃
| αιναν ‖
rather than
⏗ –
| αιν|ανꞈ‖.
But the former method is suggested by the corresponding fourth line,
which cannot possibly be scanned otherwise than as above, and which
therefore has four feet; hence we scan -αιναν so as to give the seventh
line also four, not five, feet altogether.
[885] It is therefore possible to scan the ordinary iambics of dialogue
as trochees:—
˃ – ⏑ – ˃ – ⏑ – ˃ – ⏑ –
ειθ ⁝ ωφελ | Αργους | μη δι|απτασθ|αι σκαφ|οςꞈ (_Medea_, 1).
This is the method followed by Dr. J. H. H. Schmidt, and of course
changes altogether the rules given above (§ II), but will hardly perplex
the student. It has the advantage of bringing “iambic” dialogue closer to
lyric and to episodic trochees, but it has seemed more convenient to keep
the traditional statement.
[886] Printed as one line, though containing a colon which ends with the
end of a word, because the corresponding line of the antistrophe contains
a colon which does not:—
πρῶτά σε κεκλόμενος, θύγατ‖ερ Διός, ἄμβροτ’ Ἀθάνα....
[887] Because spondaic _words_ are lacking. It is sometimes said that
the only spondee in English is “amen”. The peculiar pronunciation of
this word is due to the fact that it is so often sung to music where
each syllable is given a whole bar. The name of Seaford in Sussex is
undoubtedly pronounced by its inhabitants ∸∸; but one may perhaps
therefore argue that it should be written “Sea Ford”.
[888] This important sequence may be conveniently memorized—if we
substitute accent for quantity—by the sentence “Attack Rome at once”.
[889] I take this figure from Schmidt’s _Introduction_ (English
Translation, p. 76).
[890] The first two syllables of this word form the anacrusis, though the
metre is trochaic; that is, we find ⏑⏑ instead of ⏑. In such cases the
two “shorts” are given the length of one only, and this is indicated by
the sign ω.
[891] I have taken Schmidt’s readings and arrangement for the sake of an
example. Murray’s arrangement is quite different.
INDICES
I. GREEK
Names of plays, etc., in capitals
ΑΘΛΑ, 5.
ΑΙΑΣ, 132-6.
— ΜΑΣΤΙΓΟΦΟΡΟΣ, 132-6.
ΑΙΤΝΑΙΑΙ, 119.
ΑΛΚΗΣΤΙΣ, 186-92.
ἀναβαίνω, 54 n.
ἀνάγκη, 38.
ἀναγνωστικοί, 32, 293 n.
ἀναίδεια, 325.
ἀνάκρουσις, 342 n.
ΑΝΔΡΟΜΑΧΗ, 219-28.
ἀνὴρ δίψυχος, 311.
ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ, 136-41.
ἀντιλαβή, 181 n.
ἀντιστροφή, 344.
ἀπέδωκε, 3 n.
ἀπὸ σκηνῆς, 57.
ἄτη, 129.
αὖθις, 83.
ΑΧΑΙΩΝ ΣΥΛΛΟΓΟΣ, 174.
ΑΧΙΛΛΕΩΣ ΕΡΑΣΤΑΙ, 174.
ΒΑΚΧΑΙ, 277-85.
βαλλάντιον, 34 n.
ΒΑΣΣΑΡΑΙ, 117.
ΒΑΣΣΑΡΙΔΕΣ, 117.
βρῦτον, 118 n.
δαιμόνιον σημεῖον, 163 n.
διαίρεσις, 336 n.
ΔΙΔΑΣΚΑΛΙΑΙ, 62.
δράσαντι παθεῖν, 110 n., 129 and n.
ΕΚΑΒΗ, 215-9.
ἐκσυρίττειν, 83 n.
ΕΚΤΟΡΟΣ ΛΥΤΡΑ, 118.
ἐλελελεῦ, 25.
ΕΛΕΝΗ, 258-64.
ΕΛΕΥΣΙΝΙΟΙ, 119.
ἐπεισόδια, 4 n.
ΕΠΙΔΗΜΙΑΙ, 23 n.
ἐπὶ σκηνῆς, 57, 59.
ἐπὶ τῆς σκηνῆς, 54.
ἐπί τινος μετεώρου, 57.
ἐπῳδικόν, 344.
ἐπῳδός, 345 n.
ΕΥΜΕΝΙΔΕΣ, 111-7.
εὐριπιδαριστοφανίζειν, 19 n.
ΗΔΩΝΟΙ, 117.
ΗΛΕΚΤΡΑ, 141-5, 252-8.
ΗΛΙΑΔΕΣ, 119.
ἡμιχόρια, 78.
ΗΡΑΚΛΕΙΔΑΙ, 200-5.
ΗΡΑΚΛΗΣ ΜΑΙΝΟΜΕΝΟΣ, 228-34.
θεῖον, τὸ, 30.
θεός, 283.
ΘΕΡΙΣΤΑΙ, 192, 296.
θεωρικόν, τὸ, 82.
ΘΡΗΙΣΣΑΙ, 119.
θυμέλη, 51.
θυμός, 22, 198.
ΙΚΕΤΙΔΕΣ, 84-6, 234-6.
ἴκρια, 81.
ΙΠΠΟΛΥΤΟΣ ΚΑΛΥΠΤΟΜΕΝΟΣ, 205 n.
— ΣΤΕΦΑΝΗΦΟΡΟΣ, 205-15.
— ΣΤΕΦΑΝΙΑΣ, 205-15.
ΙΦΙΓΕΝΕΙΑ Η ΕΝ ΑΥΛΙΔΙ, 285-9.
— — — ΤΑΥΡΟΙΣ, 247-52.
ΙΧΝΕΥΤΑΙ, 175-6, 289 n.
ΙΩΝ, 236-43.
ΚΑΒΕΙΡΟΙ, 119.
καταβαίνω, 54 n.
καταλήγω, 334 n.
κερκίδες, 51.
κλίμακες, 51.
κόθορνος, 69.
κομμοί, 74.
κομμός, 107.
κορυφαῖος, 78.
κρηπίς, 68.
ΚΥΚΛΩΨ, 289-91.
κῶλον, 343.
λογαοιδικός, 341 n.
λογεῖον, 52.
ΛΥΚΟΥΡΓΕΙΑ, 117.
ΜΕΓΑ ΔΡΑΜΑ, 24 and n.
ΜΕΛΑΝΙΠΠΗ ΔΕΣΜΩΤΙΣ, 305 n.
— Η ΣΟΦΗ, 305 n.
μεσῳδικόν, 344.
ΜΗΔΕΙΑ, 192-9.
μηχανή, 65.
μύρμηκος ἀτραπούς, 26 n.
ΜΥΡΜΙΔΟΝΕΣ, 118.
ΝΕΑΝΙΣΚΟΙ, 117.
ΝΗΡΗΙΔΕΣ, 118.
ΝΙΟΒΗ, 119.
νόμοι, 72.
ὄγκος, 69.
ΟΙΔΙΠΟΥΣ ΕΠΙ ΚΟΛΩΝΩΙ, 167-73.
— ΤΥΡΑΝΝΟΣ, 145-54.
οἱ ἐν τῷ φανερῷ θάνατοι, 45 and n.
ΟΙ ΕΠΤΑ ΕΠΙ ΘΗΒΑΣ, 89.
οἰκεῖα πράγματα, 20.
ὀκρίβας, 56, 57.
ΟΡΕΣΤΗΣ, 268-77.
ὀρχήστρα, 50.
παλινῳδία, 360.
παραχορήγημα, 71.
παρασκήνια, 51.
παρεπιγραφή, 175.
πάροδοι, 51.
περίακτοι, 63.
περίοδος, 343.
ΠΕΡΣΑΙ, 86.
προεδρία, 81.
ΠΡΟΜΗΘΕΥΣ ΔΕΣΜΩΤΗΣ, 91-8.
— ΛΥΟΜΕΝΟΣ, 92-3.
— ΠΥΡΦΟΡΟΣ, 92-3.
προπομποί, 116.
προῳδικόν, 344.
πρωταγωνιστής, 72.
ῥαβδοφόροι, 82.
ΡΗΣΟΣ, 291-5.
ῥοῖβδος, 175 n.
σεμναί, 113 n.
σκηνή, 52, 54.
σμικρὸν ἔπος, 171 and n.
σμικρὸς λόγος, 171 and n.
Σπάρτην ἔλαχες, ταύτην κόσμει, 295.
στίχος, 359.
στροφή, 344.
συγκοπή, 341 n.
συνάφεια, 330 n.
ΣΥΝΔΕΙΠΝΟΙ, 174.
ΣΥΝΕΚΔΗΜΗΤΙΚΟΣ, 23 n.
συνίζησις, 332.
τὰ ἀπὸ τῆς σκηνῆς, 54.
τετραλογία, 61 n.
τί ταῦτα πρὸς τὸν Διόνυσον; 2 n.
τὸ δὲ δρᾶμα τῶν δευτέρων, 223 and n.
τὸ θεῖον, 30.
τὸ θεωρικόν, 82.
τονή, 341, 347, 352, 355, 360.
τράγος, 62 n.
τραγῳδία, 62 n.
ΤΡΑΧΙΝΙΑΙ, 154-60.
τριβή, 38.
ΤΡΩΙΑΔΕΣ, 243-6.
τύχη, 28, 32.
ὑποκριτής, 1.
ὑπομνήματα, 22, 23 n.
ὑπορχήματα, 78.
ΦΙΛΟΚΤΗΤΗΣ, 161.
ΦΟΙΝΙΣΣΑΙ, 264-8.
φράσις τῶν πραγμάτων, 316 n.
ΦΡΥΓΕΣ, 118.
φύσις, 318.
ΧΟΗΦΟΡΟΙ, 106-10.
ΧΡΙΣΤΟΣ ΠΑΣΧΩΝ, 41.
ΨΥΧΟΣΤΑΣΙΑ, 120.
II. PLACES, ETC.
A. = Aristophanes, Æ. = Æschylus, E. = Euripides, S. = Sophocles,
Sh. = Shakespeare.
Abdera, 298.
Acharnæ, in _Acharnians_, 296.
Achelous, in _Trachiniæ_, 160.
— 304 n.
Acropolis, 14, 49, 239.
— in _Eumenides_, 113.
Ægospotami, 13, 182, 324.
Æthiopia, in _Andromeda_, 299.
Ætolia, in _Cresphontes_, 307-8.
Alexandria, Library of, 39.
— Pleiad of, 39.
— Theatrical activity in, 3rd century B.C., 39.
Amphipolis, 294.
Arachnæus, Mount, in _Agamemnon_, 101.
Arden, Forest of, 63.
Areopagus, in _Eumenides_, 112 ff., 128 n.
Argolid plain, in S.’s _Electra_, 63.
Argos, in _Agamemnon_, 99 ff.
— — _Choephorœ_, 106.
— — _Eumenides_, 112.
— — _Supplices_ of Æ., 84.
— — E.’s _Electra_, 253.
— — — _Heracleidæ_, 200 ff.
— — — _Orestes_, 268 ff.
— — — _Supplices_, 234 n., 235.
— — — _Telephus_, 295.
— 316, 321.
Asia Minor, Græco-Roman theatres in, 59 n.
Asopus, plain of, in _Agamemnon_, 124.
Athens, 228-9, 244, 252 n., 307, 312, 324-5.
— Agathon of, 21.
— and drama, 3, 5.
— — Euripides, 317 ff.
— Athena’s temple in, 63.
— in _Eumenides_, 111 ff.
— — _Œd. Coloneus_, 168 ff., 185.
— — E.’s _Erechtheus_, 297.
— — — _Hippolytus_, 205 ff., 213.
— — — _Ion_, 236 ff.
— — — _Supplices_, 234 n., 235.
— local cults of, in Æ., 128.
— Phrynichus of, 6.
— Sophocles of, 12.
Athens’ war with Eleusis, 119.
Athos, Mt., in _Agamemnon_, 101.
Attica, 4, 279.
— and Furies, 131.
— E.’s cenotaph in, 18.
— in _Eumenides_, 113.
— — _Heracleidæ_, 200.
— — _Medea_, 194.
Aulis, 247, 270.
— in _Iph. at A._, 285 ff.
Bradfield College, Gk. plays at, 55.
Byzantium, 313.
— Homer, the tragedian of? 40.
— Python of? 39.
Caria, Mausolus, k. of, 38.
Catana, Python of? 39.
Chæronea, battle of, 31.
Chapel, Sistine, 102.
Chios, Ion of, 21 ff.
— Sophocles in, 15.
Chryse, in S.’s _Philoctetes_, 161.
Cithæron, Mt., in _Œd. Tyr._, 147 ff.
— — — E.’s _Bacchæ_, 277 ff.
Colchis, Mt., in E.’s _Medea_, 192 ff.
Colonus, Eumenides at, 172.
— in _Œd. Coloneus_, 168 ff.
— Sophocles’ home, 172.
— — song, 71.
Congo, Upper, 248.
Corinth, 22.
— and drama, 3.
— in _Œd. Tyr._, 147.
— — _Medea_, 192 ff., 313.
Crete, in _Hippolytus_, 206 ff.
Cynthus, 249.
Cyzicus, 167.
Delium, 234 n.
Delphi, 257.
— in _Choephorœ_, 108, 110.
— — _Eumenides_, 111 ff., 63.
— — S.’s _Electra_, 142.
— — — _Œd. Tyr._, 147 ff.
— — E.’s _Andromache_, 220 ff.
— — — _Ion_, 236 ff., 314.
— — — _Iph. T._, 247 ff.
— — — _Medea_, 193.
— — — _Phœnissæ_, 264.
Dodona, in E.’s _Andromache_, 221.
Egypt, 184.
— in _Prom. V._, 94.
— — _Supplices_ of Æ., 84 ff.
— — _Helena_ of E., 259 ff., 322.
Eleusis, Æ. of, 10, 119.
— mysteries of, 10, 11, 173.
Eleutheræ, priest of Dionysus of, 80.
England and Education, 324.
Eretria, Achæus of, 21, 25.
— Menedemus of, 25.
Eridanus, R., in _Hippolytus_, 208.
Etna, Mt., in _Cyclops_, 289 f.
— — eruption of, in _Prom. V._, 91.
Eubœa, in _Agamemnon_, 101.
— — _Trachiniæ_, 154.
Forest of Arden, in Shakespeare, 63.
Gela, 11.
Great Britain, dramatic renaissance in, v.
Hades, 86, 95, 202-3.
— in Critias’ _Pirithous_, 29.
— — E.’s _Herc. Fur._, 228 ff.
— Sophocles in, 14 n.
Halicarnassus, Dionysius of, 306 n.
Helene, island of, 262.
Hellas, 89, 248.
Hull, 248.
Hydaspes R., 39.
Icaria, Thespis of, 4.
Ilium, 245.
Jhelum R., 39.
Lemnos, in Æ.’s _Philoctetes_, 120.
— — E.’s _Hypsipyle_, 304.
— — S.’s _Philoctetes_, 161 ff.
Lenæon, 49.
Lesbos, in Æ.’s _Bassarids_, 117.
Macedonia, Archelaus, k. of, 18.
— E.’s death in, 15, 277.
Macistus, Mt., in _Agamemnon_, 124.
Malea, 275.
Marathon, 122, 163, 325.
— Æ. at, 10.
— in _Heracleidæ_, 200.
Melos, sack of, 244.
— Venus of, 182.
Messenia, in E.’s _Cresphontes_, 307.
Miletus, capture of, 494 B.C., 7.
Molottia, in _Andromache_, 221.
Mount Arachnæus, _see_ Arachnæus.
— Athos, _see_ Athos.
— Cithæron, _see_ C.
— Etna, _see_ E.
— Œta, _see_ Œ.
— Parnassus, _see_ P.
Mysia, in E.’s _Telephus_, 295-6.
Nauplia, 275.
Nemea, in E.’s _Hypsipyle_, 304.
Nile, R., in E.’s _Helena_, 322.
Nine Ways, 294.
Odessa, 248.
Odeum at Athens, 56.
Œnophyta, 184.
Œta, Mt., in _Trachiniæ_, 155.
Omphalos at Delphi, in _Eumenides_, 111.
Othrys, Mt., in _Alcestis_, 188.
Oxyrhynchus, 18, 304.
Parnassus, Mt., in _Ion_, 237.
Parthenon, 14, 182.
Peiræus, 49, 245.
Peloponnese, 6, 304.
Persia, in _Persæ_, 123-4.
Phaselis, Theodectes of, 36.
Pheræ, Alexander of, 35.
— in _Alcestis_, 186.
Phlius, Pratinas of, 6.
Phocis, 249.
Phthia, in _Andromache_, 219 ff.
Platæa, battle of, in _Persæ_, 87.
Propylæa, 14.
Punjaub, 39.
Salamis, 7, 12, 14.
— Æ. at, 10.
— E. at, 17.
— E. born at, 17.
— in _Persæ_, 87.
Saronic gulf, in _Agamemnon_, 124.
Scyros, in S.’s _Philoctetes_, 162.
Scythia, in _Prom. V._, 93.
Seaford, Sussex, 354 n.
Shrine of Thetis, in _Andromache_, 219 ff.
Sicilian sea, in E.’s _Electra_, 253.
Sicily, 119, 313.
— Æ. in, 10.
Sicyon, 3 n., 22.
— Neophron of, 21.
Sistine Chapel, 102.
South Russia, 247-8.
Sparta, in E.’s _Telephus_, 295.
— — A.’s _Acharnians_, 296.
Susa, Xerxes’ palace at, in _Persæ_, 88.
