Authors of Greece
by T. W. Lumb · English · Gutenberg #8115 · 468,406 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Authors of Greece
Author: T. W. Lumb
Release date: May 1, 2005 [eBook #8115]
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Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AUTHORS OF GREECE ***
Produced by Ted Garvin, Marc D'Hooghe, Charles Franks, and
the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
AUTHORS OF GREECE
By the Reverend T. W. LUMB, M.A.
With an Introduction by
The Reverend CYRIL ALINGTON, D.D.
AUTHOR'S PREFACE
Greek literature is more modern in its tone than Latin or Medieval or
Elizabethan. It is the expression of a society living in an environment
singularly like our own, mainly democratic, filled with a spirit of free
inquiry, troubled by obstinate feuds and still more obstinate problems.
Militarism, nationalism, socialism and communism were well known, the
preachers of some of these doctrines being loud, ignorant and popular.
The defence of a maritime empire against a military oligarchy was twice
attempted by the most quick-witted people in history, who failed to save
themselves on both occasions. Antecedently then we might expect to find
some lessons of value in the record of a people whose experiences were
like our own.
Further, human thought as expressed in literature is not an unconnected
series of phases; it is one and indivisible. Neglect of either ancient
or modern culture cannot but be a maiming of that great body of
knowledge to which every human being has free access. No man can be
anything but ridiculous who claims to judge European literature while
he knows nothing of the foundations on which it is built. Neither is it
true to say that the ancient world was different from ours. Human nature
at any rate was the same then as it is now, and human character ought to
be the primary object of study. The strange belief that we have somehow
changed for the better has been strong enough to survive the most
devilish war in history, but few hold it who are familiar with the
classics.
Yet in spite of its obvious value Greek literature has been damned and
banned in our enlightened age by some whose sole qualification for the
office of critic often turns out to be a mental darkness about it so
deep that, like that of Egypt, it can be felt. Only those who know Greek
literature have any right to talk about its powers of survival. The
following pages try to show that it is not dead yet, for it has a
distinct message to deliver. The skill with which these neglected
liberators of the human mind united depth of thought with perfection of
form entitles them at least to be heard with patience.
CONTENTS
AUTHOR'S PREFACE.
HOMER
AESCHYLUS
SOPHOCLES
EURIPIDES
ARISTOPHANES
HERODOTUS
THUCYDIDES
PLATO
DEMOSTHENES
INTRODUCTION
I count it an honour to have been asked to write a short introduction to
this book. My only claim to do so is a profound belief in the doctrine
which it advocates, that Greek literature can never die and that it has
a clear and obvious message for us to-day. Those who sat, as I did, on
the recent Committee appointed by Mr. Lloyd George when Prime Minister
to report on the position of the classics in this country, saw good
reason to hope that the prejudice against Greek to which the author
alludes in his preface was passing away: it is a strange piece of irony
that it should ever have been encouraged in the name of Science which
owes to the Greeks so incalculable a debt. We found that, though there
are many parts of the country in which it is almost impossible for a
boy, however great his literary promise, to be taught Greek, there is a
growing readiness to recognise this state of affairs as a scandal, and
wherever Greek was taught, whether to girls or boys, we found a growing
recognition of its supreme literary value. There were some at least of
us who saw with pleasure that where only one classical language can be
studied there is an increasing readiness to regard Greek as a possible
alternative to Latin.
On this last point, no doubt, classical scholars will continue to
differ, but as to the supreme excellence of the Greek contribution to
literature there can be no difference of opinion. Those to whom the
names of this volume recall some of the happiest hours they have spent
in literary study will be grateful to Mr. Lumb for helping others to
share the pleasures which they have so richly enjoyed; he writes with
an enthusiasm which is infectious, and those to whom his book comes as
a first introduction to the great writers of Greece will be moved to
try to learn more of men whose works after so many centuries inspire so
genuine an affection and teach lessons so modern. They need have no
fear that they will be disappointed, for Mr. Lumb's zeal is based on
knowledge. I hope that this book will be the means of leading many to
appreciate what has been done for the world by the most amazing of all
its cities, and some at least to determine that they will investigate
its treasures for themselves. They will find like the Queen of Sheba
that, though much has been told them, the half remains untold.
C. A. ALINGTON.
HOMER
Greek literature opens with a problem of the first magnitude. Two
splendid Epics have been preserved which are ascribed to "Homer", yet
few would agree that Homer wrote them both. Many authorities have denied
altogether that such a person ever existed; it seems certain that he
could not have been the author of both the _Iliad_ and the _Odyssey_,
for the latter describes a far more advanced state of society; it is
still an undecided question whether the _Iliad_ was written in Europe
or in Asia, but the probability is that the _Odyssey_ is of European
origin; the date of the poems it is very difficult to gauge, though
the best authorities place it somewhere in the eighth century B.C.
Fortunately these difficulties do not interfere with our enjoyment of
the two poems; if there were two Homers, we may be grateful to Nature
for bestowing her favours so liberally upon us; if Homer never existed
at all, but is a mere nickname for a class of singer, the literary
fraud that has been perpetrated is no more serious than that which has
assigned Apocalyptic visions of different ages to Daniel. Perhaps the
Homeric poems are the growth of many generations, like the English
parish churches; they resemble them as being examples of the exquisite
effects which may be produced when the loving care and the reverence of
a whole people blend together in different ages pieces of artistic work
whose authors have been content to remain unnamed.
It is of some importance to remember that the Iliad is not the story of
the whole Trojan war, but only of a very small episode which was worked
out in four days. The real theme is the Wrath of Achilles. In the tenth
year of the siege the Greeks had captured a town called Chryse. Among
the captives were two maidens, one Chryseis, the daughter of Chryses, a
priest of Apollo, the other Briseis; the former had fallen to the lot
of Agamemnon, the King of the Greek host, the latter to Achilles his
bravest follower. Chryses, father of Chryseis, went to Agamemnon to
ransom his daughter, but was treated with contumely; accordingly he
prayed to the god to avenge him and was answered, for Apollo sent a
pestilence upon the Greeks which raged for nine days, destroying man and
beast. On the tenth day the chieftains held a counsel to discover the
cause of the malady. At it Chalcas the seer before revealing the truth
obtained the promise of Achilles' protection; when Agamemnon learned
that he was to ransom his captive, his anger burst out against the seer
and he demanded another prize in return. Achilles upbraided his greed,
begging him to wait till Troy was taken, when he would be rewarded
fourfold. Agamemnon in reply threatened to take Achilles' captive
Briseis, at the same time describing his follower's character. "Thou
art the most hateful to me of all Kings sprung of Zeus, for thou lovest
alway strife and wars and battles. Mighty though thou art, thy might is
the gift of some god. Briseis I will take, that thou mayest know how
far stronger I am than thou, and that another may shrink from deeming
himself my equal, rivalling me to my face." At this insult Achilles half
drew his sword to slay the King, but was checked by Pallas Athena, who
bade him confine his resentment to taunts, for the time would come when
Agamemnon would offer him splendid gifts to atone for the wrong. Obeying
the goddess Achilles reviled his foe, swearing a solemn oath that he
would not help the Greeks when Hector swept them away. In vain did
Nestor, the wise old counsellor who had seen two generations of heroes,
try to make up the quarrel, beseeching Agamemnon not to outrage his best
warrior and Achilles not to contend with his leader. The meeting broke
up; Achilles departed to his huts, whence the heralds in obedience to
Agamemnon speedily carried away Briseis.
Going down to the sea-shore Achilles called upon Thetis his mother to
whom he told the story of his ill-treatment. In deep pity for his fate
(for he was born to a life of a short span), she promised that she
would appeal to Zeus to help him to his revenge; she had saved Zeus from
destruction by summoning the hundred-armed Briareus to check a revolt
among the gods against Zeus' authority. For the moment the king of the
gods was absent in Aethiopia; when he returned to Olympus on the twelfth
day she would win him over. Ascending to heaven, she obtained the
promise of Zeus' assistance, not without raising the suspicions of Zeus'
jealous consort Hera; a quarrel between them was averted by their son
Hephaestus, whose ungainly performance of the duties of cupbearer to the
Immortals made them forget all resentments in laughter unquenchable.