Syracuse, E. in, 17.
— Hiero of, 10.
Tauri, in _Iph. T._, 321.
Tegea, Aristarchus of, 21-2.
Tent of Agamemnon, 52.
Thebes, in _Seven_.
— — _Antigone_, 137 ff.
— — _Œd. Col._, 168 ff., 185.
— — _Œd. Tyr._, 145 ff.
— — E.’s _Antiope_, 298.
— — — _Bacchæ_, 277 ff.
— — — _Herc. Fur._, 228 ff.
— — — _Hypsipyle_, 304-5.
— — — _Phœnissæ_, 264 ff.
— — — _Supplices_, 235.
The Marshes, Athens, 49.
Thessaly, in _Alcestis_, 186 ff.
— — _Andromache_, 219 ff.
Thibet, 248.
Thrace and Athens, 294-5.
— in _Hecuba_, 215 ff.
Tomb of Achilles, in _Hecuba_, 216.
— — Agamemnon, in E.’s _Electra_, 253.
— — Clytæmnestra, in E.’s _Orestes_, 269.
— — Darius, in Æ.’s _Persæ_, 64.
— — Proteus, in E.’s _Helena_, 259.
Trachis, in _Trachiniæ_, 154 ff.
Troad, 295.
Trœzen, in _Hippolytus_, 205 ff.
Troy, 118, 270.
— in _Agamemnon_, 99 ff.
— — Æ.’s _Philoctetes_, 120.
— — — _Weighing of the Souls_, 120.
— — S.’s _Ajax_, 132 ff.
— — — _Laocoon_, 174.
— — — _Philoctetes_, 161 ff.
— — E.’s _Electra_, 253.
— — — _Hecuba_, 215 ff.
— — — _Helena_, 259 ff.
— — — _I. A._, 285 ff.
— — — _Rhesus_, 291 ff.
— — — _Telephus_, 295.
— — — _Troades_, 243.
Upper Congo, 248.
Verona, its scenery, in Sh., 63.
Venusberg, 283.
Venice, its scenery, in Sh., 63.
III. PERSONS AND WORKS
A. = Aristophanes, Æ. = Æschylus, Ar. = Aristotle, E. = Euripides, S. =
Sophocles, Sh. = Shakespeare. Names of authors in small capitals, of
works in italics.
Acamas, in _Heracleidæ_, 200 ff.
ACHÆUS of Eretria, 21, 25.
— — — his _Philoctetes_, 25.
_Acharnians_, _see_ ARISTOPHANES.
Achilles, 176, 226, 319.
— in Æ., 20.
— — — _Myrmidons_, 118.
— — — _Nereids_, 118.
— — — _Phrygians_, 118.
— — — _Weighing of Souls_, 120.
— — E. _Andromache_, 220.
— — — _I. Aul._, 285 ff., 317, 322.
— — — _Telephus_, 295-6.
— — Homer’s _Iliad_, 119, 288.
— — S. _Philoctetes_, 162.
— — tomb of, in E. _Hecuba_, 216.
_Achilles_, of Aristarchus, 23.
Actor, in E. _Philoctetes_, 296.
Admetus, in E. _Alcestis_, 187 ff.
_A Doll’s House_, _see_ IBSEN.
_Ad Quintum Fratrem_, _see_ CICERO.
Adrastus, 3 n.
— k. of Argos, in Æ. _Septem_, 89.
— in E. _Hypsip._, 305.
— — _Suppl._, 234 ff.
_Adversus indoctos_, _see_ LUCIAN.
ÆANTIDES, 40.
Ægeus, k. of Athens, in E. _Medea_, 193, 312, 322-3.
— — — — — Neophron’s _M._, 21.
Ægisthus in Æ. _Agamemnon_, 79, 100 ff.
— — — _Choeph._, 106 ff.
— — E. _Electra_, 253.
— — E. _Orestes_, 268 ff.
— — S. _Electra_, 141 ff.
Ægyptus, in Æ. _Supplices_, 84.
ÆLIAN, his _Varia Historia_, xiv. 40, p. 35 n.; ii. 8, p. 243 n.
Æneas, in S. _Laocoon_, 174.
— — — _Rhesus_, 291 ff.
_Æneid_, _see_ VERGIL.
Æolus in E. _Melanippe_, 305.
_Ærope_, _see_ CARCINUS.
ÆSCHINES, 70 and n., 83.
ÆSCHYLUS, 4, 5, 6, 10-17, 19, 20, 23, 25, 38, 70, 75-6, 82, =84= ff.,
173, 177, 179, 180, 182, 192, 249, 275, 276 n., 284, 293, 296,
297, 309, 311, 325, 357.
— a ballet-master, 78.
— and Até, 129.
— — Chthonian religion, 130.
— — Conscience, 130.
— — Euripides, 121, 315-7, etc.
— — Fate, 125, 130.
— — Homer, 118.
— — Olympians, 130.
— — Zeus, 213.
— as dramatist, 125 ff.
— — literary artist, 120-5.
— creator of tragic diction, 122.
— death, 11.
— desk, 34.
— epitaph, 10 n.
— general appreciation of, 120 ff.
— grandeur of language, 121.
— his interest in politics, 128 and n.
— in Horace _Ars Poet._, 56.
— invented dress of tragic actors, 69.
— metaphors, 123.
— metre, 334.
— picturesqueness in characterisation, language and structure,
123-8.
— religious views, 128.
— simplicity of structure and language, 122, 126.
— _Agamemnon_, vi, 16, 55, 62, 64, 71, 77, 86, =99-106=, 109,
110, 126, 213 and n., 245, 317, 338, 345.
— — beacon-speech in, 124.
— — chariots and horses in, 64.
— — chorus in, 79.
— — eccyclema in, 66.
— — herald in, 73.
— — watchman in, 124.
[ll. partly or wholly quoted, 2, 160-83, 184-249, 494-5, 750-7, 975
_sqq._, 988 _sqq._, 1147, 1434, 1530 _sqq._]
— _Choephorœ_, 16, 20, 56, 64, 104, =106-10=, 126, 142, 253, 258,
270, 279.
— — chorus in, 79.
— — invocation of Ag.’s shade in, 74.
— — nurse in, 124.
— — tomb in, 64.
[ll. 313 _sq._, 451-2, 647, 870-4, 889, 900, 930, 1075-6.]
— _Eumenides_, 42 n., 55 n., 56, 68, 110, =111-7=, 121, 128, 217,
249.
— — chorus in, 76.
— — dress of Furies in, 69.
— — eccyclema in, 67.
— — jury in, 70.
— — propompi in, 71.
— — scene changes in, 63.
— — shade of Clytæmnestra in, 107 n.
[ll. 116, 137-8, 283, 398-401, 517-9, 640-51, 681-710, 747, 788
_sq._, 886.]
— _Niobe_, 119.
— _Persæ_, 8, 9, 10, 18, 38, 47, 64, =86-9=, 123, 125.
— — ghost in, 107 n.
— — metre in, 356.
— — only extant tragedy on non-mythological subject, 87.
— — and Phrynichus’ _Phœnissæ_, 8, 9.
[ll. 81 _sq._, 115, 126 _sq._, 346, 361-2, 395, 480-514, 815.]
— _Prometheus Vinctus_, 57, 65, =91-8=, 109, 124, 125, 128, 244.
[ll. 12, 15, 89-90, 115, 170, 350-2, 415-20, 993, 1068.]
— _Septem contra Thebas_, 20, =89-91=, 95, 123, 125, 267 n., 268 n.
[ll. 375 _sqq._, 493-4, 591-4, 689-91, 895 _sqq._]
— _Supplices_, 7, 12, 76, 77, =84-6=, 95, 121, 123, 124, 126.
— — chorus in, 76.
[ll. 12, 91-5, 230-1, 418 _sqq._, 582 _sqq._, 608, 656, 836-7,
991-4, 994-1013, 1068.]
— _Amymone_, 85;
_Bassaræ or Bassarides_, 117;
_Cabiri_, 119;
_Danaides_, 85, 128;
_Daughters of the Sun_, 119;
_Edoni_, 117;
_Egyptians_, 85;
_Glaucus of Potniæ_, 87;
_Laius_, 90;
_Lycurgea_ (trilogy), 117;
_Lycurgus_ (satyric play), 117;
_Men of Eleusis_, 119;
_Men of Persia_ (= _Persæ_), 86;
_Myrmidons_, 118;
_Nereides_, 118;
_Niobe_, 119 [Fr. ap. Plato “_Rep._” qd.];
_Œdipus_, 90;
_Oresteia_ (trilogy), 11, 85, 92, 95, =98= ff., 123, 126, 128, 134;
_Philoctetes_, 119;
_Phineus_, 87;
_Phrygians_, 118;
_Prometheus_ (satyric play), 87 and n.;
_Prometheus the Fire-bringer_, 92-3;
_Proteus_ (sat. pl.) 98 and n.;
_P. Unbound_, 93;
_Ransom of Hector_, 118;
_Sphinx_ (satyric pl.), 90;
_Thracian Women_, 119;
_Weighing of Souls_, 120;
_Women of Etna_, 10, 119;
_Youths_, 117;
_Women of the Fawn-skin_, 117.
_Æthiopica_, _see_ HELIODORUS.
Æthra, in E. _Supplices_, 234 ff.
Agamemnon, 76, 254.
— in Æ. _Agam._, 89 ff., 125.
— — — _Myrmidons_, 118.
— — E. _Hecuba_, 216 ff.
— — — _I. Aul._, 285 ff.
— — — _Orestes_, 270.
— — — _Telephus_, 295-6.
— — — _Troades_, 243 ff.
— — S. _Ajax_, 132 ff.
— palace of, in S. _Electra_, 141 ff.
— shade of, invoked in Æ. _Choeph._, 74, 107 and n. and 110.
— tent of, 52.
— tomb of, 64, 106 (_Choeph._), 253 (E. _El._).
_Agamemnon_, _see_ Æ.
AGATHON of Athens, 21, =25-9=, 50 n., 55, 72, 77, 315.
— _Antheus_, 26.
— _Anthos_, 26.
— _Fall of Troy_, 27.
— _Flower_, 26.
Agave, in E. _Bacchæ_, 277 ff.
_Agen_, satyric drama, 38-9.
Ajax, 62.
— death of, on stage, 46.
— in S. _Ajax_, 132 ff., 177-8, 180, 185.
_Ajax_, _see_ SOPHOCLES.
Alcestis, in E. _Alc._, 186 ff.
— death of, on stage, 46.
_Alcestis_, _see_ EURIPIDES and PHRYNICHUS.
Alcibiades, 82, 167, 236, 268 n.
Alcmæon, 46.
— in ASTYDAMAS, 31.
_Alcmæon_, etc., _see_ EURIPIDES.
Alcmena, 231;
in E. _Heracleidæ_, 200 ff.
Alcon, 13.
Alexander the Great, 29, 36, 39, 163, 313.
— — tragedian, 39, 40.
— — tyrant of Pheræ, 35, 38.
_Alexander_, _see_ EURIPIDES.
_Alexandra_, _see_ LYCOPHRON.
_Alope_, _see_ CHŒRILUS.
_Altgriechische Literatur_, _see_ GOETHE.
Althæa, in Phrynichus’ _Pleuroniæ_, 7.
Amphiaraus, 235, in Æ. _Septem_, 91, 124.
— in Carcinus’ _Thyestes_, 35.
— — E. _Hypsipyle_, 304.
_Amphiaraus_, _see_ SOPHOCLES.
Amphion, in E. _Antiope_, 298.
Amphitryon, in E. _Herc. Fur._, 228 ff.
_Amymone_, _see_ ÆSCHYLUS.
ANACREON, 337 n.
ANATOLE FRANCE, vi, 326.
Anaxagoras, 17, 18, 307.
Andromache, 262;
in E. _Andr._, 225 ff.;
E. _Troades_, 243 ff.
_Andromache_, _see_ EURIPIDES.
Andromeda, in E. _Andromeda_, 8, 299 f.
_Andromeda_, _see_ EURIPIDES.
_Anonymous Life_ of Sophocles, 15 n.
Antæus, in Phrynichus’ _Antæus_, 7.
_Antæus_, _see_ PHRYNICHUS.
_Antheus_, _see_ AGATHON.
_Anthos_, _see_ AGATHON.
Antigone, 64;
in Æ. _Septem_, 90-1;
in E. _Phœn._, 264 ff.;
in S. _Antigone_, 137 ff., 177-8;
in _Œ. Col._, 168 ff., 182.
_Antigone_, _see_ SOPHOCLES.
Antilochus, in Æ. _Myrmidons_, 118.
Antiope, in E. _Antiope_, 298.
_Antiope_, _see_ EURIPIDES.
Aphrodite, 85;
in Æ. _Danaides_, 128;
in E. _Helena_, 259;
in _Hippol._, 205 ff.;
in _I. Aul._, 285.
Apollo, 67, 69.
— his temple at Delphi, 63.
— in Æ. _Bassarids_, 117;
_Choeph._, 107-8;
_Eumen._, 85, 111 ff., 129;
in E. _Alcestis_, 186 ff.;
_Androma._, 220 ff., 226-7;
_El._, 252 ff.;
_I. Taur._, 247;
_Orestes_, 268 ff.;
in S. _Ichneutæ_, 2, 175.
APULEIUS, 320.
Archelaus, actor, 298.
— k. of Macedonia, 18, 26.
Archemorus, in E. _Hypsip._, 304 and n.
Ares, 252;
in E. _Phœn._, 264.
Ariel’s song, 354.
Arion, 1, 3, 4, 5.
ARISTARCHUS of Tegea, 21-3.
— _Achilles_, 23.
— _Asclepius_, 22.
ARISTEAS, 90.
Aristides, 91, 128 n.
_Aristides_, _see_ PLUTARCH.
ARISTOPHANES, 9, 14, 60, 226 n., 295, 322.
— and Æ., 118, 121-2.
— — E., 17 ff., 262, 312 ff., 318, 320.
— _Acharnians_, 54 n., 67, 296 [l. 732].
— _Birds_, 8 and n., 174 and n., 175 [ll. 100 _sqq._, 748-51].
— _Clouds_, 65, 67, 215 n. [ll. 225, 1165 _sq._]
— _Ecclesiazusæ_, 54 n. [l. 1151].
— _Fragments_ (Meineke, ii., p. 1177), 119 and n.
— _Frogs_, 7, 11 n., 19-20, 24 and n., 27, 72 and n., 74 and n.,
80, 90, 118 n., 121, 122, 124, 126 and n., 215 and nn., 298,
304 n., 311-2 n. [ll. 53, 82, 84, 101, 297, 303, 689, 850, 886,
908 _sqq._, 911-3, 924-5, 932, 939 _sqq._, 948 _sqq._, 954-8,
959, 1021, 1041, 1043 _sq._, 1119 _sqq._, 1122, 1198-1247,
1261-95, 1304-8, 1309-63, 1314, 1348, 1378-1410, 1467.]
— _Knights_, 54 n., 67 [ll. 148, 1249].
— _Peace_, 24, 65, 83, 297 [l. 835].
— _Thesmophoriazusæ_, 26, 27, 28 and nn., 72 and n., 215 and nn., 262,
296, 298 [ll. 54 _sqq._, 100, 130 _sqq._, 275-6, 497, 547].
— _Wasps_, 8 and n., 54 n., 57 [ll. 220, 1342, 1514].
— _see_ Parody.
ARISTOTLE, vi, 3, 25, 54;
analysis of Features of Tragedy, 44-8.
— and _Macbeth_, 42;
and E. _Medea_, 322;
and the Three Unities, 42 n.
— and catharsis, 43;
definitions (of Tragedy, 43; of other things, 47);
mentions Carcinus, 35;
on Agathon’s Peripeteia, 27;
on Eurip., 312 ff.;
on origin of Tragedy, 2 n.;
on S. _Œ. Tyr._, 46-8;
standpoint of his criticism, 42;
taught and quoted Theodectes, 36;
value of his evidence, 42.
— _Didascaliæ_ or _Dramatic Productions_, 62.
— _Ethics_, 11 n. [1111_a_, 1150_b_, 10], 83 and n. [X, 1175 B].
— _Poetic_, 3 n., 5, 11 n., 15 and n., 26 and n., 27 n., 31 and
n., 32, =41= ff., 77 and n., 148, 151 and n., 174 n., 196 and
n., 289 and n., 297 n., 307 n., and 308 n., 312 and n. [1447
B-1462 B qd. _passim_].
— _Rhetoric_, 32 and n., 61 and n., 139 and n. [II, 1400_b_,
1417_b_; III, i., III, xii. 2, xvi. 9].
— (_Hypomnemata_), 22 and n.
ARISTOXENUS, on Cola, 351.
ARNOLD, MATTHEW, 355-6;
_Merope_, 309;
_Scholar-Gipsy_, 323-4, 326.
_Ars Poetica_, _see_ HORACE.
Artemis, in E. _Hippol._, 205, 284 n.;
_I. Aul._, 285 ff.;
_I. Taur._, 247 ff.
Asclepius, 13.
_Asclepius_, _see_ ARISTARCHUS.
Astyanax, in E. _Troades_, 243 ff.
ASTYDAMAS (father and son), 31, 59.
— _Hector_, 31;
_Parthenopæus_, 31.
Astyoche, in S. _Eurypylus_, 176.
Athena, in Æ. _Eumen._, 111 ff., 317;
E. _Andromeda_, 301;
_Heracleidæ_, 201;
_Ion_, 236 ff.;
_I. Taur._, 247 ff.;
_Philoct._, 297;
_Rhesus_, 291 ff.;
_Suppl._, 234 ff.;
_Troad._, 243 ff.;
in S. _Ajax_, 132 ff.
Athena’s temple, in _Eumen._, 63.
ATHENÆUS, 25 and n., 32 and n., 34 n., 39 n., 175 [III, 98 D; X, 451
C; XIII, 595 F; fragm. 10].
Atlas, in Æ. _Prom. V._, 128;
in E. _Hippol._, 208.
Atossa, in Æ. _Persæ_, 86 n., 87.
Atreidæ, palace of, in _Agam._, 124;
Atr. in S. _Ajax_, 136.
Atreus, house of, in S. _Electra_, 143; and 129.
_Attic Theatre_, _see_ HAIGH.
— _Tragedy_, _see_ HAIGH.
AULUS GELLIUS, on E., 17 and n. [XV, 20].
_Bacchæ_, _see_ EURIPIDES.
— _Riddle of the_, _see_ NORWOOD.
_Bacchantes_, _see_ EURIPIDES.
Bacchus, in _Bac._, 277 ff.
BACCHYLIDES, 24.
BADHAM on _Helena_, 263 n.
_Bassanios_, 73.
_Bassaræ_, -_rides_, _see_ ÆSCHYLUS.
Bellerophon, 65;
in E. _Beller._, 297.
_Bellerophon_, _see_ EURIPIDES.
BENTLEY, 23 n.
BERNARD SHAW, _see_ SHAW.
BERNHARDY, _Grundriss der griech. Litteratur_, 40 n., 163 n. [II, ii.
p. 72 and p. 370], 253 n. [II, ii., p. 490].
Bia, a mute in Æ. _Prom. V._, 92 n., 94.
BION, son of Æ., 11.
_Birds_, _see_ ARISTOPHANES.
BÖCKH, on _Rhesus_, 294 n.
Boreas, in S. _Orithyia_, 175.
Boucher, Fr. painter, 34.
BRIGHT, JOHN, 348.
BROOKE, RUPERT, 358.
BROWNING, Mrs., on E., 324 n.
BUNYAN, 23.
BUTCHER’S translation of Ar. _Poetic_, 4 n., 26 n., 44 n., 77.
BYRON, on d. of Kirk White, 118 and n.
_Cabiri_, _see_ ÆSCHYLUS.
Cadmus, in E. _Bacchæ_, 277 ff.
— — — _Phœn._, 264.
CALLIMACHUS, 40.
Capaneus, in E. _Supplices_, 235.
Captain Osborne, in _Vanity Fair_, 319.
_Capture of Miletus_, _see_ PHRYNICHUS.
CARCINUS, 34-6, 41;
_Ærope_, 35;
_Medea_, 35;
_Œdipus_, 35;
_Thyestes_, 35.
CARRITT, E. F., _The Theory of Beauty_ [p. 156], 320 and n.
Cassandra, 66;
in Æ. _Agam._, 99 ff., 245;
in E. _Troad._, 243 ff.
Cassiopeia, in E. _Andromeda_, 299.
Castor, in E. _Electra_, 252 n., etc.;
in _Helena_, 258 n., 259 ff.
_Catasterismoi_, _see_ ERATOSTHENES.
_Celebrants of the Thesmophoria_, _see_ ARISTOPHANES
_Thesmophoriazusæ_.
_Centaur_, _see_ CHÆREMON.
Cephalus, in _Hippol._, 212.
Cepheus, in _Andromeda_, 299 f.
Cerberus, in _Herc. Fur._, 228 ff.
Cercyon, in Carcinus’ _Alope_, 35.
CHÆREMON, 32 ff., 41;
_Centaur_, 32;
_Thyestes_, 32;
_Œneus_, 33.
_Cheiron_, _see_ PHERECRATES.
_Cherry Orchard_, _see_ TCHEKOV.
_Children of Heracles_, _see_ EURIPIDES.
Chiron, the Centaur, 98.
_Choephorœ_, _see_ Æ.
CHŒRILUS, 5, 6;
_Alope_, 6;
Satyric drama, 5.
Christ and Prometheus, 97.
CHRIST, _Geschichte der griech. Litt._ [p. 210, etc.], 163 n., 294 n.
_Christus Patiens_, 41.
CHRYSOSTOM, DIO, _see_ D.C.
Chrysothemis, in S. _Electra_, 141 ff., 152, 178-9.
CIBBER, 9.
CICERO, _Ad Q. Fratrem_ [II, xv. 3], 174 and n.;
_Orator_ [51], 36.
Cimon, 23;
and _Cimon_, _see_ PLUTARCH.
Clarendon (Earl of), vi.
Cleanthes, the philosopher, 39.
Cleisthenes, 3 n.
Cleon, 325.
Clito, mother of E., 17.
_Clouds_, _see_ ARISTOPHANES.
Clymene, in E. _Phaethon_, 301 ff.
Clytæmnestra, 46, 66, 70;
and Lady Macbeth, 104;
C.’s ghost, in Æ. _Eumen._, 111 ff.;
tomb, in E. _Orestes_, 269;
— in Æ. _Agam._, 73 and n., 99 ff.;
_Choeph._, 73 and n., 106 ff., 126.
— — E. _Andromache_, 220;
_El._, 252 ff.;
_I. Aul._, 285 ff., 322;
_Orest._, 268 ff.
— — in S. _El._, 141 ff.
CONGREVE, 36, 322.
Constance, in Sh. _K. J._, 234.
Copreus, in E. _Heracleidæ_ and Homer _Il._, xv. 639; 200 and n.
Cordelia, in Sh. _Lear_, 137.
Corporal Mulvaney, 319.
Correggio, 33.
CRATES, critic and philos., 37, 294.
CRATINUS, 19 n.
Cratos, in Æ. _Pr. V._, 92 ff.
Creon, in E. _Medea_, 192 ff., 317;
_Phœn._, 264 ff.;
_Suppl._, 235.
— — S. _Antigone_, 137 ff., 177 n.;
_Œ. Col._, 168 ff., 217;
_Œ. T._, 145 ff., 178.
Cresphontes, in E. _Cresph._, 307.
_Cresphontes_, _see_ EURIPIDES.
_Cretans_, _see_ EURIPIDES.
_Cretan Women_, _see_ EURIPIDES.
Cretan Zeus, 310.
Creusa, in E. _Ion_, 236 ff., 303, 318, 322.
CRITIAS, 29;
his _Pirithous_, 29;
_Sisyphus_, 29.
CROISET, _Histoire de la Littér. Grecque_ [iii. 49], 9 n., 25 n.
[iii. 400 n.], 111 n.
— his arrangement of E. _Alc._, 186 n.;
_H. Fur._, 228 n.;
_Hippol._, 205 n.;
_I. Aul._, 285 n.;
_Or._, 268 n.;
_Phœn._, 264 n.;
of S. _Antig._, 136 n.;
_Œ. Col._, 167 n.
_Cyclops_, _see_ EURIPIDES.
Cyllene, the nymph, in S. _Ichneutæ_, 176.
Cynegirus, bro. of Æ., 10.
Cypris, in E. _Helena_, 261.
Dædalus, 126.
_Danae_, _see_ EURIPIDES.
Danaidæ, 272.
_Danaides_, _see_ ÆSCHYLUS.
Danaids, 76.
Danaus, in Æ. _Suppl._, 84 ff.
— his daughters, 76.
_Daphnis_, _see_ SOSITHEUS.
Darius, 7;
in Æ. _Persæ_, 87-9;
Darius’s tomb, 64.
_Das griech. Theater_, _see_ DÖRPFELD.
_Daughters of Danaus_, _see_ PHRYNICHUS.
— — _the Sun_, _see_ ÆSCHYLUS.
DAVENANT, 9.
_De Falsa Legatione_, _see_ DEMOSTHENES.
_De Gloria Atheniensium_, _see_ PLUTARCH.
Deianira, in S. _Trachiniæ_, 154 ff., 178-9, 180.
DEKKER and MASSINGER, _The Virgin Martyr_, 137.
Demeter, in CARCINUS, 35.
— — E. _Helena_, 259-60.
— — S. _Triptolemus_, 173.
_De Metris_, _see_ PLOTIUS.
Demophon, in E. _Heracleidæ_, 200 ff.
DEMOSTHENES, 31, 82, 83 n., 182.
— _De Falsa Legatione_ [§ 337], 83 n.
— _In Meidiam_, 82;
_Olynthiacs_ [I, 5], 334 n.
_De Profectu in Virtute_, _see_ PLUTARCH.
_De Sublimitate_, _see_ “LONGINUS”.
_Detectives_, _see_ SOPHOCLES.
Dexion, 13.
Dicæopolis, in A. _Acharn._, 67, 296.
_Dictys_, _see_ EURIPIDES.
_Didascaliæ_, _see_ ARISTOTLE.
DIDYMUS, the critic, 304 n.
_Die Eurhythmie in den Chorgesängen der Griechen_, _see_ SCHMIDT.
DINDORF, 235 n.
_Dinner-party_, _see_ SOPHOCLES.
DIO CHRYSOSTOM, _Oration_, 52, 120 and n., 165-6 and n., 296-7.
“DIOGENES LAERTIUS,” 5, 25, 39 n. [ii. 133, vii. 173].
DIOGENES, the philosopher, 37.
Diomedes, in E. _Alcestis_, 187;
_Philoct._, 166, 296;
_Rhesus_, 291 ff.
DIONYSIADES, 40.
DIONYSIUS of Halicarnassus, 306.
— the Elder, 34;
his _Hector’s Ransom_, 34.
— — Younger, 35.
Dionysus, 1, 2 and n., 3 n., 4, 49.
— altar of, in theatre, 51.
— artists of, 75.
— Eleuthereus, 49.
— — priest of, 80.
— ivy sacred to, 61-2.
— Philiscus, priest of, at Alexandria, 40.
— ritual of, 81 n.
— theatre of, Athens, 49, 56.
— in _Frogs_, 80 n., 124, 298, 316.
— — _Bacchæ_, 73, 277 ff.
— — _Hypsip._, 304.
— — _Antigone_, 141.
— — _Œ. Col._, 170.
— — _Lycurgea_, 117.
Dioscuri, 257;
in _Helena_, 260;
E. _Antiope_, 298.
Doctor, _see_ Grenfell, Hayley, Hunt, Mackail, Stockman, Verrall.
_Doctor’s Dilemma_, _see_ SHAW.
Dogberry, 199.
Dolon, in _Rhesus_, 291 ff.
_Don Carlos_, _see_ SCHILLER.
Doris, w. of Dionysius the elder, 34.
Dorothea, in _Virgin Martyr_, 137.
DÖRPFELD, _Das griechische Theater_, 53 ff.
— in _Bull. Corr. Hell._ [1896, p. 577 _sqq._], 59 n.
DOSTOEVSKY, 319;
_The Possessed_, ch. i., p. 322.
_Dramatic Productions_, _see_ ARISTOTLE.
_Ecclesiazusæ_, _see_ ARISTOPHANES.
Echo, in E. _Andromeda_, 299.
— nymph, S. _Philoct._, 166.
Edoni, of Thrace, 117.
_Edoni_, _see_ ÆSCHYLUS.
_Egyptians_, _see_ ÆSCHYLUS.
— _see_ PHRYNICHUS.
Eido, in E. _Helena_, 263.
_Einleitung_, etc., _see_ WILAMOWITZ-M.
Electra, in Æ. _Choeph._, 106 ff.
— — E. _El._, 252 ff.
— — — _Orest._, 73, 79, 268 ff., 319.
— — S. _El._, 141 ff., 177, 178, 181-2.
_Electra_, _see_ EURIP. and SOPH.
ELIOT, GEORGE, _Middlemarch_, 334 n.
Empedocles, 127.
ENNIUS, 23, 333 n.
“Entertainer,” 13.
Eos, in Æ. _W. of Souls_, 120.
Epaphus, in Æ. _Prom. V._, 94.
Ephialtes, 116.
_Epidemiai_, _see_ ION.
_Epodes_, _see_ HORACE.
ERATOSTHENES, _Catasterismoi_ [19], 301 n.
_Eratosthenes_, _see_ LYSIAS.
Erechtheus, in E. _Erech._, 297.
_Erechtheus_, _see_ EURIPIDES and SWINBURNE.
Erinys, 110.
Eriphyle, 46.
Eros, in E. _Andromeda_, 300.
— — Plato’s _Symposium_, 28 n.
_Eschyle_, _see_ PATIN.
_Essays on Two Moderns_, _see_ SALTER.
Eteocles, 76;
in Æ. _Septem_, 89 ff., 129;
in E. _Phœn._, 264 ff.
_Ethics_, _see_ ARISTOTLE.
EUBULUS, comedian, 34.
EUCLID, the geometer, 40.
Eumelos, in E. _Alcestis_, 71, 186 n.
Eumenides, at Colonus, 172.
_Eumenides_, _see_ ÆSCHYLUS.
EUPHORION, 10, 11, 18, 192, 296.
EUPHRONIUS, 40.
_Euripidean Rhesus_, etc., _see_ PORTER.
EURIPIDES, vi, 13-15, 17-23, 26-7, 31-2, 67, 72, 83, 128, 177, 180,
182, =186= ff., 357;
and Agathon, 28;
and legends, 314-5;
and modern England, 324;
and Shaw, 320-1;
and Theodectes, 37;
as schoolbook, 21, 215;
blamed by Ar., 42;
copied by Sosiphanes, 41;
in later Gk. times, 21, 320;
inventor of prose-drama, 323;
relics of, 34;
text of, 41.
Euripides’ criticism of Æ., 20, 121, 126 and n.;
agnosticism, 318;
death, 277;
feeling for beauty, 320;
genius and personality, 310 ff.;
handling of traditional material, 46;
heroes in rags, 69;
library, 17;
metre, 334-5;
originality in portraiture, 319;
prologos, 47;
sophistry, 317;
technique, 19-21.
— _and his Age_, _see_ MURRAY.
— _der Dichter, etc._, _see_ NESTLE.
— _Apology_, _see_ VERRALL.
— _in a Hymn_, _see_ VERRALL.
— _restitutus_, _see_ HARTUNG.
— _the Rationalist_, _see_ VERRALL.
— _Alcestis_, 7, 17 n., 21, 55 n., 71, 76, 159 n., =186-92=, and
294-5 [ll. 29, 32, 34, 37, 58, 158-84, 179, 280-325, 763-4, 904
_sqq._, 1159-63].
— _Alcmæon at Corinth_, 285-6.
— — — _Psophis_, 185, 295.
— _Alexander_, 243.
— _Andromache_, 21, 65, 77, 187 n., =219-28=, 313 n., 318, 328,
330 [ll. 147-80, 164, 166, 229 _sq._, 241, 260, 445-63, 464-94,
588-9, 595-601, 632 _sqq._, 639, 708 _sqq._, 732 _sqq._, 752
_sqq._, 804, 929-53, 964, 1002 _sqq._, 1147 _sqq._, 1239
_sqq._].
— _Andromeda_, =298-301=, 303, 321.
— _Antiope_, 298.
— _Bacchæ_, 17, 68-70, 73, 77 and n., 187 n., =277-87=, 304 n.,
313 n., 321, 326, 356.
— [_Bacchantes_, _see_ last]. [ll. 12, 64 _sqq._, 233-4, 625,
632-3, 677-774, 703, 732-51, 1325 _sq._]
— _Bellerophon_, 284 n., 297 [Fragm., 294-7].
— [_Children of Heracles_, _see_ _Heracleidæ_].
— _Cresphontes_, 307-9.
— _Cretans_, 310.
— _Cretan Women_, 295.
— _Cyclops_ (sat.), 2, 191, =289-91=, 362 [ll. 316-41, 361
_sqq._, 460-3, 549, 672-5.]
— _Danae_, 309.
— _Dictys_, 192, 296.
— _Electra_, 20, 55 n., 64, 65, 77, 142-3, =252-8=, 313 n. [ll.
4 _sqq._, 9-10, 25 _sqq._, 54, 60-1, 77-8, 255 _sqq._, 362
_sqq._, 354-5, 367 _sqq._, 652-60, 737-45, 1041-3, 1142-6, 1245
_sq._, 1294, 1296-7, 1301-7, 1327 _sqq._, 1347-56].
— _Erechtheus_, 297-8.
— _Fragmenta Adespota_, 324 n. [nos. 894, 916].
— _Harvesters_ (sat.), 192, 296.
— _Hecuba_, 21, 76, =215-9=, 265, 268 [ll. 68 _sqq._, 174 _sq._,
230, 342-78, 421, 428-30, 462, 518-82, 531-3, 585 _sqq._,
592-603, 629 _sqq._, 671, 702 _sqq._, 779 _sq._, 796 _sq._, 799
_sqq._, 806-8, 814-9, 894-7, 905 _sqq._, 953-67, 1187-94, 1287
_sq._].
— _Helena_, 55 n., 76, 160 n., 187 n., =258-64=, 318 n., 322 [ll.
20-1, 138 _sqq._, 157, 183 _sqq._, 205 _sqq._, 256-9, 284-5,
355-6, 489 _sqq._, 491, 567, 616, 629, 744-60, 832, 878 _sqq._,
1013-6, 1048, 1050-2, 1107 _sqq._, 1140-3, 1301 _sqq._].
— _Heracleidæ_, 76, =200-5=, 288 [ll. 45-7, 240 _sq._, 513, 540,
563, 597 _sqq._, 625, 629 _sq._, 638, 665, 819-22, 847, 869
_sqq._, 910 _sqq._, 990, 997-9, 1020-5, 1035-7, 1049-52].