True to his promise Zeus sent a dream to Agamemnon to assure him that he
would at last take Troy. The latter determined to summon an Assembly of
the host. In it the changeable temper of the Greeks is vividly pictured.
First Agamemnon told how he had the promise of immediate triumph; when
the army eagerly called for battle, he spoke yet again describing their
long years of toil and advising them to break up the siege and fly home,
for Troy was not to be taken. This speech was welcomed with even greater
enthusiasm than the other, the warriors rushing down to the shore to
launch away. Aghast at the coming failure of the enterprise Athena
stirred up Odysseus to check the mad impulse. Taking from Agamemnon his
royal sceptre as the sign of authority, he pleaded with chieftains
and their warriors, telling them that it was not for them to know the
counsel in the hearts of Kings.
"We are not all Kings to bear rule here. 'Tis not good to have many
Lords; let there be one Lord, one King, to whom the crooked-counselling
son of Cronos hath given the rule."
Thus did Odysseus stop the flight, bringing to reason all save
Thersites, "whose heart was full of much unseemly wit, who talked rashly
and unruly, striving with Kings, saying what he deemed would make the
Achaeans smile".
He continued his chatter, bidding the Greeks persist in their homeward
flight. Knowing that argument with such an one was vain, Odysseus laid
his sceptre across his back with such heartiness that a fiery weal
started up beneath the stroke. The host praised the act, the best of the
many good deeds that Odysseus had done before Troy.
When the Assembly was stilled, Odysseus and Nestor and Agamemnon told
the plan of action; the dream bade them arm for a mighty conflict,
for the end could not be far off, the ten years' siege that had been
prophesied being all but completed. The names of the various chieftains
and the numbers of their ships are found in the famous catalogue, a
document which the Greeks treasured as evidence of united action against
a common foe. With equal eagerness the Trojans poured from their town
commanded by Hector; their host too has received from Homer the glory of
an everlasting memory in a detailed catalogue.
Literary skill of a high order has brought upon the scene as quickly as
possible the chief figures of the poem. When the armies were about
to meet, Paris, seeing Menelaus whom he had wronged, shrank from the
combat. On being upbraided by Hector who called him "a joy to his
foes and a disgrace to himself", Paris was stung to an act of courage.
Hector's heart was as unwearied as an axe, his spirit knew not fear; yet
beauty too was a gift of the gods, not to be cast away. Let him be set
to fight Menelaus in single combat for Helen and her wealth; let an oath
be made between the two armies to abide by the result of the fight,
that both peoples might end the war and live in peace. Overjoyed,
Hector called to the Greeks telling them of Paris' offer, which Menelaus
accepted. The armies sat down to witness the fight, while Hector sent to
Troy to fetch Priam to ratify the treaty.
In Troy the elders were seated on the wall to watch the conflict, Priam
among them. Warned by Iris, Helen came forth to witness the single
combat. As she moved among them the elders bore their testimony to her
beauty; its nature is suggested but not described, for the poet felt he
was unable to paint her as she was.
"Little wonder," they exclaimed, "that the Trojans and Achaeans
should suffer woe for many a year for such a woman. She is marvellous
like the goddesses to behold; yet albeit she is so fair let her depart
in the ships, leaving us and our little ones no trouble to come."
Seeing her, Priam bade her sit by him and tell the names of the Greek
leaders as they passed before his eyes. Agamemnon she knew by his royal
bearing, Odysseus who moved along the ranks like a ram she marked out
as the master of craft and deep counsel. Hearing her words, Antenor bore
his witness to their truth, for once Odysseus had come with Menelaus to
Troy on an embassy.
"When they stood up Menelaus was taller, when they sat down Odysseus
was more stately. But when they spake, Menelaus' words were fluent,
clear but few; Odysseus when he spoke, fixed his eyes on the ground,
turning his sceptre neither backwards nor forward, standing still
like a man devoid of wit; one would have deemed him a churl and a very
fool; yet when he sent forth his mighty voice from his breast in words
as many as the snowflakes, no other man could compare with him."
Helen pointed out Ajax and Idomeneus and others, yet could not see her
two brothers, Castor and Pollux; either they had not come from her home
in Sparta, or they had refused to fight, fearing the shame and reproach
of her name. "So she spake, yet the life-giving earth covered them
there, even in Sparta, their native land."
When the news came to Priam of the combat arranged between Paris and
Menelaus, the old King shuddered for his son, yet he went out to confirm
the compact. Feeling he could not look upon the fight, he returned to
the city. Meanwhile Hector had cast lots to decide which of the two
should first hurl his spear. Paris failed to wound his enemy, but
Menelaus' dart pierced Paris' armour; he followed it up with a blow of
his sword which shivered to pieces in his hand. He then caught Paris'
helmet and dragged him off towards the Greek army; but Aphrodite saved
her favourite, for she loosed the chin-strap and bore Paris back to
Helen in Troy. Menelaus in vain looked for him among the Trojans who
were fain to see an end of him, "and would not have hidden him if
they had seen him". Agamemnon then declared his brother the victor and
demanded the fulfilment of the treaty.
Such an end to the siege did not content Hera, whose anger against the
Trojans was such that she could have "devoured raw Priam and his sons".
With Zeus' consent she sent down Pallas Athena to confound the treaty.
Descending like some brilliant and baleful star the goddess assumed the
shape of Laodocus and sought out the archer Pandarus. Him she tempted
to shoot privily at Menelaus to gain the favour of Paris. While his
companions held their shields in front of him the archer launched a
shaft at his victim, but Athena turned it aside so that it merely grazed
his body, drawing blood. Seeing his brother wounded Agamemnon ran to
him, to prophesy the certain doom of the treaty breakers.
"Not in vain did we shed the blood of compact and offer the pledges
of a treaty. Though Zeus hath not fulfilled it now, yet he will at
last and they will pay dear with their lives, they, their wives and
children. Well I know in my heart that the day will come when sacred
Troy will perish and Priam and his folk; Zeus himself throned on high
dwelling in the clear sky will shake against them all his dark aegis
in anger for this deceit."
While the leeches drew out the arrow from the wound, Agamemnon went
round the host with words of encouragement or chiding to stir them up
to the righteous conflict. They rushed on to battle to be met by the
Trojans whose host
"knew not one voice or one speech; their language was mixed, for they
were men called from many lands."
In the fight Diomedes, though at first wounded by Pandarus, speedily
returned refreshed and strengthened by Athena. His great deeds drew upon
him Pandarus and Aeneas, the son of Aphrodite and the future founder
of Rome's greatness. Diomedes quickly slew Pandarus and when Aeneas
bestrode his friend's body, hurled at him a mighty stone which laid him
low. Afraid of her son Aphrodite cast her arms about him and shrouded
him in her robe. Knowing that she was but a weak goddess Diomedes
attacked her, wounding her in the hand. Dropping her son, she fled
to Ares who was watching the battle and besought him to lend her his
chariot, wherein she fled back to Olympus. There her mother Dione
comforted her with the story of the woes which other gods had suffered
from mortals.
"But this man hath been set upon thee by Athena. Foolish one, he
knoweth not in his heart that no man liveth long who fighteth with
the gods; no children lisp 'father' at his knees when he returneth
from war and dread conflict. Therefore, albeit he is so mighty, let
him take heed lest a better than thou meet him, for one day his
prudent wife shall wail in her sleep awaking all her house, bereft
of her lord, the best man of the Achaeans."
But Athena in irony deemed that Aphrodite had been scratched by some
Greek woman whom she caressed to tempt her to forsake her husband and
follow one of the Trojans she loved.