— _Hercules Furens_, 55 n., 65, 189, 203 n., =228-34=, 317, 326
[ll. 65-6, 76, 70-9, 119, 140-235, 151-64, 153 _sq._, 339
_sqq._, 460-89, 485-9, 562-82, 585-94, 798 _sqq._, 857, 601
_sqq._, 673 _sqq._, 1002-6, 1222, 1255-1310, 1269 _sqq._,
1340-93, 1340-6].
— _Hippolytus_, 16, 21, 56, 71, 77, =205-15=, 317-8, 320, 326
[ll. 29-33, 73-87, 121-5, 135-40, 151-4, 191-7, 208-31, 281,
328, 337 _sqq._, 384, 373-430, 415 _sqq._, 439-61, 474 _sq._,
493-6, 490 _sq._, 503-6, 507 _sq._, 512, 516, 565, 612, 616-68,
689-92, 728-31, 732-51, 828-9, 831-3, 960 _sq._, 967-70, 1034
_sq._, 1035, 1060-3, 1076 _sq._, 1082-3, 1375 _sq._, 1379-83,
1423-30].
— _Hippolytus Veiled_, 205 n.
— _Hypsipyle_, 304-5.
— _Ino_, 309.
— _Ion_, 21 and n., 55 n., 70, 76, 79, 191, =236-43=, 251, 276,
298, 318, 322 [ll. 125-7, 265-8, 308, 313, 369 _sqq._, 436-51,
542, 548, 550 _sqq._, 585 _sqq._, 589 _sqq._, 727, 768 _sqq._,
859 _sqq._, 916, 952, 1029 _sqq._, 1039, 1211-6, 1215 _sqq._,
1312 _sqq._, 1324, 1397 _sqq._, 1419, 1424, 1468 _sq._, 1520-7,
1537 _sq._, 1546 _sqq._, 1550, 1565, 1595].
— _Iphigenia among the Taurians_, _see_ _Iph. in Tauris._
— — _at Aulis_, 64, 70, 77, =285-9=, 304, 312, 313 n., 317, 322,
334 n. [ll. 320, 407, 414, 882, 919-74, 1366 _sq._].
— — _in Tauris_, 31, 45, 73, 76, =247-52=, 260, 321 [ll. 73, 77,
123-5, 275, 281 _sqq._, 380 _sqq._, 626, 677, 711 _sqq._, 719
_sq._, 739 _sq._, 823-6, 933, 939 _sqq._, 945, 961 _sqq._, 965
_sq._, 968 _sqq._, 976 _sqq._, 980, 985 _sq._, 1038-40, 1046,
1205, 1232, 1434].
— _Medea_, 18, 21 and n., 22 and n., 35, 46, 55, 77, 96, 187 n.,
191, =192-9=, 201, 208, 279, 296-7, 317, 321-33 [ll. 1, 230-51,
309 _sq._, 349, 364, 389 _sqq._, 450, 454, 472, 635, 801 _sq._,
824-45, 930 _sq._, 944 _sq._, 1021-80, 1081-1115, 1231-5,
1236-50, 1367, 1375-7, 1381-3].
— _Melanippe_, 305 n.;
_M. in Prison_, 305 n.
— — _the Wise_, 83, =305-7=, 313 n.
— _Orestes_, 17 n., 21, 64, 70, 72, 73, 74, 77, 79, 215-6 n.,
251, 265, =268-77=, 288, 315, 318, 319 and n., 323, 334 [ll.
1-3, 28 _sqq._, 37 _sqq._, 72-92, 71-111, 78 _sq._, 101-11,
121, 126 _sqq._, 174 _sqq._, 285 _sqq._, 310, 360 _sqq._, 362,
365, 367, 371 _sqq._, 373, 380 _sqq._, 386, 388, 390, 395-8,
417, 420, 423, 481 _sqq._, 491-525, 502, 544 _sqq._, 550, 551,
568, 615 _sqq._, 634, 640 _sq._, 658-61, 674, 740, 743, 745,
747, 749, 756, 797, 872, 892, 894, 932 _sqq._, 960 _sqq._,
982 _sqq._, 983, 1204 _sqq._, 1323, 1493 _sqq._, 1535-9, 1547
_sqq._, 1576, 1662-3, 1666 _sqq._].
— _Palamedes_, 243.
— _Peliades_, 17.
— _Phaethon_, 56, 300, 321.
— _Philoctetes_, 192, =296-7=.
— _Phœnician Women_ or _Phœnissæ_, 21, 64, 77, 91, 215-6 n.,
=264-8= [ll. 88-201, 114 _sqq._, 302 _sq._, 316, 528 _sqq._,
590 _sq._, 609, 612, 751 _sq._, 1090-1099, 1104-40, 1182 _sq._,
1223-82, 1233 _sq._, 1259 _sqq._, 1265-6, 1524 _sq._, 1758
_sq._].
— _Polyidus_, 309.
— _Rhesus_, 21, 23 n., 76, 186 n., 191, =291-5=, 313 n., 321 [ll.
319-23, 422-53, 474-84, 528, 546-56, 618, 962-73, 971].
— _Sisyphus_ (satyric play), 243.
— _Suppliant Women_ or _Supplices_, 20, 65, 77 and n., 160 n.,
=234-6= [ll. 195-218, 297-331, 403-56, 518-44, 567, 846-54,
1054-6].
— _Telephus_, 185, =295-6=.
— _The Crowned Hippolytus_, 205 n., 214;
_The Veiled H._, 214.
— _Troades_, or _Trojan Women_, 21, 76, =243-6=, 248, 262, 308,
318 and n., 321 [ll. 67 _sq._, 220 _sqq._, 469 _sqq._, 703
_sqq._, 710, 738, 764, 841 _sqq._, 884 _sqq._, 1060 _sqq._,
1158 _sqq._, 1204 _sqq._, 1240 _sqq._].
— _Women of Crete_, 186.
— son of E., 285-6.
Europa, 175 n.
Eurydice, in S. _Antigone_, 137 ff.
— — E. _Hypsipyle_, 304.
Eurypylus in S. _Eurypylus_, 176 and n.
_Eurypylus_, _see_ SOPHOCLES.
Eurysaces, in S. _Ajax_, 71.
Eurystheus, in E. _Heracleidæ_, 200 ff.
Eurytus, in S. _Trach._, 154 ff.
Evadne, 65;
in E. _Suppl._, 234 ff.
_Fall of Troy_, _see_ AGATHON.
Faust, in MARLOWE, 185.
FLAUBERT, _La Tentation de S. Antoine_, 326.
FLETCHER, 317.
_Flower_, _see_ AGATHON.
Fortinbras, in _Hamlet_, 152 n.
_Founding of Chios_, _see_ ION.
_Four Plays of Euripides_, _see_ VERRALL.
_Fragmenta Comic. Græc._, _see_ MEINEKE.
FRANCE, ANATOLE, _see_ A. F.
Frederick the Great, 34.
Frenzy, in E. _Herc. Fur._, 229 ff.
Gabler, Hedda, _see_ H. G.
Galatea, statue of, 126.
GALSWORTHY, _Justice_, 37.
Garrick and _Macbeth_, 70.
GELLIUS, AULUS, _see_ A. G.
_Geschichte der griechischen Litteratur_, _see_ CHRIST.
GILBERT MURRAY, _see_ MURRAY.
Giotto, 33.
Glauce, in E. _Medea_, 192 ff.
Glaucus, 8 n.;
in E. _Or._, 275 and n.
_Glaucus, etc._, _see_ ÆSCHYLUS.
GOETHE, _Altgriechische Literatur_ (Wks., V. 127, ed. 1837), 301 n.,
and 302 and n.
Gorgias, 28, 218.
GRANT ALLEN, 20 n.
_Great Play_, _see_ ION.
Gregers Werle, 317.
GREGORY OF NAZIANZUS, 41.
Grenfell, Dr., 18.
Greuze, 34.
_Griechische Litteraturgeschichte_, _see_ MÜLLER-HEITZ.
_Growth and Influence of Classical Greek Poetry_, _see_ JEBB.
_Grundriss der griechischen Litteratur_, _see_ BERNHARDY.
HADLEY, introdn. to _Hecuba_ [pp. ix.-xii.], 217 n.
Hadrian, 41.
Hæmon, in E. _Phœn._, 264;
in S. _Antigone_, 137 ff.
HAGGARD, SIR H. RIDER, 248.
Hagnon, 295.
HAIGH, _Attic Tragedy_, 16, 53 ff., 55 nn., 59 n., 65 and n., 73 n.,
75 n., 80, 81 n.
— _Tragic Drama of the Greeks_, 1 n., 6 n., 15, 25 n., 124 and n.
Hamlet, 72, 136, 217.
_Hamlet_, _see_ SHAKESPEARE.
HANKIN, ST. JOHN, 28.
Harpalus, 39.
HARTUNG, _Euripides Restitutus_, 299 n., 301 n., 305 n., 307.
_Harvesters_, _see_ E.
HAYLEY, Dr., on E. _Alcestis_, 187 n., 191 n.
Hebe, in E. _Heracleidæ_, 201-2.
_Hebrews_ [xii. 1], 349.
Hector, in Æ. _Myrmidons_, and _Phrygians_, 118;
_Philoct._, 120;
in E. _Rhesus_, 291 ff.
_Hector_, _see_ ASTYDAMAS.
_Hector’s Ransom_, _see_ DIONYSIUS THE ELDER and ÆSCHYLUS.
Hecuba, in E. _Hec._, 215 ff.;
in _Troades_, 243, 262, 308, 318.
_Hecuba_, _see_ EURIPIDES.
Hedda Gabler, 317.
Hegel, 320.
Hegelochus, the actor, 74.
HEITZ-MÜLLER, _Griechische Litteraturgeschichte_ [ii. 88], 92 n.
Helen, 254;
in Æ. _Agam._, 99;
in E. _Androma._, 224;
_Helena_, 258 n., 259 ff., 322;
_Or._, 268 ff., 318, 323;
in _Troad._, 243 n., 244.
_Helena_, _see_ E.
Helenus, in E. _Androma._, 221.
Heliodorus, novelist; _Æthiopica_, 299.
Helios, in E. _Phaethon_, 301 ff.
_Hellenica_, _see_ XENOPHON.
Helmer, Thorvald, in Ibsen’s _A Doll’s House_, 189.
_Henry VI_, _see_ SHAKESPEARE.
Hephæstus, in Æ. _Nereids_, 118.
— — — _Prom. V._, 92 ff.
Hera, 94, 231-2;
in E. _Hel._, 259;
_Heracleid._, 201, 203 n.
— Ludovisi, 182.
Heracleidæ, in E. _Hel._, 200 ff.
_Heracleidæ_, _see_ EURIPIDES.
Heracles, in PHRYNICHUS’ _Antæus_, 69, 88, 96 and 98;
in E. _Alc._, 186 ff.;
in _Heracleid._, 200 ff.;
in _H. Fur._, 228 ff.;
in S. _Philoct._, 120, 161 ff.;
_Trachin._, 154 ff., 180.
— — Pirithous, 29.
_Hercules Furens_, _see_ EURIPIDES.
HERMANN on _Rhesus_, 294 n.
_Hermathena_ [xvii. 348-80], 295.
Hermes, 67;
in Æ. _Eum._, 111 ff.;
in _Prom. V._, 95, 124;
in Homer, 119;
in E. _Ion_, 236 ff.;
in S. _Ichneutæ_, 175.
— _Hymn to_, _see_ Hymn.
Hermione, 79;
in E. _Andromache_, 219 ff., 225 ff., 318;
in _Orestes_, 268 ff.
HERODOTUS, 3 and n., 7 n., 15, 89 [v. 67, vi. 21].
HESYCHIUS, 281 n.
_Hiawatha_, _see_ LONGFELLOW.
Hiero of Syracuse, 10, 119.
Hippe, in E. _Melanippe_, 305 f.
Hippolytus, in E. _Hippol._, 46, 205 ff., 279-80, 284 n., 318.
_Hippolytus_, _see_ EURIPIDES; so _H. Crowned_, and _H. Veiled_.
_Histoire de la Littérature Grecque_, _see_ CROISET.
_History of Gk. Literature_, _see_ MAHAFFY.
HOMER, 21, 118, 123, 320;
_Iliad_, 120, 288, 291;
_Odyssey_ [iv. 351-86], 98 and n.; [ix. 105-566], 290 nn.
— the tragedian, 39.
Homeric _Hymn to Hermes_, 175.
HORACE, 21, 56;
_Ars Poetica_, 5 n., 56 and n.;
_Epodes_, 345 n. [_A.P._ 275-8].
HORACE WALPOLE, 311.
“Host,” 13.
HUNT, DR. A. S., 18, 175 n., 176 n.;
and _see_ Oxyrhynchus and Papyri.
Hyllus, in E. _Heracleid._, 200 ff.;
in S. _Trachiniæ_, 154 ff., 178.
_Hymn to Hermes_, 175.
Hypermnestra, 85;
in Æ. _Danaides_, 128.
Hypsipyle, in E. _Hypsip._, 304.
_Hypsipyle_, _see_ EURIPIDES.
IBSEN, p. v, 28, 211, 317;
_A Doll’s House_, 189, 224.
_Ichneutæ_, _see_ SOPHOCLES.
_Iliad_, _see_ HOMER.
_Ino_, _see_ E.
Io, in Æ. _Prom. V._, 94 ff., 105.
Iolaus, in E. _Heracleidæ_, 200 ff.
Iole, in S. _Trachiniæ_, 154 ff., 179.
ION of Chios, 21, 23-4;
_Memoirs_ or _Epidemiai_, 13 n., 15;
_Founding of Chios_, 23;
_Great Play_, 24 and n.
— in E. _Ion_, 236 ff., 279, 303.
_Ion_, _see_ EURIPIDES.
Iophon, s. of SOPHOCLES, 13, 60.
Iphigenia, 42, 263, 270, 318, 321;
in Æ. _Agam._, 99 ff.;
in E. _Iph. A._, 285 ff., 322;
_Iph. T._, 73, 247 ff.;
in POLYIDUS _Iphig._, 32.
_Iphigenia_, _see_ POLYIDUS.
— _at Aulis_, _see_ EURIPIDES.
— _in Tauris_, _see_ EURIPIDES.
Iphis, in E. _Suppl._, 234 ff.
Iris, apparition of, in E. _H. Fur._, 65, 229 ff.
_Isaiah_ [liii. 1], 349.
Ismene, 178;
in Æ. _Septem_, 90;
in S. _Antig._, 137 ff.;
_Œ. Col._, 168 ff.
ISOCRATES, 36.
Israel, 172;
prophets of, and Æ., 121.
Jason, in E. _Medea_, 192 ff., 321.
— — — _Hypsip._, 304-5.
— — NEOPHRON’s _Medea_, 22.
JEBB, PROFESSOR SIR RICHARD, p. v, 160 n.;
on S. _Ajax_, 132 n., 136 n.;
_Antigone_, 136 n., 139, 141, 351;
_Electra_, 141 n., 143 and n.;
_Œ. Col._, 71, 167, 170 and n., 171, 172 n., 173 n., 182 n.;
_Philoct._, 165 n., 166 and n., 167 n.;
_Trach._, 156 and n.;
_Growth and Influence of Classical Greek Poetry_, 318 n.
Jocasta, 16, 46;
in E. _Phœn._, 264 ff.;
in S. _Œ. Tyr._, 146 ff.
JOHN BRIGHT, 348.
JONES, W. H. S., _The Moral Standpoint of Euripides_, 28 _sq._
Joseph, 172.
Juliet’s nurse, 124.
Julius Cæsar, in Sh., 134.
_Jupiter Tragœdus_, _see_ LUCIAN.
_Justice_, _see_ GALSWORTHY.
Justice Shallow, 199.
KEATS, 33.
Kindly Ones, The, 111-7.
_King Lear_, _see_ SHAKESPEARE.
KIPLING, 319.
KIRK WHITE, 118 and n.
_Knights_, _see_ ARISTOPHANES.
KYD, 121;
_Spanish Tragedy_, 268.
Lady Macbeth and Clytæmnestra, 104.
Laertes, 297.
LAERTIUS, DIOGENES, _see_ D. L.
Laius, in S. _Œ. Tyr._, 145 ff.
_Laius_, _see_ ÆSCHYLUS.
Lampros, 12.
_Laocoon_, _see_ SOPHOCLES.
_La Tentation de St. Antoine_, _see_ FLAUBERT.
_Laws_, _see_ PLATO.
Lear, King, 79, 136-7.
_Lear, King_, _see_ SHAKESPEARE.
_Lectures on Greek Poetry_, _see_ MACKAIL.
Leda, 260, 263.
_Le jeu de l’amour, etc._, _see_ MARIVAUX.
_Le problème des Bacchantes_, etc., _see_ NIHARD.
_Libation-Bearers_, _see_ _Choephorœ_, under Æ.
_Liber Amatorius_, _see_ PLUTARCH.
_Libyans_, _see_ PHRYNICHUS.
Lichas, in S. _Trachiniæ_, 154 ff.
_Life of Aristides_, _see_ PLUTARCH.
_Literature of Ancient Greece_, _see_ MURRAY.
_Lityerses_, _see_ SOSITHEUS.
_Locksley Hall_, _see_ TENNYSON.
LONGFELLOW, 337;
_Hiawatha_, 353.
“LONGINUS,” _de Sublimitate_ [xv. 7. etc.], 174 and n., 251 n.
_Love in the Valley_, _see_ MEREDITH.
_Lovers of Achilles_, _see_ SOPHOCLES.
Loxias, in E. _Orestes_, 270.
LUCIAN, _Adversus indoctos_ [15], 34;
_Jupiter Tragœdus_ [41], 306 n.;
_Quomodo historia conscribenda_ [1], 298 and n.
LUCRETIUS, 319.
LYCOPHRON, 39, 40;
_Alexandra_, 40;
_Menedemus_, 39-40.
_Lycurgea_, trilogy, 117, and _see_ Æ.
Lycurgus, k. of Edoni, 117.
— orator, 31, 81.
— theatre of, 57.
_Lycurgus_ (satyric), 117 and _see_ Æ.
Lycus, in E. _Antiope_, 298;
_H. Fur._, 203 and n., 228 ff., 317.
Lynceus, 85.
_Lynceus_, _see_ THEODECTES.
LYSIAS, _Eratosthenes_ [ii.], 30 and n.
Mab, Queen, in SH., _R. and Juliet_, 79.
Macaria, in E. _Heracleidæ_, 200 ff., 288, 317.
_Macbeth_, _see_ SHAKESPEARE.
Macbeth, 273;
Lady, 104.
Macduffs, 73.
MACKAIL, _Lectures on Greek Poetry_, 171 n., 184 n.
MACROBIUS [V., xviii. 12], 304 n.
_Mad Heracles_, 228-34.
MAHAFFY, _History of Greek Literature, Poets_, 163 n.
MANNING, F., _Scenes and Portraits_, 311 and n.
MARIVAUX, _Le jeu de l’amour et du hasard_ [II., ii.], 28 and n.
Mark Antony, 134.
MARLOWE, 121, 183, 185, 317, 328.
MASSINGER and DEKKER, _The Virgin Martyr_, 137.
MATTHAEI, Miss L. E., _Studies in Greek Tragedy_, 216 n.
MATTHEW ARNOLD, _see_ A. M.
Mausolus, k. of Caria, 38.
_Mausolus_, _see_ THEODECTES.
_Measure for Measure_, _see_ SHAKESPEARE.
Medea, in E. _Medea_, 8, 72, 159 n., 190, 192 ff., 218, 279, 313.
— apparition of, 65;
chariot of, 312-3;
sons of, 71.
— in NEOPHRON’S _Medea_, 22.
_Medea_, _see_ CARCINUS, EURIPIDES, and NEOPHRON.
Megara, in _Herc. Fur._, 228 ff.
Meidias, Demosthenes’ speech against, 82.
MEINEKE, _Fragmenta Comicorum Græcorum_ [ii. 1142], 19, 38 n.
Melanippe, in E. _Melan._, 305 ff., 312.
_Melanippe_, etc., _see_ EURIPIDES.
Melanippus, 3 n.
Meleager, in PHRYNICHUS _Pleuroniæ_, 7.
Memnon, in Æ., _Weighing of Souls_, 120.
_Memoirs_, _see_ ION.
MENANDER, 29, 83, 289, 311.
Menedemus the philosopher, 25.
_Menedemus_, _see_ LYCOPHRON.
Menelaus, 254;
in Æ. _Agam._, 99;
in E. _Andromache_, 219 ff., 225 ff.;
_Helena_, 258 n., 259 ff., 322;
_I. Aul._, 285 ff.;
_Orestes_, 268 ff., 312, 323;
_Telephus_, 295-6;
_Troades_, 243 n. and 244;
in S. _Ajax_, 132 ff.
Menœceus, in E. _Phœnissæ_, 264 ff.
_Men of Eleusis_, _Men of Persia_, _see_ Æ.; _Men of Pheræ_, _see_
MOSCHION.
Menon, archonship of, 87.
_Merchant of Venice_, _see_ SHAKESPEARE.
Mercutio, 79.
MEREDITH, GEORGE, 287, 322;
_Love in the Valley_, 33.
Merope, in E. _Cresphontes_, 307 f.;
in S. _Œ. Tyr._, 147.
_Merope_, _see_ ARNOLD.
Merops, in E. _Phaethon_, 301 ff.
Michelangelo, 102.
_Middlemarch_, _see_ ELIOT, GEORGE.
MIDDLETON, _Witch_, 9.
_Midsummer Night’s Dream_, _see_ SHAKESPEARE.
_Miletus, Capture of_, _see_ PHRYNICHUS.
MILTON and Æ., 97, 122;
and S. _Œ. Col._, 171;
_Paradise Lost_, 95.
MIMNERMUS, 39 and n., 119.
_Minos_, [321 A], 5 n.
Mnesarchus, father of E., 17.
Mnesilochus, in A. _Thesmoph._, 296.
MOLIÈRE, 39 n.
Molottus, in E. _Androma._, 219 ff., 225 ff.
_Moralia_, _see_ PLUTARCH.
_Moral Standpoint of Euripides, The_, _see_ JONES.
_Mornings in Florence_, _see_ RUSKIN.
MOSCHION, 37, 38, 41, 315;
_Men of Pheræ_, 38;
_Telephus_, 38 n.;
_Themistocles_, 38.
Moses, 172.
MÜLLER, K. O., _On Lit._, 163 n.
MÜLLER-HEITZ, _Griechische Litteraturgeschichte_ [ii. 88], 92 n.
MURRAY, PROFESSOR GILBERT, p. v;
_Euripides and his Age_, 276 n., 279 n., 280 n., 282 n., 283 n.;
_Literature of Ancient Greece_, 126 and n.;
on _Cyclops_, 289 n., 362 n.;
_Helen_, 263 n.;
_Heracl._, 201 n.;
_Hippol._, 210-11, 214;
_Iph. A._, 286 n.;
_I. Taur._, 247 n., 251 n.;
_Medea_, 198 n.;
_Orestes_, 268 n.;
_Rhesus_, 294 n.;
tr. of S. _Œ. Col._, 185.
_Mustering of the Greeks_ (satyric), _see_ SOPHOCLES.
_Myrmidons_, _see_ Æ.
Myrtilus, 274.
NAUCK, 301 n., 306 n.
_Nausicaa_, _see_ SOPHOCLES.
Nazianzus, GREGORY of, 41.
NEOPHRON, 21-2, 195-6;
_Medea_, 21.
Neoptolemus, in E. _Andromache_, 219 ff., 225 ff.
— — — _Troades_, 243.
— — S. _Eurypylus_, 176 and n.
— — — _Philoctetes_, 120, 161 ff., 296, 334 n.
_Nereides_, _see_ Æ.
Nereus, 275;
daughters of, 118.
Nessus, in S. _Trachin._, 154 ff.
NESTLE, DR. W., _Euripides der Dichter der griech. Aufklärung_, 318
n., 324 n., 325.
Nestor, 14.
Nicias, 13, 60, 163.
_Nicias_, _see_ PLUTARCH.
_Nicomachean Ethics_, _see_ ARISTOTLE.
NIHARD, DR. R., _Le Problème des Bacchantes d’Euripide_, 281 n.
Niobe, in Æ., 20.
_Niobe_, _see_ Æ.
“Noman,” in E. _Cyclops_, 289-90.
NORWOOD, PROFESSOR GILBERT, _Riddle of the Bacchæ_, 191 n., 279 n.,
281 n.
_Note sur le Prométhée d’Eschyle_, _see_ WEIL.
Oceanus, in Æ. _Prom. V._, 65, 94.
— — E. _Phaethon_, 303 and n.
Odysseus, 319;
in Æ. _Philoct._, 120;
in E. _Cycl._, 2, 289 ff.;
_Hecuba_, 216;
_Philoct._, 296;
_Rhesus_, 291 ff.;
_Telephus_, 295-6;
_Troades_, 243;
in S. _Ajax_, 132 ff.;
_Philoct._, 161 ff., 178, 179, 334 n.
_Odyssey_, _see_ HOMER.
Œdipus, 46, 72, 136;
in E. _Phœn._, 264 ff.;
in S. _Œ. Col._, 168 ff., 177, 185, 217;
_Œ. Tyr._, 145 ff., 177-8;
sons of, 89.
_Œdipus_, _see_ ÆSCHYLUS, CARCINUS, and SOPHOCLES.
— _Coloneus_, _see_ SOPHOCLES.
— _Rex_, _see_ SOPHOCLES.
— _Tyrannus_, _see_ SOPHOCLES.
_Œneus_, _see_ CHÆREMON.
Œnomaus, 70.
_Olympian Odes_, _see_ PINDAR.
_Olynthiacs_, _see_ DEMOSTHENES.
_On the Sublime_, _see_ “LONGINUS”.
Opheltes, in E. _Hypsipyle_, 304.
_Oration_, _see_ DIO CHRYSOSTOM.
_Orator_, _see_ CICERO.
_Oresteia_, _see_ ÆSCHYLUS.
Orestes, 46, 63-4, 67, 76, 129-30, 313;
delirium of, 70;
nurse of, 124;
in Æ. _Agam._, 100;
_Choeph._, 73 n., 104, 107 ff., 126;
_Eum._, 111 ff., 128, 130 n.;
E. _Androma._, 220 ff., 226;
_Electra_, 252 ff.;
_Iph. I._, 73, 247 ff.;
_Or._, 268 ff., 323;
_Telephus_, 296;
in POLYIDUS _Iph._, 31;
in S. _Electra_, 141 ff.
Orgon, M., in MARIVAUX, 28 n.
_Origin of Tragedy_, _see_ RIDGEWAY.
Orithyia, in S. _Orith._, 175.
_Orithyia_, _see_ SOPHOCLES.
Orpheus, in Æ. _Bassarides_, 117.
Ortheris, Private, 319.
Orthomenes, F. of Ion of Chios, 23.
Othello, 136.
Outis, in E. _Cyclops_, 289-90.
OVID, 257.
_Palamedes_, _see_ EURIPIDES.
PALEY, on E. _Orestes_, 276.
Pallas, in E. _H. Fur._, 233 n.
Panza, Sancho, 255.
_Paradise Lost_, _see_ MILTON.
Paris, in E. _Helena_, 259;
_Iph. A._, 285;
_Rhesus_, 291 n. ff.
_Parthenopæus_, _see_ ASTYDAMAS.
PATIN, _Eschyle_, 88 and n.
Patroclus, in Æ. _Myrmidons_, and _Nereids_, 118.
Patterne, Sir Willoughby, 287.
_Peace_, _see_ ARISTOPHANES.
Peel, Sir Robert, 325.
Pegasus, in E. _Bellerophon_, 297.
Peleus in E. _Andromache_, 220 ff., 225 ff.;
_Iph. A._, 286.
_Peliades_, _see_ EURIPIDES.
Pentheus, _see_ EURIPIDES _Bacchæ_, 70, 73, 277 ff.
_Pentheus_, _see_ THESPIS.
Pericles, 13, 116, 177, 270, 313.
_Pericles_, _see_ PLUTARCH.
_Persæ_, _see_ Æ.
Persephone, in CARCINUS, 35;
in E. _Helena_, 260;
_Heracleidæ_, 200;
in _Pirithous_, 29.
Perseus, in E. _Andromeda_, 298 ff.
Persian counsellors, 7.
_Peruigilium Veneris_, 333 n.
Phædra, 190, =205= ff., 218, 279, 317-8.
Phædrus, 52.
Phaethon, in Æ. _D. of Sun_, 119.
— — E. _Phaethon_, 300 ff.
— sisters of, in E. _Hippol._, 208.
_Phaethon_, _see_ EURIPIDES.
PHERECRATES _Cheiron_, 72 and n. [Fragm. i.].
Pheres, in E. _Alcestis_, 186 ff.
Phidias, 14.
PHILEMON, 83.
Philip of Macedon, 82, 163.
PHILISCUS, 39, 40.
Philoctetes, 62, 73;
in Æ. _Phil._, 120;
in S. _Phil._, 161 ff., 177-8, 181;
in THEODECTES, 37.
_Philoctetes_, _see_ ACHÆUS, Æ., E., S., and THEODECTES.
Philomela, in S. _Tereus_, 174.
Phineus, in E. _Andromeda_, 299 ff.
_Phineus_, _see_ Æ.
Phœbus, in E. _Electra_, 257-8;
_Ion_, 242;
_Iph. I._, 250.
_Phœnician Women_, _see_ EURIPIDES, and PHRYNICHUS.
_Phœnissæ_, _see_ EURIPIDES, and PHRYNICHUS.
_Phorbas_, _see_ THESPIS.
_Phrygians_, _see_ Æ.
PHRYNICHUS, comic poet, 14.
— general, 7 n.
— tragedian, 2, 6-10, 12, 15, 22, 78, 86, 90, 141, 315;
in _Frogs_, 126;
_Alcestis_, 6-7;
_Antæus_, 6-7;
_Capture of Miletus_, 6-7, 38;
_Danaides_ or _Daughters of Danaus_, 6-7;
_Egyptians_, 6-7;
_Libyans_, 6-7;
_Phœnician Women_ or _Phœnissæ_, 6-10, 38;
_Pleuroniæ_ or _Pleuronian Women_, 6-7;
_Tantalus_, 6;
_Troilus_, 7.
PICKARD-CAMBRIDGE, 53 n.
PINDAR, 9, 24;
his tropes, 123;
_Olympian Odes_ [xiii. 18 _sq._], 3 and n.
Pirithous, in _Pirithous_, 29.
_Pirithous_, 18, 29;
and _see_ CRITIAS.
Pisistratus, 50.
PLATO, comic playwright, 78-9.
PLATO, philosopher, 21, 34, 36, 128, 182-3;
_Laws_ [659 A-C, 700 C, 701 A], 60 n.;
_Protagoras_ [315 E], 28 n.;
_Republic_ [391 E], 119 and n.;
_Symposium_, 27, 29, 50 n., 55 and n. [175 E, 194 B, 197 D, 198 C,
223 D];
[? _Minos_, 321 A], 5 n.
PLAUTUS, _Pœnulus_, 23.
_Pleuroniæ_ or _Pleuronian Women_, _see_ PHRYNICHUS.
PLOTIUS, _De Metris_ [p. 2633], 6 n.
PLUTARCH, 323;
_Cimon_ [viii.], 12;
_De Gloria Atheniensium_ [349 E], 31;
_De Profectu in Virtute_ [79 B, E], 15, 23 n.;
_Liber Amatorius_ [756 B, C], 83 n.;
_Life of Aristides_ [III.], 91 and n.;
_Moralia_, [998 E, 110 D], 308 and n.;
_Nicias_ [524 D], 60 n.;
_Pericles_ [V], 24 and n.;
_Symposiaca_ [615 A, 645 E], 2 n., 26 and n.
Pluto, in _Pirithous_, 29.
_Pœnulus_, _see_ PLAUTUS.
_Poetic_, _see_ ARISTOTLE.
POLLUX [iv. 126, 128], 63 n., 64, 66 and n., 67 n., 70.
Pollux, in E. _Electra_, 253;
_Helena_, 258 n., 259 ff.
Polonius, 297.
Polybus, in S. _Œ. Tyr._, 147 ff.
Polydeuces, _see_ Pollux; 252 n., etc.
Polydorus, ghost of, in E. _Hec._, 215 ff.
Polygnotus, 14.
POLYIDUS, 31-2;
_Iphigenia_, 31.
_Polyidus_, _see_ EURIPIDES.
Polymestor, in E. _Hec._, 215 ff.
Polynices, 235;
in Æ. _Septem_, 89 ff.;
in E. _Phœn._, 264 ff.;
in S. _Antig._, 137 ff.;
_Œ. Col._, 168 ff.
Polyphemus, in E. _Cyclops_, 289 ff.
Polyphontes, in E. _Cresphontes_, 307 f.
POLYPHRADMON, 6, 90.
Polyphron, 38.
Polyxena, in E. _Hec._, 216 ff.;
_Troad._, 243 ff.
_Polyxena_, _see_ SOPHOCLES.
PORTER, W. H., _The Euripidean Rhesus in the light of recent
criticism_, 295 n.
Poseidon, 85;
in E. _Hippol._, 206;
_Ion_, 242;
_Troad._, 243 ff.;
_Melanippe_, 305 f.
_Possessed, The_, _see_ DOSTOEVSKY.
POWELL, J. U., ed. of E. _Phœnissæ_, 256 and n., 265 n.
PRATINAS, 2, 6, 71 n., 90.
Praxiteles, 126.
Praxithea, in E. _Erechtheus_, 297.
Priam, in Æ. _Agam._, 99;
_Phrygians_, 118;
in E. _Hec._, 215;
in S. _Eurypylus_, 176.
_Priests, The_, _see_ THESPIS.
Private Ortheris, 319.
Procne, in S. _Tereus_, 174.
Prodicus, 28.
Professor, _see_ Jebb, Murray, Norwood, Ridgeway, Roberts, Tucker,
Wilamowitz-Moellendorff.
Prometheus, 62, 72, 76, 88;
in Æ., 121;
in _Prom. V._, 92 ff.
— trilogy, 114.
_Prometheus_ (sat.), _see_ Æ.
— _Bound_, _see_ Æ.
— _The Fire-Bringer_, _see_ Æ.
— _Unbound_, _see_ Æ. and SHELLEY.
Protagoras, 17.
_Protagoras_, _see_ PLATO.
Proteus, tomb of, in E. _Helena_, 259.
_Proteus_, _see_ Æ.
Ptolemy II., 39-40.
PUCHSTEIN, 81 n.
Pylades, 64;
in Æ. _Choeph._, 73 n., 108-9;
in E. _El._, 252 ff.;
_Iph. T._, 73, 247 ff.;
_Orest._, 268 ff.;
in S. _El._, 141 ff.
PYTHON of Catana or Byzantium, 39.