Aeneas when dropped by his mother had been picked up by Apollo; when
Diomedes attacked the god, he was warned that battle with an immortal
was not like man's warfare. Stirred by Apollo, Ares himself came to
the aid of the Trojans, inspiring Sarpedon the Lycian to hearten his
comrades, who were shortly gladdened by the return of Aeneas whom Apollo
had healed. At the sight of Ares and Apollo fighting for Troy Hera and
Athena came down to battle for the Greeks; they found Diomedes on the
skirts of the host, cooling the wound Pandarus had inflicted. Entering
his chariot by his side, Athena fired him to meet Ares and drive him
wounded back to Olympus, where he found but little compassion from Zeus.
The two goddesses then left the mortals to fight it out.
At this moment Helenus, the prophetic brother of Hector, bade him go to
Troy to try to appease the anger of Athena by an offering, in the hope
that Diomedes' progress might be stayed. In his absence Diomedes met in
the battle Glaucus, a Lycian prince.
"Who art thou?" he asked. "I have never seen thee before in battle,
yet now thou hast gone far beyond all others in hardihood, for thou
hast awaited my onset, and they are hapless whose sons meet my
strength. If thou art a god, I will not fight with thee; but if thou
art one of those who eat the fruit of the earth, come near, that
thou mayest the quicker get thee to the gates of death."
In answer, Glaucus said:
"Why askest thou my lineage? As is the life of leaves, so is that of
men. The leaves are scattered some of them to the earth by the wind,
others the wood putteth forth when it is in bloom, and they come on
in the season of spring. Even so of men one generation groweth,
another ceaseth."
He then told how he was a family friend of Diomedes and made with him
a compact that if they met in battle they should avoid each the other;
this they sealed by the exchange of armour, wherein the Greek had the
better, getting gold weapons for bronze, the worth of a hundred oxen for
the value of nine.
Coming to Troy Hector bade his mother offer Athena the finest robe she
had; yet all in vain, for the goddess rejected it. Passing to the house
of Paris, he found him polishing his armour, Helen at his side. Again
rebuking him, he had from him a promise that he would be ready to
re-enter the fight when Hector had been to his own house to see his wife
Andromache. Hector's heart foreboded that it was the last time he would
speak with her. She had with her their little son Astyanax. Weeping she
besought him to spare himself for her sake.
"For me there will be no other comfort if thou meetest thy doom, but
sorrow. Father and mother have I none, for Achilles hath slain them
and my seven brothers. Hector, thou art my father and my lady mother
and my brother and thou art my wedded husband. Nay, come, pity me and
abide on the wall, lest thou make thy son an orphan and thy wife a
widow."
He answered, his heart heavy with a sense of coming death:
"The day will come when Troy shall fall, yet I grieve not for father
or mother or brethren so much as for thee, when some Achaean leads
thee captive, robbing thee of thy day of freedom. Thou shalt weave at
the loom in Argos or perchance fetch water, for heavy necessity shall
be laid upon thee. Then shall many a one say when he sees thee shedding
tears: 'Lo, this is the wife of Hector who was the best warrior of the
Trojans when they fought for their town.' Thus will they speak and thou
shalt have new sorrow for lack of such a man to drive away the day of
slavery."
He stretched out his arms to his little son who was affrighted at the
sight of the helmet as it nodded its plumes dreadfully from its tall
top. Hector and Andromache laughed when they saw the child's terror;
then Hector took off his helmet and prayed that the boy might grow to a
royal manhood and gladden his mother's heart. Smiling through her tears,
Andromache took the child from Hector, while he comforted her with brave
words.
"Lady, grieve not overmuch, I beseech thee, for no man shall thrust me
to death beyond my fate. Methinks none can avoid his destiny, be he
brave or a coward, when once he hath been born. Nay, go to the house,
ply thy tasks and bid the maids be busy, but war is the business of
the men who are born in Troy and mine most of all."
Thus she parted from him, looking back many a time, shedding plenteous
tears. So did they mourn for Hector even before his doom, for they said
he would never escape his foes and come back in safety.
Finding Paris waiting for him, Hector passed out to the battlefield.
Aided by Glaucus he wrought great havoc, so much that Athena and Apollo
stirred him to challenge the bravest of the Greeks. The victor was to
take the spoils of the vanquished but to return the body for burial. At
first the Greeks were silent when they heard his challenge, ashamed to
decline it and afraid to take it up. At last eight of their bravest cast
lots, the choice falling upon Ajax. A great combat ended in the somewhat
doubtful victory of Ajax, the two parting in friendship after an
exchange of presents. The result of the fighting had discouraged both
sides; the Greeks accordingly decided to throw up a mound in front
of their ships, protected by a deep trench. This tacit confession of
weakness in the absence of Achilles leads up to the heavy defeat which
was to follow. On the other side the Trojans held a council to deliver
up Helen. When Paris refused to surrender her but offered to restore her
treasures, a deputation was sent to inform the Greeks of his decision.
The latter refused to accept either Helen or the treasure, feeling that
the end was not far off. That night Zeus sent mighty thunderings to
terrify the besiegers.
So far the main plot of the _Iliad_ has been undeveloped; now that the
chief characters on both sides have played a part in the war, the poem
begins to show how the wrath of Achilles works itself out under Zeus'
direction. First the king of the gods warned the deities that he would
allow none to intervene on either side and would punish any offender
with his thunders. Holding up the scales of doom, he placed in them
the lot of Trojans and of Greeks; as the latter sank down, he hurled
at their host his lightnings, driving all the warriors in flight to the
great mound they had built. For a time Teucer the archer brother of
Ajax held them back, but when he was smitten by a mighty stone hurled
of Hector all resistance was broken. A vain attempt was made by Hera
and Athena to help the Greeks, but the goddesses quailed before the
punishment wherewith Zeus threatened them. When night came the Trojans
encamped on the open plain, their camp-fires gleaming like the stars
which appear on some night of stillness.
Disheartened at his defeat, Agamemnon freely acknowledged his fault and
suggested flight homewards. Nestor advised him to call an Assembly and
depute some of the leading men to make up the quarrel with Achilles.
The King listened to him, offering to give Achilles his own daughter in
wedlock, together with cities and much spoil of war. Three ambassadors
were chosen, Phoenix, Ajax and Odysseus. Reaching Achilles' tent, they
found him singing lays of heroes, Patroclus his friend by his side. When
he saw the ambassadors, he gave them a courtly welcome. Odysseus
laid the King's proposals before him, to which Achilles answered with
dignity.
"I hate as sore as the gates of Death a man who hideth one thing in
his heart and sayeth its opposite. Do the sons of Atreus alone of
men love their wives? Methinks all the wealth which Troy contained
before the Greeks came upon it, yea all the wealth which Apollo holds
in rocky Pytho, is not the worth of life itself. Cattle and horses
and brazen ware can be got by plunder, but a man's life cannot be
taken by spoil nor recovered when once it passeth the barrier of his
teeth. Nay, go back to the elders and bid them find a better plan
than this. Let Phoenix abide by me here that he may return with me
to-morrow in my ships if he will, for I will not constrain him by
force."
Phoenix had been Achilles' tutor. In terror for the safety of the Greek
fleet, he appealed to his friend to relent.
"How can I be left alone here without thee, dear child? Thy father
sent me to teach thee to be a speaker of words and a doer of deeds.
In thy childhood I tended thee, for I knew that I should never have a
son and I looked to thee to save me from ruin. Tame thy great spirit.
Even the gods know how to change, whose honour is greater, and their
power. Men in prayer turn them by sacrifice when any hath sinned and
transgressed. For Prayers are the daughters of great Zeus; they are
halt and wrinkled and their eyes look askance. Their task it is to go
after Ruin; for Ruin is strong and sound of foot, wherefore she far
outrunneth them all and getteth before them in harming men over all the
world. But they come after; whosoever honoureth the daughters of Zeus
when they come nigh, him they greatly benefit and hear his entreaties,
but whoso denieth them and stubbornly refuseth, they go to Zeus and ask
that Ruin may dog him, that he may be requited with mischief. Therefore,
Achilles, bring it to pass that honour follow the daughters of Zeus,
even that honour which bendeth the heart of others as noble as thou."