Queen Mab, in Sh., _Romeo and J._, 79.
_Quomodo Historia Conscribenda_, _see_ LUCIAN.
Raffaelle, 33, 102.
_Ransom of Hector_, _see_ Æ. and DIONYSIUS.
_Relapse, The_, _see_ VANBRUGH.
RENAN, 311.
_Republic_, _see_ PLATO.
Rhesus in _Rhesus_, 291 ff.
_Rhesus_, _see_ EURIPIDES.
_Rhetoric_, _see_ ARISTOTLE.
RHYS ROBERTS, PROFESSOR W., his tr. of _De Sublimitate_, 24 n.
_Richard III_, _see_ SHAKESPEARE.
_Riddle of the Bacchæ_, _see_ NORWOOD.
RIDGEWAY, PROFESSOR SIR WM., _The Origin of Tragedy_, 2-3, 64 n.
ROBERTS, RHYS, _see_ RHYS R.
Robespierre, 30.
RUPERT BROOKE, 358.
RUSKIN, _Mornings in Florence_ [I. 14], 299 and n.
Russell, Lord John, 325.
S. PAUL [1 _Cor._ xv. 33], 309.
ST. JOHN HANKIN, 28.
SALTER, W. H., _Essays on Two Moderns_, 281 n.
Samuel, 172, 237.
Sancho Panza, 255.
SAPPHO, 8.
Saranoff, Sergius, 288.
SATYRUS, _Life of Euripides_, 18, 29 n.
SCALIGER, on _Rhesus_, 294.
_Scenes and Portraits_, _see_ MANNING.
Scephrus, 3 n.
SCHILLER, _Don Carlos_ [III. 10], 324 n.
SCHMIDT, DR. J. H. H., 334 n., 346 n.
(_Die Eurhythmie in den Chorgesängen der Griechen_, [p. 89, etc.]),
353 n.
(_Introduction_, etc.), 358 n., 345, 362 n., 354.
_Scholar-Gipsy_, _see_ ARNOLD.
SEDLEY, 360.
Semele, in E. _Bacchæ_, 277 ff.;
_Hippol._, 212.
SENECA, 44, 272.
_Septem_, _see_ Æ.
Sergius Saranoff, 288.
_Seven against Thebes_, _see_ Æ.
SHAKESPEARE, 9, 14, 29 n., 79, 104, 183, 219, 282, 325;
and SHAW, 121;
_As You_, 63;
_Hamlet_, 152 n., 183;
_Henry V_ [iv. 8], 88 and n.;
_II Henry VI_ [iii. 1], 66;
_John_, 234;
_Jul. C._, 134;
_Lear_, 16, 171-2, 183 [iij. 4];
_Macbeth_, 9, 16, 42, 70, 317;
_M. for M._, 41;
_Mcht. V._, 72-4 n.;
_M. N. Dr._ [ii. 1], 355;
_Much Ado_, 199;
_Rd. III_, 282;
_R. and J._, 79, 124;
_Sonnets_, 174;
_Tp._, [v. 1], 354;
_Titus A._ [ii. 1. 5-7], 121 and n.
— Justice Shallow, 199.
SHAW, BERNARD, 39 n.;
_Doctor’s Dilemma_, 236 n., 320-1 (and E.).
— Sergius Saranoff in, 288;
and SH., 121.
SHELLEY, _Prom. Unbd._, 95.
Silenus, 69;
in E. _Cyclops_, 289 ff.;
in S. _Ichneutæ_, 175.
SIMONIDES, 9-10.
SIR H. RIDER HAGGARD, 248.
Sir Willoughby Patterne, in MEREDITH’s _Egoist_, 287.
Sisyphus, in AGATHON, 27.
_Sisyphus_, of CRITIAS, 29-30;
and _see_ EURIPIDES.
Socrates, 17, 28 and n., 29 n., 50 n., 65, 67, 163 n., 318.
_Sonnets_, _see_ SHAKESPEARE.
Sophillus, f. of SOPHOCLES.
SOPHOCLES, v, vi, 4, 10, 12 ff., 17-20, 22-4, 26, 31, 37, 59, 60, 74,
77, 91-2, 95, 122, =132= ff., 186, 192, 195-6, 208-9, 223-4,
226 n., 275, 276 n., 281, 293, 295-6, 312, 333.
— as actor and citharist, or harpist, 71, 173-4.
— Attic spirit of, 182;
criticism of other dramatists, 160 n.
— dramatic irony in, 179-80.
— influenced by E., in _Trach._, 159-60.
— influence on Æ., 126;
introduced crēpis, 68;
invented scene-painting, 52;
Jebb’s ed. of, v;
metre of, 180, 331 n., 334.
— mind and art of, 177 ff.;
plots, 179;
religion, 177;
technical innovations, 15.
— _Ajax_, 42 n., 55 n., 63, 71, 119, =132-6=, 138, 155, 158-9,
184 [ll. 520-1, 559, 646, 650-3, 815 _sqq._].
— _Amphiaraus_ (satyric play), 174.
— _Antigone_, 8 n., 15, 132, =136-41=, 184, 266, 349 [ll. 95,
175-90, 450-70, 582 _sqq._, 782, 904-12, 1195, 1329-30].
— _Detectives_ (satyric), 175-6.
— _Dinner-Party_ (satyric), 174.
— _Electra_, 63, =141-5=, 152, 160 n., 171 n., 253 [ll. 147-9,
303-16, 328 _sqq._, 415, 582 _sqq._, 616-21, 957, 974, 1080,
1165 _sq._, 1288 _sqq._, 1331-3, 1424-5, 1508 _sqq._].
— _Eurypylus_, 176.
— _Ichneutæ_, 2, =175-6=.
— _Laocoon_, 174.
— _Lovers of Achilles_, 174.
— _Mustering of the Greeks_ (satyric), 174.
— _Nausicaa_, 12, 174.
— _Œdipus_, 24.
— _Œdipus at Colonus_, _Œdipus Coloneus_, 13, 14 and n., 16, 71
n., 160 n., =167-73=, 174, 185, 267 [ll. 62 _sq._, 106, 258-91,
443, 472, 506, 569, 607 _sqq._, 620, 670-80, 854-5, 960-1013,
964-5, 1047 _sq._, 1055, 1082, 1116, 1127, 1148-9, 1152,
1225-8, 1422-5, 1503 _sq._, 1563 _sq._, 1582 _sqq._, 1615
_sqq._, 1627 _sq._, 1682, 1697].
— _Œdipus Rex, the King_, or _Tyrannus_, 13 n., 16, 35, 37, 79,
96, =145-54=, 157, 169, 173, 179, 183, 266, 268 n., 331 n.
(Aristotle’s remarks on _Œ. Tyr._, 46-8, 148) [ll. 1, 29,
124-5, 130-1, 151, 436, 483 _sq._, 587-8, 738, 758-64, 774
_sqq._, 942, 959, 1026, 1028, 1038, 1117-8, 1141, 1313,
1524-5].
— _Orithyia_, 175.
— _Philoctetes_, 16, 46, 76, 120, 145, =161-7=, 179;
Deus ex. m. in, 315;
metre of, 181, 334 n., 337 [ll. 187-90, 268, 282-4, 287-92, 385
_sqq._, 456 _sqq._, 670, 926 _sqq._, 981 _sq._, 1007-15, 1035
_sqq._, 1047-51, 1095 _sqq._, 1222 _sqq._, 1299 _sqq._, 1402,
1455].
— _Polyxena_, 174.
— _Tereus_, 174.
— _Thamyras_, 71.
— _Trachiniæ_, =154-60=, 164, 195 [ll. 9-14, 248-86, 268, 416,
427, 547-9, 575-7, 719 _sq._, 900-22, 927 _sq._, 1140].
— _Triptolemus_, 173.
— _Women Washing_, 174.
— _Fragmenta Adespota_ [344, 345], 173-5.
SOSIPHANES, 40-41.
SOSITHEUS, 39-40;
_Daphnis_ (satyric), 40;
_Lityerses_ (satyric), 40.
_Spanish Tragedy_, _see_ KYD.
_Sphinx_, _see_ Æ.
STESICHORUS, 262 n.
STEVENSON, R. L., 320.
Sthenebœa, in E., 318.
Stobæus, 37 [102-3], 39 n., 323.
Stockman, Dr., in IBSEN, 317.
STRABO [I. 33], 301 and n.
_Studies in Greek Tragedy_, _see_ MATTHAEI.
— — _the Greek Poets_, _see_ SYMONDS.
SUIDAS, 5, 15 n., 21 n., 22, 23, 25 n.
_Suppliant Women_, or _Supplices_, _see_ Æ. and E.
SWIFT, 248.
SWINBURNE, 174;
_Erechtheus_, 297.
SYMONDS, J. A., _Studies in the Greek Poets_ [II. 26], 33 n.
_Symposiaca_, _see_ PLUTARCH.
_Symposium_, _see_ PLATO.
_Talking Oak_, _see_ TENNYSON.
Talthybius, in E. _Hec._, 216;
_Troad._, 243 ff.
Tannhäuser, 283.
_Tantalus_, _see_ PHRYNICHUS.
TCHEKOV, _Cherry Orchard_, 319.
_Tauric Iphigenia_, _see_ EURIPIDES, 73.
Tecmessa, in S. _Ajax_, 132 ff., 159.
Telephus, in E. _Tel._, 295-6.
_Telephus_, _see_ EURIPIDES, and MOSCHION.
_Tempest_, _see_ SHAKESPEARE.
Teniers, 124.
TENNYSON, _Talking Oak_, 355;
_Locksley Hall_, 335, 339.
TERENCE, 28, 36.
Tereus, in S. _Ter._, 174.
_Tereus_, _see_ SOPHOCLES.
_Tess of the D’Urbervilles_, _see_ THOMAS HARDY.
Teucer, in E. _Helena_, 258 n., 259 ff.;
in S. _Ajax_, 132 ff., 158.
_Thamyras_, _see_ SOPHOCLES.
Thanatos, in E. _Alcestis_, 187 ff.
Themistocles, 7, 88-9, 128 n.
_Themistocles_, _see_ MOSCHION.
Theoclymenus, in E. _Helena_, 258 ff., 314 n.
THEOCRITUS, 40.
THEODECTES of Phaselis, 36-8;
_Lynceus_, 37;
_Mausolus_, 38.
Theodorus the actor, 35.
Theonoe, in E. _Helena_, 258 n., 259 ff.
Theseus, in E. _Herc. Fur._, 228 ff.;
_Hippol._, 205 ff.;
_Suppl._, 234 ff.;
in S. _Œ. Col._, 168 ff., 178, 185;
in _Pirithous_, 29.
_Thesmophoriazusæ_, _see_ ARISTOPHANES.
THESPIS, 2, 4-5 (his waggon, 50), 56, 58, 68;
his supposed fragments, 5;
_Pentheus_, _Phorbas_, _Priests_, _Trials of Pelias_, _Youths_, 5.
_The Theory of Beauty_, _see_ CARRITT.
Thetis, 65;
in Æ. _Nereids_, 118;
_W. of Souls_, 120;
in E. _Andromache_, 220 ff.;
_Iph. A._, 286.
Thoas, in E. _Hypsip._, 304;
_Iph. T._, 247 ff.
THOMAS HARDY and E., 325;
_Tess of the D’U._, 325-6.
Thorvald Helmer, in IBSEN’S _A Doll’s House_, 189.
_Thracian Women_, _see_ Æ.
THUCYDIDES, 14, 182-3, 325 n. [III. 82-3].
Thyestes, 257.
_Thyestes_, _see_ CARCINUS, and CHÆREMON.
TIMÆUS, 57.
Timotheus, 18, 72.
Tiresias, in E. _Bacchæ_, 277 ff.;
_Phœn._, 264 ff.;
in S. _Antig._, 137 ff.;
_Œ. Tyr._, 146 ff.
Titans, 93 ff. (Oceanus, 94; Prometheus, 93 ff.).
_Titus Andronicus_, _see_ SHAKESPEARE.
_Trachiniæ_, _see_ SOPHOCLES.
_Tragic Drama_, etc., _see_ HAIGH.
_Trials of Pelias_, _see_ THESPIS.
Triptolemus, in CHŒRILUS’ _Alope_, 6;
in S. _Tript._, 173.
_Triptolemus_, _see_ SOPHOCLES.
_Troades_, _see_ EURIPIDES.
_Troilus_, _see_ PHRYNICHUS.
_Trojan Women_, _see_ EURIPIDES.
Trygæus in A. _Peace_, 297.
TUCKER, PROFESSOR, tr. of Æ. _Suppl._, 86 and n.
Tyndareus, in E. _Or._, 268 ff.
Typhos, 232.
VALCKENAER, on _Rhesus_, 294 n.
VANBRUGH, _Relapse_ [V. iv. 135], 105 and n.
_Vanity Fair_, 319.
_Varia Historia_, _see_ ÆLIAN.
_Veiled Hippolytus_, _see_ EURIPIDES.
Venus of Melos, 182.
VERGIL, 20, 174;
_Æneid_, 174 n. [I. 203].
VERRALL, DR. A. W., on Æ. _Agam._, 100 and n., ff., 122 and n., 126;
_Choeph._, 143 and n., 258 n.;
_Eum._, 115 n., 116 n., 130 n.;
_Septem_, 91 and n.;
on E. _Alc._, 188 n., 190 ff.;
_Androma._, 222-3;
_Bac._, 281 n.;
_Hel._, 263;
_H. Fur._, 230 ff.;
_Ion_, 239-40;
_Med._, 195-7;
_Or._, 273 n.;
his Dramatic Criticism, p. v;
_Bacchæ of E. and other Essays_, 8 n.;
_E. in a Hymn_, 250 n.;
_E.’s Apology_, 262;
_E. the Rationalist_, 130 n., 190 and n., 250 n., 265 n.;
_Four Plays of E._, 196 n., 222-3, 228 and n., 262 n.
_Virgin Martyr_, _see_ DEKKER and MASSINGER.
VITRUVIUS, 53 ff., 58-9, 63 n. [V. vi., vii. 3-4].
VOLTAIRE, 248, 257.
WALPOLE, HORACE, 311.
_Wasps_, _see_ ARISTOPHANES.
_Weighing of Souls_, _see_ Æ.
WEIL, H., _Note sur le Prométhée d’Eschyle_, 93 n.
WELCKER, 175 n.
Werle, Gregers, 317.
WHITE, PROFESSOR J. W., 345 n.
WIESELER, 54 n.
WILAMOWITZ-MOELLENDORFF, PROFESSOR U. von, p. v, 29 n., 42 n., 247
n., 282, 294 n.;
_Einleitung in die griechische Tragödie_, 42 n.
_Witch_, _see_ MIDDLETON.
_Women of Crete_, _see_ EURIP.;
_of Etna_, _see_ Æ.;
_of the Fawn-skin_, _see_ Æ.
_of Trachis_, _see_ _Trachiniæ_ and SOPHOCLES;
_Women Washing_, _see_ SOPHOCLES.
WORDSWORTH, 127, 172, 308.
XENOCLES, 243.
XENOPHON, _Hellenica_ [VI. iv. 33-4], 38 n.
Xerxes, 76, 228 ff.;
in Æ. _Persæ_, 87-9, 356.
Xuthus, in E. _Ion_, 236 ff.
_Youths_, _see_ Æ., and THESPIS.
Zenocrate, in _Tamburlaine_, 328.
Zethus, in E. _Antiope_, 298.
Zeus, 176, 277, 284.
— Cretan, 310.
— in Æ., 84 ff., 127 ff., 213;
in _Eum._, 112 ff.;
in _W. Souls_, 120;
in E. _Andromeda_, 300;
_Antiope_, 298;
_Bellero._, 297;
_Helena_, 260, 322;
_Heracleidæ_, 201;
_H. Fur._, 229 ff.;
_Hippol._, 208, 212;
_Ion_, 242;
_Melan._, 306;
_Troad._, 246.
— temple of, at Marathon, in E. _Heracleidæ_, 200.
IV. METRE
Accelerated Spondee, 343 n.
Accentual Dactyl, 356.
— Iambi, 328.
Anaclasis, 356.
Anacrusis, 334 n., 342, etc.
Anapæsis used by chorus, 337.
— in recitative, 74.
Anapæst, ⏑⏑–, 290 n., 331, 338, etc.
Anapæstic metre, 337-8.
— system, 337.
Antistrophe, 78, 344 ff.
Antithetic-mesodic periods, 361-2.
Antithetic periods, 360.
Asclepiad, greater, 8.
Bacchiac, – –⏑, 355.
Blank verse, 328.
Cæsura, 332-3, 336.
Catalectic verse, 337, 339;
catalectic foot, 334.
— — in anapæstic systems, 338.
Catalexis, 335, 337, 353-4, 359.
Choree, 352-3.
Choriambics, –⏑⏑–, 357.
Cola, three types of, 351.
Colon, 343 ff.
— definition of, 347.
Counter-turn, 344.
Cretic, –⏑–, 354.
— Final, 290 n., 333-4.
— in English, 355.
Cyclic Dactyls, 341.
Dactyl, –⏑⏑, 331, etc., 340.
Dactylic dipody, 356.
— hexameter, 339.
Dactyls, cyclic, 341.
Definition of a colon, 347.
— — ictus, 347-8.
— — metre, 327.
— — poetry, 327.
— — rhythm, 327.
Diæresis, 336-7.
Dialogue-metre, 74, 334 ff., 353.
Dipody, 338, 351-2.
Dochmiacs, 355, 358.
Dochmius, 358.
Elision, 329, etc., 344 n.
Emotional significance of metre, 353 ff.
Episodic trochaics, 338, 353.
Epode, 78, 345.
Equal cola, 351.
Final Cretic, 290 n., 333-4.
Foot-ictus, 342.
Greater asclepiad, 8.
Hexameter, Dactylic, 339.
Hexapody, 351-2.
Hiatus, 329-30.
Homeric metre, 339.
Iambic metre, 4, 327, 330 ff.
— senarius, 340.
Iambus, ⏑–, 74, 327 ff., 330, etc.
Ictus, 342, 347.
— definition of, 347.
Insetting, 342.
Ionic, – –⏑⏑, 356.
Ionicus a maiore, 356.
— — minore, ⏑⏑– –, 356.
Irrational syllables, 343 n., 347, 351, 362.
Licences, 331, 335.
Logaoedic systems, 341.
Long syllables, 328.
Lyrics, v, vi, 2, 338 ff.
Mesode, 344, 361.
Mesodic periods, 361-2.
Metre, vi, 327 ff.
— definition of, 327.
— in comedy, 334.
— of S. _Philoctetes_, 181;
of E. _Orestes_, 315, 334.
Molossus, – – –, 354.
Music, Greek, 339, etc.
Octonarius, 335.
— trochaic, 339.
Palinodic-antithetic periods, 361.
— — -mesodic periods, 361-2.
Palinodic-mesodic periods, 361-2.
— periods, 360.
Parœmiacs, 338 and n.
Pentapody, 351.
Period, 343, 359 ff.
Pitch-accent, 327 n.
Poetry, definition of, 327.
Postlude, 344, 362.
Prelude, 342, 344, 362.
Prodelision, 329.
Quantity, 327 ff.
Quasi-anapæsts, 354.
Quasi-trochees, 341.
Quinquepartite cola, 351.
Recitative, 337.
Resolved feet, 330, 334, 336, 342 n., 353, 355, 358.
Rhythm, p. vi, 327 ff.
— definition of, 327.
— in _Philoctetes_, 181.
Rules of Quantity, 328-9.
Scansion, 327 ff.;
of lyrics, v, vi, 338 ff.
Scheme of iambic verse, 334.
— — trochaic tetrameters, 337.
Senarius, iambic, 340.
Sentence, 343, etc.
Spondaic words lacking in English, 354.
Spondee, – –, 181, 330, etc., 341, 353.
Stichic period, 359-60.
— -mesodic period, 361.
Stress-accent, 327, 342, 347.
“Striking-up,” 342 n.
Strophe, 78, 344 ff.
Synapheia, 330.
Syncopated rhythm, 341.
Synizesis, 332.
Tetrameter, Trochaic, 334 ff.
Tetrapody, 337, 351-2.
Tribrach, ⏑⏑⏑, 181, 331, 335.
Tripody, 351-2.
Trochaic tetrameter, 4, 334 ff.
— octonarius, 339.
Trochee, –⏑, 334 ff., 352.
Turn, 344.
Types of cola, 351.
— — period, 359 ff.
Unequal cola, 351.
Verse in lyrics, 346.
Virgilian metre, 339.
Voice-stress, 328.
Word-ictus, 348.
LINES QUOTED IN CHAPTER VI
ÆSCHYLUS:
_Agam._, 2, 160 _sqq._, 975 _sqq._, 988 _sqq._, 1530 _sqq._
_Eumen._, 788 _sq._
_Persæ_, 81 _sq._, 126 _sq._
_Prom. V._, 12, 15, 115, 415, 420.
_Suppl._, 418 _sqq._, 582 _sqq._, 656.
EURIPIDES:
_Alcestis_, 29, 32, 34, 37, 179.
_Androma._, 241, 260, 804.
_Bacchæ_, 12, 64 _sqq._, 703.
_Cyclops_, 361 _sqq._
_Hecuba_, 629 _sqq._;
_Herc. Fur._, 76, 857.
_Ion_, 125-7, 313, 548;
_I. Aul._, 320, 882;
_I. T._, 123-5, 1232.
_Medea_, 1, 635;
_Orest._, 310, 367, 502, 740, 756, 797, 872, 892, 894.
_Phœn._, 114 _sqq._, 590 _sq._, 609, 612;
_Troades_, 710, 738.
SOPHOCLES:
_Ajax_, 646, 652;
_Antigone_, 95, 582 _sqq._, 1329 _sq._
_Electra_, 147-9;
_Œ. Col._, 1047-8, 1055, 1082.
_Œ. Tyr._, 1, 29, 151, 483-4, 738, 1313.
_Philoct._, 895 _sqq._, 1095 _sqq._, 1222 _sqq._, 1402.
V. GENERAL
Actor, 1.
— Hegelochus, 74.
— Sophocles, 13.
— Theodorus, 35.
Actors, 4, 15, 72-5.
Actors’ Guild, 75.
— in Roman times, 59.
— privileges of, 75.
— travelling companies of, 49.
— under Æ., 11-12.
Admission to theatre, 81.
Agnosticism of E., 318.
Alexandrian Pleiad, 2, 39-41.
Allusions to landscape, 63.
— — contemporary events, 7-9.
Altar in orchestra, 50.
— of Dionysus, 51.
Ambassadors’ seats, 81.
Amphictyonic council, 75.
Anapiesma, 64.
Apparition of gods, etc., 65.
— of Dioscuri in E. _El._, 65;
of Iris and Frenzy in _H. Fur._, 233;
of Medea, 65;
of Pallas in _H. Fur._, 233 n.
Architecton, 82.
Architectural remains, evidence of, in stage controversy, 57-8.
Archon and dramatic judges, 12.
— Basileus, 60.
— Eponymus, 60.
Archonship of Menon, 87.
Archons’ seats, 81.
Areopagite Court in _Eumenides_, 70, 112 ff., 317.
Argives in Æ. _Agam._, 79;
_Suppl._, 84;
in E. _El._, 252 ff.;
_Or._, 269 ff.
— in E. _Phœn._, 264 ff.;
in S. _Antig._, 137 ff.
Argo the ship, in E. _Hypsip._, 305.
Argument of E. _Hippol._, 215 n.;
_Medea_, 22 n.;
of Æ. _Persæ_, 8 n.
— against a stage, 56 ff.;
for a stage, 53 ff.
— of plays, whence taken, 62.
Arrangement of Æ. _Agam._, 99 n.;
_Choeph._, 106 n.;
_Eum._, 111 n.;
_Pers._, 86 n.;
_P. V._, 92;
_Septem_, 89 n.;
_Suppl._, 84 n.
— of E., _Alc._, 186 n.;
_Bac._, 277 n.;
_Cycl._, 289 n.;
_El._, 252 n.;
_Hel._, 258 n.;
_Heracleidæ_, 200 n.;
_H. Fur._, 228 n.;
_Hippol._, 205 n.;
_Ion_, 236 n.;
_I. A._, 285 n.;
_I. T._, 247 n.;
_Or._, 268 n.;
_Phœn._, 264 n.;
_Rhes._, 291 n.;
_Suppl._, 234 n.;
_Troad._, 243 n.
— of S. _Aj._, 132 n.;
_Ant._, 136 n.;
_El._, 141 n.;
_Œ. C._, 167 n.;
_Œ. T._, 145 n.;
_Philoct._, 161 n.;
_Trach._, 154 n.
Artists of Dionysus, 75.
? Ascent from orchestra to stage, 55.
Assyrian sculpture, 126.
Até, 129, 198.
Athenian art, 182-3.
— cynicism, 325.
— ecclesia, 270.
— empire, 14, 128 n., 325.
Atridean house, 127, 129.
Attic festivals, 49.
— hero Triptolemus, 6.
— spirit of S., 182.
— townships, 49.
Audience, 80.
Audiences, size of, 50.
Auditorium, 51.
Authorship of _Rhesus_, 293-5.
Bacchante, 237;
Bacchantes in Æ. _Bassarids_, 117.
Basileus, Archon, 60.
Beacon-speech in Æ. _Agam._, 124.
Beauty and Truth in E., 326.
_Belletrist_, Ion a, 24.
Benefactors’ seats, 81.
Bent staff of actors, 16.
Bible and S. _Œ. Col._, 172 and n.
Board-game in Æ. _Suppl._, 123;
in E. _Medea_, 208.
Board of generals, 12.
Bœotians, 234 n.
“Bowl of the Sun,” in Æ. and Mimnermus, 119.
Bronteion, 64.
Buildings of Greek theatre, 50 ff.
Burial-passages in Moschion, 38.
Burlesque, E. _Helena_ a, 262 ff.
Buskin, 69.
Butler in E. _Alc._, 73.
Byzantine appreciation and selection of E., 21, 215-6, 265, 268.
Catharsis, 43.
Cenotaph of E., in Attica, 18.
Centaurs:
Chiron, 98;
Nessus, 154.
Ceraunoscopeion, 64.
Cercis, -ides, 80-1.
Change of dress, 73.
— — scene in Æ. _Eum._, and S. _Aj._, 63.
Character in Tragedy, according to Aristotle, 44.
Charges in theatre, 81-2.
Charioteer in _Rhesus_, 291-2.
Chariots on stage, 64.
Charon’s steps, 64.
Chian wine, 24.
Choregus, 7, 60, 68, 82.
Choreutæ or choristers, 16, 75 ff.
Chorus, 4, 75-80.
— and chorus-leader, 1.
Chorus-dancing, 78-80.
— -entrances, 56.
— in satyric drama, 80.
— — Æ., E., and S., 76-7.
— — E., _Alc._, 79;
_Or._, 79;
S. _Œ. Tyr._, 79;
_Philoct._, 166.
— of Argive elders in Æ. _Ag._, 79, 99.
— — — women in E. _El._, 252 ff.
— — — — — — _Or._, 79, 269.
— — Athenians in S. _Œ. Col._, 169.
— — attendants of Creusa in E. _Ion_, 236 ff.
— — — women in E. _Phaethon_, 302.
— — Colchian women in E. _Iph. A._, 285 ff.
— — captive Greek maidens in E. _Helena_, 259.
— — — — — — — _Iph. T._, 247 ff.
— — Corinthian women in E. _Medea_, 192 ff.
— — Danaids in Æ. _Suppl._, 76, 84.
— — Furies in Æ. _Eumen._, 76-7, 111.
— — Greek sailors in S. _Philoct._, 166.
— — Lemnians in Æ. and E. _Philoct._, 166, 296.
— — Libation-bearers in Æ. _Choeph._, 79, 106, 126.
— — Mothers of the Seven, in E. _Suppl._, 234 ff.
— — Nemean women in E. _Hypsip._, 304.
— — Old Athenians, in E. _Erech._, 297;
_Heracleid._, 200.
— — — Pheræans in E. _Alc._, 79, 186.
— — Phœnician maidens in E. _Phœn._, 264 ff.
— — — — — Phrynichus’ _Phœn._, 9.
— — Phrygian Bacchantes in E. _Bac._, 277 ff.
— — Phrygians in Æ. _Hector’s Ransom_, 119.
— — Phthian women in E. _Andromache_, 220.
— — Salaminian sailors in S. _Ajax_, 132.
— — Satyrs in S. _Ichn._, 175, and E. _Cycl._, 289 ff.
— — Sea-Nymphs in Æ. _Prom. V._, 94.
— — Sentinels in _Rhesus_, 291 ff.
— — Thebans in E. _H. Fur._, 228 ff.
— — — — S. _Antig._, 137.
— — — — — _Œ. Tyr._, 148.
— — Trœzenian women in E. _Hippol._, 205 ff.
— — Trojan women in E. _Troades_, 243 ff.
— place of, in theatre, 50.
— under Æ., 11-12.
Chorus-leader, 60.
— -trainer, 70.
Chromatic style of Agathon, 26.
Chthonian religion in Æ., 130.
City Dionysia, 13, 49, 60.
Classicism and Romance, 320.
Comedy, 23.
— origin of, 1 n.
Commos, 74.
— Aristotle’s definition of, 47.
— in Æ. _Choeph._, 109 and n.
Complication, Ar.’s definition of, 47.
Conception of God in Critias, 30.
Confederacy, Delian, 13.
Conscience in Æ., 130.
Contents, p. vii.
Coon-songs, 80.
Corinthians, 16, 192 ff.
Coryphæus, 78-9.
— in _Œ. Tyr._, 146.
Cothurnus, 69.
Crēpis, 68.
Criticism, Verrall’s, etc., p. v.
Crown of ivy, 61.
Curetes, in E. _Cretans_, 310.
Curtain, none in classical age, 64.
Dancing-ground, 50.
Dancing of chorus, 78-80.
Date of _Hecuba_, 215 n.
Dea ex machina, in E. _Ion_, 240;
_Melanippe_, 306.
See also Deus.
Death on stage, according to Aristotle, 45;
of Alcestis and Hippolytus, 46.
Defects in S. _Ajax_, 135-6.
Delian confederacy, 13.
— festival, 215 and n.
Delirium of Orestes, on stage, 70.
Delphic oracle, in E. _Erech._, 297;
_Ion_, 237 ff.;
_I. T._, 247 ff.;
_Teleph._, 295-6.
Demos, 325.
Dénouement, Aristotle’s definition of, 47.
Destiny in E., 318.
Deus ex machina, acc. to Aristotle, 46;
in S. _Philoct._, 163 ff., 312 ff., 315;
in E. _Androma._, 312 ff.;
_Bac._, _Hel._, _Hipp._, _Ion_, _Iph. A._, _Melan. W._, _Rhes._,
_Suppl._, _ibid._, _Medea_, 46, 195-6.
Deuteragonist, 72.
Dialogue, 4, 11.
Difficulties in plot of _Andromache_, 221 ff.
Dionysia, City or Great, 13, 49, 60, 80.
— Rural, 49.
— 203.
— in Alexander’s Camp, 39.
Dionysiac festivals, 80.
— — at Alexandria, 39.
— legends, 2.
— worship, 68.
Distegia, 64-5.
Dithyrambic chorus, 82.
Dithyrambs, 1, 3, 23-4, 49.
— prize a tripod in, 62.
“Do and suffer,” 110.
Doge in Sh. _Merchant of Venice_, 72-3.
Doors in theatre, 52.
Dorian mode, 72.
Dorians and tragedy, 3.
Doric in lyrics, 3 and n.
Drama before Æ., 4 ff.
Dramatic art of Æ., 125 ff.
— criticism, Verrall’s, p. v.
— form, p. vi.
— irony in S., 179-80.
— performance, a State function, 50.
— renaissance in Great Britain, p. v.
— structure, pp. v, vi, etc.
— — of E. _Medea_, 196-7.
Dress, effect of, on acting, 70.
— of actors and chorus, 68-70.
— — satyric chorus, 69.
— — chorus in E. _Bac._, 68-9.
— — Furies in Æ. _Eum._, 69.
Dressing-room, 52.
Ecclesia of Athens, 270.
Eccyclema, 64, 66-8;
in Æ. _Eum._, 67, 111 n.;
in E. _H. Fur._, 229.
Editions of E. _Medea_, 22 and n., 195-6;
of _Hippol._, 213-5.
Effect of dress and masks on acting, 70.
Egyptian herald in Æ. _Suppl._, 123-4, and Eg. messenger in E.
_Hel._, 258 ff.
— sculpture, 126.
Elaphebolion, month (Mar.-Apr.), 49.
Elegies of Ion, 23.
Elements of tragedy, acc. to Aristotle, 44.
Eleusinian mysteries, 10-11.
Eleusinians in E. _Erech._, 297.
Elizabethan dramatists, 5.
— stage-directions, and eccyclema, 66-7.
Embassy to Syracuse, E. on, 17.
Encores, 83.
Epigrams of Ion, 23.
Episodes, 4 and n., 12.
— Ar.’s definition of, 47.
Episodic plot of _Hecuba_, 216.
— plots of E., 312 ff.
Epitaph of Æ., 10 n.
Eponymus, Archon, 60.
Eretrian philosophic school, 39.
Eruption of Etna, 91.
Etymology of “tragedy,” 62 n.
Eunuch in Phrynichus’ _Phœnissæ_, 7.
Euripidean influence in S. _Philoct._, 163.
— — — — _Trach._, 159-60.
— _Supplices_, 65.
— versification of Sosiphanes, 41.
Evidence of architectural remains, in stage controversy, 57-8.
— — extant dramas, in stage controversy, 56-7.
— — tradition, in stage controversy, 57.
Examining-boards and S. _Ajax_, p. vi.
Exodos, 78;
Ar.’s definition of, 47.
“Expedit esse deos,” 257 n.
Fate in Æ., 130;
in E., 318;
in E. _Troades_, 246.
“Fates” in British Museum, 182.
Faults in _Œ. Tyr._, 150 ff.
Fixed proscenium, 58.
Flowers, Chæremon’s love of, 32-3.
Flute-players, 6, 60, 70-2.
Form, dramatic, p. v.
Fourth actor, 71.
Fragments of Aristophanes, 119 and n.
— — Æ., 117 ff.;
of E., 295 ff.;
of S., 173-6.
French Revolution, 30.
Frenzies in E. _Orestes_, 275;
frenzy, 65.
Fundamental law in criticism of Greek tragedy, 155.
Furies, 67-8, 111 ff., 249;
and Attica, 131;
grove of, 168 ff.;
in Æ. _Choeph._, 108;
_Eum._, 77 n.;
in S. _Œ. Col._, 169;
in E. _Iph. T._, 247;
_Orestes_, 269.
Gallery, 51.
— on Elizabethan stage, 65.
Gamelion, month (Jan.-Feb.), 49.