When this appeal also failed, Ajax, a man of deeds rather than words,
deemed it best to return at once, begging Achilles to bear them no
ill-will and to remember the rights of hospitality which protected them
from his resentment. When Achilles assured them of his regard for them
and maintained his quarrel with Agamemnon alone, they departed and
brought the heavy news to their anxious friends. On hearing it Diomedes
briefly bade them get ready for the battle and fight without Achilles'
help.
When the Trojan host had taken up its quarters on the plain, Nestor
suggested that the Greeks should send one of their number to find out
what Hector intended to do on the morrow. Diomedes offered to undertake
the office of a spy, selecting Odysseus as his comrade. After a prayer
to Athena to aid them, they went silently towards the bivouac. It
chanced that Hector too had thought of a similar plan and that Dolon
had offered to reconnoitre the Greek position. He was a wealthy man,
ill-favoured to look upon, but swift of foot, and had asked that his
reward should be the horses and the chariot of Achilles.
Hearing the sound of Dolon's feet as he ran, Diomedes and Odysseus
parted to let him pass between them; then cutting off his retreat they
closed on him and captured him. They learned how the Trojan host was
quartered; at the extremity of it was Rhesus, the newly arrived Thracian
King, whose white horses were a marvel of beauty and swiftness. In
return for his information Dolon begged them to spare his life, but
Diomedes deemed it safer to slay him. The two Greeks penetrated the
Thracian encampment, where they slew many warriors and escaped with the
horses back to the Greek armament.
When the fighting opened on the next day, Agamemnon distinguished
himself by deeds of great bravery, but retired at length wounded in the
hand. Zeus had warned Hector to wait for that very moment before pushing
home his attack. One after another the Greek leaders were wounded,
Diomedes, Odysseus, Machaon; Ajax alone held up the Trojan onset,
retiring slowly and stubbornly towards the sea. Achilles, seeing the
return of the wounded warrior Machaon, sent his friend Patroclus to find
out who he was. Nestor meeting Patroclus, told him of the rout of the
army, and advised him to beg Achilles at least to allow the Myrmidons
to sally forth under Patroclus' leadership, if he would not fight in
person. The importance of this episode is emphasised in the poem. The
dispatch of Patroclus is called "the beginning of his undoing", it
foreshadows the intervention which was later to bring Achilles himself
back into the conflict.
The Trojan host after an attempt to drive their horses over the trench
stormed it in five bodies. As they streamed towards the wall, an omen of
a doubtful nature filled Polydamas with some misgivings about the wisdom
of bursting through to the sea. It was possible that they might be
routed and that they would accordingly be caught in a trap, leaving many
of their dead behind them. His advice to remain content with the success
they had won roused the anger of Hector, whose headstrong character is
well portrayed in his speech.
"Thou biddest me consider long-winged birds, whereof I reck not nor
care for them whether they speed to right or left. Let us obey the
counsel of Zeus. One omen is the best, to fight for our country. Why
dost thou dread war and tumult? Even if all we others were slain at
the ships, there is no fear that thou wilt perish, for thy heart
cannot withstand the foe and is not warlike. But if thou holdest from
the fight or turnest another from war, straightway shalt thou lose
thy life under the blow of my spear."
Thus encouraged the army pressed forward, the walls being pierced by the
Lycian King Sarpedon, a son of Zeus. Taking up a mighty stone, Hector
broke open the gate and led his men forward to the final onslaught on
the ships.
For a brief space Zeus turned his eyes away from the conflict and
Poseidon used the opportunity to help the Greeks. Idomeneus the Cretan
and his henchman Meriones greatly distinguished themselves, the former
drawing a very vivid picture of the brave man.
"I know what courage is. Would that all the bravest of us were being
chosen for an ambush, wherein a man's bravery is most manifest. In
it the coward and the courageous man chiefliest appear. The colour of
the one changeth and his spirit cannot be schooled to remain stedfast,
but he shifteth his body, settling now on this foot now on that; his
heart beateth mightily, knocking against his breast as he bodeth death,
and his teeth chatter. But the good man's colour changeth not, nor is
he overmuch afraid when once he sitteth in his place of ambush; rather
he prayeth to join speedily in the dolorous battle."
Yet soon Idomeneus' strength left him; Hector hurried to the centre of
the attack, where he confronted Ajax.
At this point Hera determined to prolong the intervention of Poseidon in
favour of the Greeks. She persuaded Aphrodite to lend her all her spells
of beauty on the pretence that she wished to reconcile Ocean to his wife
Tethys. Armed with the goddess' girdle, she lulled Zeus to sleep
and then sent a message to Poseidon to give the Greeks his heartiest
assistance. Inspired by him the fugitives turned on their pursuers; when
Ajax smote down Hector with a stone the Trojans were hurled in flight
back through the gate and across the ramparts.
When Zeus awakened out of slumber and saw the rout of the Trojans, his
first impulse was to punish Hera for her deceit. He then restored the
situation, bidding Poseidon retire and sending Apollo to recover Hector
of his wound. The tide speedily turned again; the Trojans rushed through
the rampart and down to the outer line of the Greek ships, where they
found nobody to resist them except the giant Ajax and his brother
Teucer. After a desperate fight in which Ajax single-handed saved the
fleet, Hector succeeded in grasping the ship of Protesilaus and called
loud for fire. This was the greatest measure of success vouchsafed
him; from this point onwards the balance was redressed in favour of the
Greeks.
Achilles had been watching the anguish of Patroclus' spirit when this
disaster came upon their friends.
"Why weepest thou, Patroclus, like some prattling little child who
runneth to her mother and biddeth her take her up, catching at her
garment and checking her movement and gazing at her tearfully till
she lifteth her? Even so thou lettest fall the big tears."
Patroclus begged his friend to allow him to wear his armour and lead the
Myrmidons out to battle, not knowing that he was entreating for his own
ruin and death. After some reluctance Achilles gave him leave, yet with
the strictest orders not to pursue too far. Fresh and eager for the
battle the Myrmidons drove the Trojans back into the plain. Patroclus'
course was challenged by the Lycians, whose King Sarpedon faced him in
single combat. In great sorrow Zeus watched his son Sarpedon go to his
doom; in his agony he shed tear-drops of blood and ordered Death and
Sleep to carry the body back to Lycia for burial.
The great glory Patroclus had won tempted him to forget his promise to
Achilles. He pursued the Trojans back to the walls of the town, slaying
Cebriones the charioteer of Hector. In the fight which took place
over the body Patroclus was assailed by Hector and Euphorbus under the
guidance of Apollo. Hector administered the death-blow; before he died
Patroclus foretold a speedy vengeance to come from Achilles.
A mighty struggle arose over his body. Menelaus slew Euphorbus, but
retreated at the approach of Hector, who seized the armour of Achilles
and put it on. A thick cloud settled over the combatants, heightening
the dread of battle. The gods came down to encourage their respective
warriors; the Greeks were thrust back over the plain, but the bravery of
Ajax and Menelaus enabled the latter to save Patroclus' body and carry
it from the dust of battle towards the ships.
When the news of his friend's death came to Achilles his grief was so
mighty that it seemed likely that he would have slain himself. He burst
into a lamentation so bitter that his mother heard him in her sea-cave
and came forth to learn what new sorrow had taken him. Too late he
learned the hard lesson that revenge may be sweet but is always bought
at the cost of some far greater thing.
"I could not bring salvation to Patroclus or my men, but sit at the
ships a useless burden upon the land, albeit I am such a man as no
other in war, though others excel me in speech. Perish strife from
among men and gods, and anger which inciteth even a prudent man to
take offence; far sweeter than dropping honey it groweth in a man's
heart like smoke, even now as Agamemnon hath roused me to a fury."