Gangways, 51.
General appreciation of Æ., 120 ff.;
of S., 177 ff.;
of E., 310 ff.
Generals, board of, 13.
Generals’ seats, 81.
Geography, in _Prometheus_-trilogy, and _Daughters of Sun_, of Æ.,
119;
and in S. _Triptolemus_, 173.
Ghost of Clytæmnestra, in Æ. _Eum._, 111 ff.
— — Polydorus, in E. _Hec._, 215 ff.
Ghosts in theatre, 55, 64.
Goat as tragic prize, 62.
“Goat-song,” 62 n.
“God” in E., 283 f.
Golden Fleece in E. _Medea_, 192 ff.
— — — — _Hypsip._, 305.
— Lamb, 257.
Gorgon, in E. _Andromeda_, 240.
Graces and Muses in E., 326.
“Gracious Ones,” 113 n.
Græco-Roman type of theatre, 59 n.
Grandeur of Æ.’s dramatic art, 125.
— — — language, 121.
Great Dionysia, 49, 80.
Greek Drama originated in Dionysiac worship, 1.
— — an act of worship, 49.
— enlightenment, 325.
— Messenger in E. _Helena_, 258 n.
— Statues, 182-3.
Guard in E. _Bacchæ_, 277 ff.;
in S. _Antig._, 144.
Hades, 95;
in Pirithous, 29.
Harpist, S. as, 71.
Hellenistic world, 20.
Hellenotamias, 13.
Hemicyclion, 64.
Herald in Æ. _Ag._, 73;
_Suppl._, 123;
of Thebes, in E. _Suppl._, 234 ff.
Herdsman in _Rhesus_, 291 n. and ff.
“Hero” in Greek sense, 136.
High stage, 53-4.
Hissing a play, 83.
Homeric question, 52.
Hoplite, Æ. as, 10.
Horses on stage, 64.
Huntsmen in E. _Hippol._, 71.
Hymns of Ion, 23.
Hypnotism in E. _Bacchæ_, 282.
Hyporchema, 6, 78.
Hypothesis of E. _Cycl._, 290 n.;
of _Suppl._, 235 n.
Icria, 81.
Improvisation, 5.
Innovations of Agathon, 26 f.
Interpolations in E. _Phœnissæ_, 265 ff.
Invocation of Agamemnon’s shade, in Æ. _Choeph._, 74.
Ionian revolt, 7.
Irony, S.’s dramatic, 179-80.
Isthmian games, 23.
Ivy crown of poet and choregus, 61.
— sacred to Dionysus, 61-2.
Japanese theatre, 68.
Judges of dramas, 12-13, 61.
Judges’ seats in theatre, 81.
Lacedæmonian society in E. _Andromache_, 224.
Landscape, allusions to, in drama, 63.
Language of Homer, 123.
Later Greek view of E., 323.
Lead, theatre-ticket of, 82.
Lemnian chorus in Æ. and E. _Philoctetes_, 166.
Lenæa, 34, 49, 60.
Lessee of theatre, 82.
Library of Alexandria, 39.
— — Euripides, 17.
Libretto, 72, 312.
Lightning on stage, 64.
“Literature of escape,” 184.
“Liturgy” or public service, 60.
Logeion, 53, 57, 64.
Low stage, 54.
Ludovisi Hera, 182.
Lycians in _Rhesus_, 291 ff.
Lycurgean theatre, 58.
Lydian mode, 72.
Machinery, on stage, 64-5.
“Madonna of the Grand Duke,” by Raffaelle, 102.
“Marathon, men of,” 325.
Masks, 5, 58, 68-9;
invented by Chœrilus? 6;
effect on acting, 70.
“Melian dialogue” in Thucydides, 167 n.
Melodrama, 307.
“Men of Marathon,” 325.
Messenger or messengers: in E. _Bacch._, 277 ff.;
_El._, 252-3;
_Helena_, 258 ff.;
_Iph. A._, 285 f.;
_Phœn._, 264-5;
_Suppl._, 234 n.;
in S. _Œ. Col._, 185.
Metaphors, 123, etc.
Minor parts well played, 73.
Mixed, or “mixo-,” Lydian mode, 19, 72.
Model tragedy, in Ar. _Poetic_, the _Œ. Tyr._, 148.
Modes in music, 72.
Monastic spirit in Hellas, 310.
Monody, 74.
Mounting of plays, 60, 62 ff.
Muse in _Rhesus_, 291 n. and ff.;
Muses in Æ. _Bassar._, 117;
in E. _H. Fur._, 229.
Music, 26, 71-2;
and Pratinas, 6.
Music-hall, or Odeum, 56.
Mutes, 70-1.
Mysteries of Eleusis, 10-11.
Naiad-lyric in E. _Hel._, 261.
Natural science in E., 319.
Nemean games, 304.
— women in E. _Hypsip._, 304.
New comedy, 19, 336.
Nightingale-lyric in E. _Hel._, 261;
in _Rhes._, 292-3.
No word for stage in older literature, 57.
Number of actors, 5, 11-12, 15-16, 73.
Nurse in Æ. _Choeph._, 124;
E. _Hippol._, 205 ff.;
in S. _Trach._, 158 n.;
in Sh. _Romeo and J._, 124.
Nymph Cyllene, in S. _Ichn._, 176;
Echo, in S. _Philoct._, 166.
Objections of A. and Ar. to E., 312 ff.
Obol, 81.
Obscenity in ritual, 81.
Oceanids in Æ. _P. V._, 76, 124.
Ochlocracy, 30.
Odes in Tragedy, 77.
Odeum, or Music-hall, 56.
Old Comedy, 81.
— man, in E. _Iph. A._, 285 ff.
— woman, in E. _Helena_, 258 ff.
Olympian Gods, and Æ., 130;
in S. _El._, 142;
in E. _Hippol._, 209;
_Ion_, 238 ff.;
_Iph. T._, 249;
_Or._, 276;
_Troad._, 246.
Oncus, 69.
Optical relations of stage and auditorium, 58.
Oracle of Delphi;
in _Ion_, 237;
and _see_ DELPHIC ORACLE.
Orchestra, 50, 57-8, 64.
Order in theatre, 82.
Origin of comedy, 1 and n.;
of tragedy, 1 ff.
Oxyrhynchus papyri, 18 and n., 175 ff., 304 and n., etc. [vi.,
19-106; ix. 124-82].
Pæan on Salamis, 12;
Pæans, 23.
Pædagogi, brought on stage by Neophron, 21.
Pædagogus, in S. _El._, 141 ff.;
E. _Ion_, 236 ff.;
_Med._, 192;
_Phœn._, 264 ff.
Papyri, _see_ Oxyrhynchus.
Parachoregema, 71.
Parallel of sculpture and Æ.’s art, 125-6.
Parascenia, 53-4, 71.
Parian marble, the, 17.
Parodos, -oi, 77, 81;
Ar.’s definition of, 47.
Parody: of Agathon, in A. _Thesmoph._, 27-8;
of E. _Andromeda_, in A. _Thesm._, 298;
_Belleroph._, in A. _Peace_, 297;
of _Tel._ in A. _Acharn._ and _Thesm._, 296;
of _Helena_ in A. _Thesm._, 262.
Parts of a theatre, 50 ff.
Passage-ways, 51.
Peace-lyric, in E. _Cresph._, 308-9.
Peasant in E. _Electra_, 252 ff.
“Pegs,” 51.
Pelasgians, 272.
Pelopid curse, in Æ. _Agam._, 106;
family, 258.
Peloponnesian war, 163, 200, 201 n., 219 n., 325.
Performers and their work, 70 ff.
Periacti, 63, 65.
Peripeteia, definition and examples of, given by Aristotle, 37, 47-8;
in Agathon, 27;
in E., 18-19;
in S. _Antig._, 140;
in _Philoct._, 163.
Persian counsellors, 7, 356;
invasions, 10.
Phallic songs, 1 n.
Pheræan elders’ chorus, in E. _Alc._, 186.
Philosophy in E., 319.
“Phœbus,” watchword in _Rhesus_, 291 ff.
Phœnician women, chorus of in E. and Phry. _Phœn._, 9, 264.
Phrygian in E. _Orestes_, 268 ff.
— mode, 16, 72.
— slave, his solo, in E. _Or._, 72.
Phrygians, 224.
Phrynichean treatment of theme, 108.
Picturesqueness of Æ.’s dramatic structure, 127-8;
of his characterization, 124;
language, 123-4.
_Plan of theatre_ (illustration), 51.
Platform, 56.
Plays with two actors only, 12 and n.
“Pleiad” at Alexandria, 39.
Pleiads in E. _Phaethon_, 302.
Plot in Tragedy, acc. to Aristotle, vi, 44;
of _Agam._, Verrall’s theory, 100 ff.
Politics, Æ.’s interest in, 128 and n.;
in E., 319.
Pommery, 74 n.
Popularity of E. _Phœn._, 265.
Poseideon, month (Dec.-Jan.), 49.
Priest of Dionysus, 80.
Privileges of actors, 75.
Prize for acting, 61, 75.
Probability in Agathon, 27.
Proedria, 81.
Producers of plays, 60.
Production of plays, 49 ff.
Prologos, Ar.’s definition of, 19, 47.
Prologue in E., 19 and n.
— of Phrynichus’ _Phœnissæ_, 7.
Pronunciation in Greek and English theatres, 74.
Propagandist plays of Diogenes and Crates, 37.
Properties, 64.
Property-rooms, 52.
Prophetess in E. _Ion_, 236 ff.
Prophets of Israel and Æ., 121.
Propompi in Æ. _Eum._, 71.
Proscenium, 53, 58.
Prose-drama of E., 323.
Protagonist, 60-1, 72 ff.
Psychological drama of E., 318.
_Pulpitum_, 56.
Puritans, 30.
Purpose and scope of the book, p. v.
Pythian priestess, in Æ. _Eum._, 111;
in E. _Ion_, 237.
_Quo Vadis?_ legend, 165.
Rationalism in Critias’ _Sisyphus_, 30;
in E., 315, etc.
Realism in E., 321.
Recitative, 74.
Recognition in tragedy, acc. to Aristotle, 45;
in Æ. _Choeph._, 258;
in Arnold’s _Merope_, 308-9;
in E. _Cresph._, _ib._;
_Hel._, 260;
_Hypsip._, 305;
_Ion_, 237 ff.;
_Iph. T._, 31, 45, 73, 248;
in Polyidus’ _Iph._, 31;
in S. _El._, 142, 144;
_Tereus_, 174 n.
Recoil in drama, Ar.’s definition of, 45, 47-8;
in S. _Antig._, 140.
Religion in E., 319, etc.;
in S., 177;
in Æ. _Eum._, 114;
of Æ., 128.
Remains of theatre buildings at Athens, 52.
Renaissance in Great Britain, Dramatic, p. v.
Reticence of Athenian art, 183.
Reversal of action in tragedy, acc. to Aristotle, 45, 47-8.
Rhapsody of Chæremon, 32.
“Rod-bearers,” 82.
Roman theatres, 52.
Romance and classicism, 320.
— in E., 320-1.
Rural Dionysia, 49.
Sack of Melos, 244.
Sacrificial Table, 1, 4.
Salaminian sailors, chorus of, in S. _Ajax_, 132.
Salamis, victory of, 7, 12, 14, 38.
“Salome” dances, 78.
_Salon_ of Sophocles, 14.
Satyric chorus, 80.
— drama, 1, 2, 6, 17, 23, 25, 61, 81 n., 175-6, 192, 289 ff., etc.
Satyrs, 1;
chorus of, in _Cycl._, 289 ff.
Scænici, 53.
Scēnē, 52, 59.
Scene-painting, 4, 15, 16, 62.
Scenery, 62 ff.
Scholia: on Æ. _Choeph._ [900], 73 n.;
_Pers._, 87;
_Prom. V._ [128], 57;
on _Aristoph._, 22 n.;
_Frogs_ [303], 74 n.;
_Frogs_ [53], 304 n.;
_Wasps_ [1342], 57;
on Eurip., 21;
_Phœn._, 265;
_Rhes._ [528], 294 and n.
Scolia, 23.
Sculpture of Assyria, Egypt, Greece, Praxiteles, 125-6.
Sea-Nymphs, in Æ. _P. V._, 94.
Seating accommodation in theatre, Athens, 50 and n.
Seats in theatre, 80 ff.
Selection of dramatic judges, 61.
Semi-choruses, 78.
Sentinels, chorus of, in _Rhesus_, 291 ff.
Servant, in E. _Ion_, 236 ff.
Seven against Thebes, in E. _Suppl._, 234 ff.
Shepherd, in E. _El._, 253.
Shrine of Thetis, in E. _Androma._, 219 ff.
Sicilian expedition, 244, 252 n.
Side-wings, 51, 54.
Sikinnis dance, 80.
Simplicity of Athenian art, 183;
of Æ.’s dramatic structure, 126.
— — Æ.’s language, 122.
Sin, as material defilement, in Æ., 130 n.
— in Euripides, 318 ff.
Slave in _Iph. A._, 322.
Socratic novices in A. _Clouds_, 68.
Solo by Phrygian slave in E. _Or._, 72.
Songs of Phrynichus, 8.
Sophistry in E., 317.
(“Spartam nactus es, hanc exorna”), 295.
Spartans, 201 n., 204.
“Speaking-place,” 53;
“for gods,” 65.
Sphinx, 265, 267-8 n.;
in S. _Œ. Tyr._, 151.
Stage, 52 ff.
Stage-buildings, 50 ff.
— -direction in S. _Ichn._, 175 n.
— -machinery, 64 ff.
— -properties, 64.
— used after 300 B.C., 53.
Stasima, 77;
-on, Ar.’s definition of, 47.
Statues in Greek plays, 62.
— of playwrights, 31.
Stewards in theatre, 82.
Stropheion, 64.
Structure, dramatic, v, vi, etc.
“Study-plays” of Diogenes and Crates, 37.
Sun-god, in E. _Medea_, 195;
_Phaethon_, 301-3.
Supervision of dramatic displays, 60 ff.
Suttee, in E. _Suppl._, 235.
Table in orchestra, 50.
Table, sacrificial, 1, 4.
Tableaux in Greek theatre, 66.
Taurians in E. _Iph. T._, 247 ff.
Technical changes made by Æ., 11;
by S., 15-6.
Temple of Athena, in _Eumen._, 63.
Tent, 52 (of Agamemnon).
Tetralogy, 15, 17, 24, 50, 61, 87.
Theatre, 80 ff.
— at Athens, remains of, 59 n.
— buildings, 50 ff.
— Græco-Roman type, in Asia Minor, 59 n.
— its parts and construction, 50 ff.
— not roofed, 50.
— of Dionysus, Athens, 49, 56.
— — Lycurgus, 57.
— ticket, 82.
Thebans, chorus of, in E. _H. Fur._, 228 ff.
Theologeion, 64-5.
Theoric fund, 82.
Thessalian, in E. _Andromache_, 226-7.
Thesmophoria, festival, 262.
Third actor, 16.
Thirty tyrants, 29-30.
Thought in tragedy, acc. to Aristotle, 44.
Thracian Edoni, 117.
Thracians in E. _Erech._, 297;
_Rhes._, 291 ff.
“Three Unities,” 42 n.
Thunder-machine, 64.
Thymele, 57;
-melici, 53.
Times of dramatic performances, 50.
“To give a chorus,” 60.
Tomb of Achilles, in _Hec._, 216;
of Agamemnon, in Æ. _Choeph._, 106;
in E. _El._, 253;
of Clytæmnestra, in E. _Or._, 269;
of Proteus, in E. _Hel._, 259;
importance of tombs acc. to Prof. Ridgeway, 3, 64 and n.
“To receive a chorus,” 60.
Torturing of slaves, in drama, 21.
Tradition, evidence of, in stage controversy, 57.
Tragedy, origin of, 1 ff.
Tragic contest, begun by Pisistratus, 50.
— diction, created by Æ., 122.
— incident in tragedy, acc. to Aristotle, 45.
Tragicomedy in E., 19.
Trainers of actors and choruses, 60.
Travelling companies of actors, 49.
Treasury Board, 13.
Trilogy, 16.
Tripod, prize for dithyramb, 62.
Tritagonist, 72.
Trœzenian women, chorus of, in E. _Hippol._, 205 ff.
Trojans, in E. _Philoct._, 297;
_Rhesus_, 291 ff.
— women, chorus of, in E. _Troades_, 243 ff.
Two actors only, in certain plays, 12 and n.
Tyrants, thirty, 29.
Unities, three, 42 n.
Unity of Place, 42 n.;
violated in Æ. _Eum._, and in S. _Aj._, 42 n.
Unravelling in drama, Ar.’s definition of, 47.
Vase-paintings, 41.
Verse-translations of Professor Murray, v, 185, 211, 214, 280.
Versions of E. _Medea_, 22 and n., 195-6;
of _Hippol._, 213-5.
Vitruvian stage, 53 ff.
Vote of Athena, in Æ. _Eumen._, 112 and n.
Waggon of Thespis, 5, 50.
Was there a stage in the Greek theatre? 52 ff.
— — ever a fourth actor? 71.
Watchmen in Æ. _Agam._, 64, 124.
What does Aristotle think of Peripeteia? 48.
White shoes of actors, 16.
Wine-lees, faces of Thespis’ actors smeared with, 5, 68.
“Wine-Press Festival,” 49, _see_ Lenæa.
Wit in E. _Orestes_, 323;
in E. generally, 321-3.
Wooden horse, 243.
Wrestling in Phrynichus’ _Antæus_, 7 and n.
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