Being robbed of his armour he could not sally out to convey his
companion's body into the camp. Hera therefore sent Iris to him bidding
him merely show himself at the trenches and cry aloud. At the sound of
his thrice-repeated cry the Trojans shrank back in terror, leaving the
Greeks to carry in Patroclus' body unmolested; then Hera bade the sun
set at once into the ocean to end the great day of battle.
Polydamas knew well what the appearance of Achilles portended to the
Trojans, for he was the one man among them who could look both before
and after; his advice was that they should retire into the town and
there shut themselves up. It was received with scorn by Hector. In the
Greek camp Achilles burst into a wild lament over Patroclus, swearing
that he would not bury him before he had brought in Hector dead and
twelve living captives to sacrifice before the pyre. That night his
mother went to Hephaestus and persuaded him to make divine armour for
her son, which the poet describes in detail.
On receiving the armour from his mother Achilles made haste to reconcile
himself with Agamemnon. His impatience for revenge and the oath he had
taken made it impossible for him to take any food. His strength was
maintained by Athena who supplied him with nectar. On issuing forth to
the fight he addressed his two horses:
"Xanthus and Balius, bethink you how ye may save your charioteer
when he hath done with the battle, and desert him not in death as
ye did Patroclus."
In reply they prophesied his coming end.
"For this we are not to blame, but the mighty god--and violent Fate.
We can run quick as the breath of the North wind, who men say is
the swiftest of all, but thy fate it is to die by the might of a
god and a man."
The Avenging Spirits forbade them to reveal more. The awe of the climax
of the poem is heightened by supernatural interventions. At last the
gods themselves received permission from Zeus to enter the fray. They
took sides, the shock of their meeting causing the nether deity to
start from his throne in fear that his realm should collapse about him.
Achilles met Aeneas and would have slain him had not Poseidon saved him.
Hector withdrew before him, warned by Apollo not to meet him face to
face. Disregarding the god's advice he attacked Achilles, but for the
moment was spirited away. Disappointed of his prey Achilles sowed havoc
among the lesser Trojans.
Choked by the numerous corpses the River-God Scamander begged him cease
his work of destruction. When the Hero disregarded him, he assembled all
his waters and would have overwhelmed him but for Athena who gave him
power to resist; the river was checked by the Fire-God who dried up his
streams. The gods then plunged into strife, the sight whereof made Zeus
laugh in joy. Athena quickly routed Aphrodite and Hera Artemis. Apollo
deemed it worthless to fight Poseidon.
"Thou wouldst not call me prudent were I to strive with thee for
cowering mortals, who like leaves sometimes are full of fire, then
again waste away spiritless. Let us make an end of our quarrel;
let men fight it out themselves."
Deserted by their protectors the Trojans broke before Achilles, who
nearly took the town.
Baulked a second time of his vengeance by Apollo, Achilles vowed he
would have punished the god had he the power. Hector had at last decided
to face his foe at the Scaean Gate. His father and his mother pleaded
with him in a frenzy of grief to enter the town, but the dread of
Polydamas' reproaches fixed his resolve. When Achilles came rushing
towards him, his heart failed; he ran three times round the walls of the
city. Meanwhile the gods held up the scales of doom; when his life sank
down to death Apollo left him for ever.
Athena then took the shape of Deiphobus, encouraging him to face
Achilles. Seeing unexpectedly a friend, he turned and stood his ground,
for she had already warned Achilles of her plot. Hector launched his
spear which sped true, but failed to penetrate the divine armour. When
he found no Deiphobus at his side to give him another weapon, he knew
his end had come. Drawing himself up for a final effort, he darted at
Achilles; the latter spied a gap in the armour he had once worn, through
which he smote Hector mortally. Lying in approaching death, the Trojan
begged that his body might be honoured with a burial, but Achilles swore
he should never have it, rather the dogs and carrion birds should devour
his flesh. Seeing their great foe dead the Greeks flocked around him,
not one passing by him without stabbing his body. Achilles bored through
his ankles and attached him to his car; then whipping up his horses,
he drove full speed to the camp, dragging Hector in disgrace over the
plain. This scene of pure savagery is succeeded by the laments of Priam,
Hecuba and Andromache over him whom Zeus allowed to be outraged in his
own land.
That night the shade of Patroclus visited Achilles, bidding him bury him
speedily that he might cross the gates of death; the dust of his ashes
was to be stored up in an urn and mixed with Achilles' own when his turn
came to die. After the funeral Achilles held games of great splendour in
which the leading athletes contended for the prizes he offered.
Yet nothing could make up for the loss of his friend. Every day he
dragged Hector's body round Patroclus' tomb, but Apollo in pity for the
dead man kept away corruption, maintaining the body in all its beauty of
manhood. At last on the twelfth day Apollo appealed to the gods to end
the barbarous outrage.
"Hath not Hector offered to you many a sacrifice of bulls and
goats? Yet ye countenance the deeds of Achilles, who hath forsaken
all pity which doth harm to men and bringeth a blessing too. Many
another is like to lose a friend, but he will weep and let his
foe's body go, for the Fates have given men an heart to endure.
Good man though he be, let Achilles take heed lest he move us to
indignation by outraging in fury senseless clay."
Zeus sent to fetch Thetis whom he bade persuade her son to ransom the
body; meanwhile Iris went to Troy to tell Priam to take a ransom and
go to the ships without fear, for the convoy who should guide him would
save him from harm.
On hearing of Priam's resolve Hecuba tried to dissuade him, but the old
King would not be turned. That night he went forth alone; he was met in
the plain by Hermes, disguised as a servant of Achilles, who conducted
him to the hut where Hector lay. Slipping in unseen, Priam caught
Achilles' knees and kissed the dread hands that had slain his son.
In pity for the aged King Achilles remembered his own father, left as
defenceless as Priam. Calling out his servants he bade them wash the
corpse outside, lest Priam at the sight of it should upbraid him and
thus provoke him to slay him and offend against the commands of Zeus. As
they supped, Priam marvelled at the stature and beauty of Achilles and
Achilles wondered at Priam's reverend form and his words. While Achilles
slept, Hermes came to Priam to warn him of his danger if he were found
in the Greek host. Hastily harnessing the chariot, he led him back
safely to Troy, where the body was laid upon a bed in Hector's palace.
The laments which follow are of great beauty. Andromache bewailed her
widowhood, Hecuba her dearest son; Helen's lament is a masterpiece.
"Hector, far the dearest to me of all my brethren, of a truth Paris
is my lord, who brought me hither--would I had died first. This is
the tenth year since I left my native land, yet have I never heard
from thee a word cruel or despiteful; rather, if any other chode me,
thy sister or a brother's wife or thy mother--though thy father is
gentle to me always as he were my own sire--thou didst restrain such
with words of persuasion and kindness and gentleness all thine own.
Wherefore I grieve for thee and for myself in anguish, for there is
no other friend in broad Troy kind and tender, but all shudder at me."
Then with many a tear they laid to his rest mighty Hector.
Such is the _Iliad_. To modern readers it very often seems a little
dull. Horace long ago pointed out that it is inevitable that a long
poem should flag; even Homer nods sometimes. Some of the episodes are
distinctly wearisome, for they are invented to give a place in this
national Epic to lesser heroes who could hardly be mentioned if Achilles
were always in the foreground. Achilles himself is not a pleasing
person; his character is wayward and violent; he is sometimes childish,
always liable to be carried away by a fit of pettishness and unable to
retain our real respect; further, a hero who is practically invulnerable
and yet dons divine armour to attack those who are no match for him when
he is without it falls below the ordinary "sportsman's" level. Nor can
we feel much reverence for many of the gods; Hera is odious, Athena
guilty of flat treachery, Zeus, liable to allow his good nature to
overcome his judgment--Apollo alone seems consistently noble. More, we
shall look in vain in the _Iliad_ for any sign of the pure battle-joy
which is so characteristic of northern Epic poetry; the Greek ideal
of bravery had nothing of the Berserker in it. Perhaps these are the
reasons why the sympathy of nearly all readers is with the Trojans, who
are numerically inferior, are aided by fewer and weaker gods and have
less mighty champions to defend them.
What then is left to admire in the _Iliad_? It is well to remember
that the poem is not the first but the last of a long series; its very
perfection of form and language makes it certain that it is the result
of a long literary tradition. As such, it has one or two remarkable
features. We shall not find in many other Epics that sense of wistful
sorrow for man's brief and uncertain life which is the finest breath
of all poetry that seeks to touch the human heart. The marks of rude or
crude workmanship which disfigure much Epic have nearly all disappeared
from the _Iliad_. The characterisation of many of the figures of the
poem is masterly, their very natures being hit off in a few lines--and
it is important to remember that it is not really the business of Epic
to attempt analysis of character at all except very briefly; the story
cannot be kept waiting. But the real Homeric power is displayed in
the famous scenes of pure and worthy pathos such as the parting of
Andromache from Hector and the laments over his body. Those who would
learn how to touch great depths of sorrow and remain dignified must see
how it has been treated in the _Iliad_.
A few vigorous lines hit off the plan of the _Odyssey_.
"Sing, Muse, of the man of much wandering who travelled right far
after sacking sacred Troy, and saw the cities of many men and knew
their ways. Many a sorrow he suffered on the sea, trying to win a
return home for himself and his comrades; yet he could not for all
his longing, for they died like fools through their own blindness."
Odysseus, when the poem opens, was in Calypso's isle pitied of all
the gods save Poseidon. In a council Zeus gave his consent that Hermes
should go to Calypso, while Athena should descend to Ithaca to encourage
Odysseus' son Telemachus to seek out news of his father.
Taking the form of Mentes, Athena met Telemachus and informed him that
his father was not yet dead. Seeing the suitors who were wooing his
mother Penelope and eating up the house in riot, she advised him to
dismiss them and visit Nestor in Pylos. A lay sung by Phemius brought
Penelope from her chamber, who was astonished at the immediate change
which her son's speech showed had come upon him, transforming him to
manhood.
Next day Telemachus called an Assembly of the Ithacans; his appeal to
the suitors to leave him in peace provoked an insulting speech from
their ringleader Antinous who held Penelope to blame for their presence;
she had constantly eluded them, on one occasion promising to marry when
she had woven a shroud for Laertes her father-in-law; the work she did
by day she undid at night, till she was betrayed by a serving-woman.
Telemachus then asked the suitors for a ship to get news of his father.
When the assembly broke up, Athena appeared in answer to Telemachus'
prayer in the form of Mentor and pledged herself to go with him on his
travels. She prepared a ship and got together a crew, while Telemachus
bade his old nurse Eurycleia conceal from his mother his departure.
In Pylos Nestor told him all he knew of Odysseus, describing the sorrows
which came upon the Greek leaders on their return and especially the
evil end of Agamemnon. He added that Menelaus had just returned to
Sparta and was far more likely to know the truth than any other, for
he had wandered widely over the seas on his home-coming. Bidding Nestor
look after Telemachus, Athena vanished from his sight, but not before
she was recognised by the old hero. On the morrow Telemachus set out for
Sparta, accompanied by Pisistratus, one of Nestor's sons.
Menelaus gave them a kindly welcome and a casual mention of his father's
name stirred Telemachus to tears. At that moment Helen entered; her
quicker perception at once traced the resemblance between the young
stranger and Odysseus. When Telemachus admitted his identity, Helen told
some of his father's deeds. Once he entered Troy disguised as a beggar,
unrecognised of all save Helen herself. "After he made her swear an oath
that she would not betray him, he revealed all the plans of the Greeks.
Then, after slaying many Trojans, he departed with much knowledge,
while Helen's heart rejoiced, for she was already bent on a return home,
repenting of the blindness which Aphrodite had sent her in persuading
her to abandon home and daughter and a husband who lacked naught,
neither wit not manhood." Menelaus then recounted how Odysseus saved
him when they were in the wooden horse, when one false sound would have
betrayed them. On the next morning Telemachus told the story of the ruin
of his home; Menelaus prophesied the end of the suitors, then preceded
to recount how in Egypt he waylaid and captured Proteus, the changing
god of the sea, whom he compelled to relate the fate of the Greek
leaders and to prophesy his own return; from him he heard that Odysseus
was with Calypso who kept him by force. On learning this important piece
of news Telemachus was eager to return to Ithaca with all speed.
Meanwhile the suitors had learned of the departure of Telemachus and
plotted to intercept him on his return. Their treachery was told to
Penelope, who was utterly undone on hearing it; feeling herself left
without a human protector she prayed to Athena, who appeared to her in
a dream in the likeness of her own sister to assure her that Athena was
watching over her, but refusing to say definitely whether Odysseus was
alive.
The poem at this point takes up the story of Odysseus himself. Going
to the isle where he was held captive, Hermes after admiring its great
beauty delivered Zeus' message to Calypso to let the captive go. She
reproached the gods for their jealousy and reluctantly promised to obey.
She found Odysseus on the shore, eating out his heart in the desire
for his home. When she informed him that she intended to let him go, he
first with commendable prudence made her swear that she did not design
some greater evil for him. Smiling at his cunning, she swore the most
solemn of all oaths to help him, then supplied tools and materials for
the building of his boat. When he was out on the deep, Poseidon wrecked
his craft, but a sea goddess Leucothea, once a mortal, gave him a scarf
to wrap round him, bidding him cast it from him with his back turned
away when he got to land. After two nights and two days on the deep he
at length saw land. Finding the mouth of a small stream, he swam up it,
then utterly weary flung himself down on a heap of leaves under a bush,
guarded by Athena.
The next episode introduces one of the most charming figures in ancient
literature. Nausicaa was the daughter of Alcinous, King of Phaeacia,
on whose island Odysseus had landed. To her Athena appeared in a dream,
bidding her obtain from her father leave to go down to the sea to wash
his soiled garments. The young girl obeyed, telling her father that it
was but seemly that he, the first man in the kingdom, should appear at
council in raiment white as snow. He gave her the leave she desired.
After their work was done, she and her handmaids began a game of ball;
their merry cries woke up Odysseus, who started up on hearing human
voices. Coming forward, he frightened by his appearance the handmaids,
but Nausicaa, emboldened by Athena, stood still and listened to his
story. She supplied him with clean garments after she had given him food
and drink. On the homeward journey Nausicaa bade Odysseus bethink him of
the inconvenient talk which his presence would occasion if he were seen
with her near the city. She therefore judged it best that she should
enter first, at the same time she gave him full information of the road
to the palace; when he entered it he was to proceed straight to the
Queen Arete, whose favour was indispensable if he desired a return home.
Just outside the city Athena met him in the guise of a girl to tell him
his way; she further cast about him a thick cloud to protect him from
curious eyes. Passing through the King's gardens, which were a marvel of
beauty and fruitfulness, Odysseus entered the palace and threw his arms
in supplication about Arete's knees. She listened kindly to him and
begged Alcinous give him welcome. When all the courtiers had retired to
rest, Arete, noticing that the garments Odysseus wore had been woven by
her own hands, asked him whence he had them and how he had come to the
island. On hearing the story of his shipwreck Alcinous promised him a
safe convoy to his home on the morrow.
At an assembly Alcinous consulted with his counsellors about Odysseus;
all agreed to help in providing him with a ship and rowers. At a trial
of skill Odysseus, after being taunted by some of the Phaeacians, hurled
the quoit beyond them all. Later, a song of the wooden horse of Troy
moved him to tears; though unnoticed by the others, he did not escape
the eye of Alcinous who bade him tell them plainly who he was. Then he
revealed himself and told the marvellous story of his wanderings.
First he and his companions reached the land of the Lotus-eaters.
Finding out that the lotus made all who ate it lose their desire for
home, Odysseus sailed away with all speed, forcing away some who had
tasted the plant. Thence they reached the island of the Cyclopes, a
wild race who knew no ordinances; each living in his cave was a law
to himself, caring nothing for the others. Leaving his twelve ships,
Odysseus proceeded with some of his men to the cave of one of the
Cyclopes, a son of Poseidon, taking with him a skin of wine. When the
one-eyed monster returned with his flock of sheep, he shut the mouth of
the cave with a mighty stone which no mortal could move; then lighting
a fire he caught sight of his visitors and asked who they were. Odysseus
answered craftily, whereupon the monster devoured six of his company.
Odysseus opened his wine-skin and offered some of the wine; when the
Cyclops asked his name, Odysseus told him he was called Noman; in return
for his kindness in offering him the strangely sweet drink the Cyclops
promised to eat him last of all. But the wine soon plunged the monster
into a slumber, from which he was awakened by the burning end of a great
stake which Odysseus thrust into his eye. On hearing his cries of agony
the other Cyclopes came to him, but went away when they heard that Noman
was killing him. As it was impossible for anyone but the Cyclops to open
the cave, Odysseus tied his men beneath the cattle, putting the beast
which carried a man between two which were unburdened; he himself hung
on to the ram. As the animals passed out, the Cyclops was a little
surprised that the ram went last, but thought he did so out of grief
for his master. When they were all safely outside, Odysseus freed his
friends and made haste to get to the ship. Thrusting out, when he was
at what seemed a safe distance he shouted to the Cyclops, who then
remembered an old prophecy and hurled a huge rock which nearly washed
them back; a second rock which he hurled on learning Odysseus' real name
narrowly missed the ship. Then the Cyclops prayed to Poseidon to punish
Odysseus; the god heard him, persecuting him from that time onward.
Reassembling his ships, Odysseus proceeded on his voyage.
He next called at the isle of Aeolus, king of the winds, who gave him in
a bag all the winds but one, a favouring breeze which was to waft him
to his own island. For nine days Odysseus guarded his bag, but at last,
when Ithaca was in sight, he sank into a sleep of exhaustion. Thinking
that the bag concealed some treasure, his men opened it, only to be
blown back to Aeolus who bid him begone as an evil man when he begged
aid a second time.
After visiting the Laestrygones, a man-eating people, who devoured all
the fleet except one ship's company, the remainder reached Aeaea,
the island where lived the dread goddess Circe. Odysseus sent forward
Eurylochus with some twenty companions who found Circe weaving at a
loom. Seeing them she invited them within; then after giving them a
charmed potion she smote them with her rod, turning them into swine.
Eurylochus who had suspected some trickery hurried back to Odysseus with
the news. The latter determined to go alone to save his friends. On the
way he was met by Hermes, who showed him the herb moly, an antidote to
Circe's draught. Finding that her magic failed, she at once knew that
her visitor was Odysseus whose visit had been prophesied to her by
Hermes. He bound her down by a solemn oath to refrain from further
mischief and persuaded her to restore to his men their humanity. When
Odysseus desired to depart home, she told him of the wanderings that
awaited him. First he must go to the land of the dead to consult the
shade of Teiresias, the blind old prophet, who would help him.
Following the goddess' instructions, they sailed to the land of the
Cimmerians on the confines of the earth. There Odysseus dug a trench
into which he poured the blood of slain victims which he did not allow
the dead spirits to touch till Teiresias appeared. The seer told him of
the sorrows that awaited him and vaguely indicated that his death should
come upon him from the sea; he added that any spirit he allowed to touch
the blood would tell him truly all whereof he was as yet ignorant, and
that those ghosts he drove away would return to the darkness.
First arose the spirit of his dead mother Anticleia who told him that
his wife and son were yet alive and his father was living away from the
town in wretchedness.
"For me, it was not the visitation of Apollo that took me, nor any
sickness whose corruption drove the life from my frame; rather it
was longing for thee and thy counsels and thy gentleness which
spoiled me of my spirit."
Thrice he tried to embrace her, and thrice the ghost eluded him, for it
was "as a dream that had fled away from the white frame of the body". A
procession of famous women followed, then came the wraith of Agamemnon
who told how he had been foully slain by his own wife, as faithless as
Penelope was prudent. Achilles next approached; when Odysseus tried to
console him for his early death by reminding him of the honour he had
when he was alive, he answered:
"Speak not comfortingly of death; I would rather be a clown and a
thrall on earth to another man than rule among the departed."
On hearing that his son Neoptolemus had won great glory in the capture
of Troy, the spirit left him, exulting with joy that his son was worthy
of him. Ajax turned from Odysseus in anger at the loss of Achilles'
armour for the possession of which they had striven. The last figure
that came was the ghost of Heracles, though the hero himself was with
the gods in Olympus.
"Round him was the whirr of the dead as of birds fleeing in panic.
Like to black night, with his bow ready and an arrow on the string,
he glared about him terribly, as ever intending to shoot. Over his
breast was flung a fearful belt, whereon were graven bears and lions
and fights, battles, murders and man-slayings."
He recognised Odysseus before he passed back to death; when a crowd of
terrifying apparitions came thronging to the trench, Odysseus fled to
his ship lest the Gorgon might be sent from the awful Queen of the dead.
Returning to Circe, he learned from her of the remaining dangers. The
first of these was the island of the Sirens, who by the marvellous
sweetness of their song charmed to their ruin all who passed. Odysseus
filled the ears of his crews with wax, bidding them to tie him to the
mast of his ship and to row hard past the temptresses in spite of his
strugglings. They then entered the dangerous strait, on one side of
which was Scylla, a dreadful monster who lived in a cave near by, on the
other was the deadly whirlpool of Charybdis. Scylla carried off six
of his men who called in vain to Odysseus to save them, stretching out
their hands to him in their last agony. From the strait they passed to
the island of Trinacria, where they found grazing the cattle of the Sun.
Odysseus had learned from both Teiresias and Circe that an evil doom
would come upon them if they touched the animals; he therefore made his
companions swear a great oath not to touch them if they landed. For
a whole month they were wind-bound in the island and ate all the
provisions which Circe had given them. At a time when Odysseus had gone
to explore the island Eurylochus persuaded his men to kill and eat; as
he returned Odysseus smelled the savour of their feast and knew that
destruction was at hand. For nine days the feasting continued. When
the ship put out to sea Zeus, in answer to the prayer of the offended
Sun-God, sent a storm which drowned all the crew and drove Odysseus back
to the dreaded strait. Escaping through it with difficulty, he drifted
helplessly over the deep and on the tenth day landed on the island of
"the dread goddess who used human speech", Calypso, who tended him and
kept him in captivity.
On the next day the Phaeacians loaded Odysseus with presents and landed
him on his own island while he slept. Poseidon in anger at the arrival
of the hero changed the returning Phaeacian ship into stone when it was
almost within the harbour of the city. When Odysseus awoke he failed to
recognise his own land. Athena appeared to him disguised as a shepherd,
telling him he was indeed in Ithaca:
"Thou art witless or art come from afar, if thou enquirest about
this land. It is not utterly unknown; many know it who dwell in the
East and in the West. It is rough and unfitted for steeds, yet it is
not a sorry isle, though narrow. It hath plenteous store of corn and
the vine groweth herein. It hath alway rain and glistening dew. It
nourisheth goats and cattle and all kinds of woods and its streams
are everlasting."
Such is the description of the land for which Odysseus forsook Calypso's
offer of immortality. After smiling at Odysseus' pretence that he was
a Cretan Athena counselled him how to slay the suitors and hurried to
fetch Telemachus from Sparta. The poet tells why Athena loved Odysseus
more than all others.
"Crafty would he be and a cunning trickster who surpassed thee in
wiles, though it were a god who challenged thee. We know craft
enough, both of us, for thou art by far the best of mortals in speech
and counsel and I among the gods am famed for devices and cunning."
Transformed by her into an old beggar, Odysseus went to the hut of
his faithful old swineherd Eumaeus; the dogs set upon him, but Eumaeus
scared them away and welcomed him to his dwelling. In spite of Odysseus'
assurance that the master would return Eumaeus, who had been often
deceived by similar words, refused to believe. Feigning himself to be
a Cretan, Odysseus saw for himself that the old servant's loyalty was
steadfast; a deft touch brings out his care for his master's substance:
"laying a bed for Odysseus before the fire, he went out and slept
among the dogs in a cave beneath the breath of the winds."
By the intervention of Athena the two leading characters are brought
together. She stood beside the sleeping Telemachus in Sparta, warning
him of the ambush set for him in Ithaca and bidding him to land on a
lonely part of the coast whence he was to proceed to the hut of Eumaeus.
On his departure from Sparta an omen was interpreted by Helen to mean
that Odysseus was not far from home. As he was on the point of leaving
Pylos on the morrow a bard named Theoclymenus appealed to him for
protection, for he had slain a man and was a fugitive from justice.
Taking him on board Telemachus frustrated the ambush, landing in safety;
he proceeded to Eumaeus' hut, where Odysseus had with some difficulty
been persuaded to remain.
The dogs were the first to announce the arrival of a friend, gambolling
about him. After speaking a word of cheer to Eumaeus Telemachus enquired
who the stranger was; hearing that he was a Cretan he lamented his
inability to give him a welcome in his home owing to the insolence of
his enemies. Remembering the anxiety of his mother during his absence he
sent Eumaeus to the town to acquaint her with his arrival. Athena seized
the opportunity to reveal Odysseus to his son, transforming him to
his own shape. After a moment of utter amazement at the marvel of the
change, Telemachus ran to his father and fell upon his neck, his joy
finding expression in tears. The two then laid their plans for the
destruction of the suitors. By the time Eumaeus had returned Odysseus
had resumed his sorry and tattered appearance.
Telemachus went to the town alone, bidding Eumaeus bring the stranger
with him. They were met by one Melanthius a goatherd, who covered them
with insults. "In truth one churl is leading another, for the god ever
bringeth like to like. Whither art thou taking this glutton, this evil
pauper, a kill-joy of the feast? He hath learned many a knavish trick
and is like to refuse to labour; creeping among the people he would
rather ask alms to fill his insatiate maw." Leaping on Odysseus, he
kicked at him, yet failed to stir him from the pathway. Swallowing the
insult Odysseus walked towards his house. A superb stroke of art has
created the next incident. In the courtyard lay Argus, a hound whom
Odysseus had once fed. Neglected in the absence of his master he had
crept to a dung-heap, full of lice. When he marked Odysseus coming
towards him he wagged his tail and dropped his ears, but could not come
near his lord. Seeing him from a little distance Odysseus wiped away his
tears unnoticed of Eumaeus and asked whose the hound was. Eumaeus told
the story of his neglect: "but the doom of death took Argus straightway
after seeing Odysseus in the twentieth year". In the palace Telemachus
sent his father food, bidding him ask a charity of the wooers. Antinous
answered by hurling a stool which struck his shoulder. The noise of the
high words which followed brought down Penelope who protested against
the godless behaviour of the suitors and asked to interview the stranger
in hope of learning some tidings of her husband, but Odysseus put her
off till nightfall when they would be less likely to suffer from the
insolence of the suitors.
In Ithaca was a beggar named Irus, gluttonous and big-boned but a
coward. Encouraged by the winkings and noddings of the suitors he bade
Odysseus begone. A quiet answer made him imagine he had to deal with
a poltroon and he challenged him to a fight. The proposal was welcomed
with glee by the suitors, who promised on oath to see fair play for
the old man in his quarrel with a younger. But when they saw the mighty
limbs and stout frame of Odysseus, they deemed that Irus had brought
trouble on his own head. Chattering with fear Irus had to be forced
to the combat. One blow was enough to lay him low; the ease with which
Odysseus had disposed of his foe made him for a time popular with the
suitors.
Under an inspiration of Athena, Penelope came down once more to chide
the wooers for their insolence; she also upbraided them for their
stinginess.
"Yours is not the custom of wooers in former days who were wont to
sue for wedlock with the daughter of a rich man and contend among
themselves. Such men offer oxen and stout cattle and glorious gifts;
they will never consume another's substance without payment."
Stung by the taunt, they gave her the accustomed presents, while
Odysseus rejoiced that she flattered their heart in soft words with a
different intent in her spirit. The insolence of the suitors was matched
by the pertness of the serving maids, of whom Melantho was the most
impudent. A threat from Odysseus drew down upon him the wrath of the
suitors who were with difficulty persuaded by Telemachus to depart home
to their beds.
That night Odysseus and his son removed the arms from the walls, the
latter being told to urge as a pretext for his action the necessity of
cleaning from them the rust and of removing a temptation to violence
when the suitors were heated with wine. At the promised interview with
his wife Odysseus again pretended he was a Cretan; describing the very
dress which Odysseus had worn, he assured her that he would soon return
with the many treasures which he had collected. Half persuaded by the
exact description of a garment she had herself made, she bade her maids
look to him, but he would not suffer any of them to approach him save
his old nurse Eurycleia. As she was washing him in the dim light of the
fireside her fingers touched the old scar above his knee, the result of
an accident in a boar-hunt during his youth.
"Dropping the basin she fell backwards; joy and grief took her
heart at once, her eyes filled with tears and her utterance was
checked. Catching him by his beard, she said: 'In very sooth thou
art Odysseus, my dear boy; and I knew thee not before I had touched
the body of my lord.' So speaking she looked at Penelope, fain to
tell her that her lord was within. But Odysseus laid his hand upon
the nurse's mouth, with the other he drew her to him and whispered:
'Nurse, wouldst thou ruin me? Thou didst nourish me at thy breast,
and now I am come back after mighty sufferings. Be silent, lest
another learn the news, or I tell thee that when I have punished
the suitors I will not even refrain from thee when I destroy the
other women in my halls.'"
Concealing the scar carefully under his rags by the fireside he put a
good interpretation on a strange dream which had visited his wife.
That night Odysseus with his own eyes witnessed the intrigues between
his women and the suitors. He heard his wife weeping in her chamber for
him and prayed to Zeus for aid in the coming trial. On the morrow he
was again outraged; the suitors were moved to laughter by a prophecy of
Theoclymenus:
"Yet they were laughing with alien lips, the meat they ate was
dabbled with blood, their eyes were filled with tears and their
hearts boded lamentation. Among them spake Theoclymenus; 'Wretched
men, what is this evil that is come upon you? Your heads and faces
and the knees beneath you are shrouded in night, mourning is kindled
among you, your cheeks are bedewed with tears, the walls and the
fair pillars are sprinkled with blood, the forecourt and the yard is
full of spectres hastening to the gloom of Erebus; the sun hath
perished from the heaven and a mist of ruin hath swept upon you.'"
In answer Eurymachus bade him begone if all within was night; taking him
at his word, the seer withdrew before the coming ruin.
Then Athena put it into the heart of Penelope to set the suitors a final
test. She brought forth the bow of Odysseus together with twelve axes.
It had been an exercise of her lord to set up the axes in a line, string
the bow and shoot through the heads of the axes which had been hollowed
for that purpose. She promised to follow at once the suitor who could
string the bow and shoot through the axes. First Telemachus set up the
axes and tried to string the weapon; failing three times he would have
succeeded at the next effort but for a glance from his father. Leiodes
vainly tried his strength, to be rebuked by Antinous who suggested that
the bow should be made more pliant by being heated at the fire.
Noticing that Eumaeus and Philoetius had gone out together Odysseus went
after them and revealed himself to them; the three then returned to the
hall. After all the suitors had failed except Antinous, who did not deem
that he should waste a feast-day in stringing bows, Odysseus begged that
he might try, Penelope insisting on his right to attempt the feat. When
she retired Eumaeus brought the bow to Odysseus, then told Eurycleia to
keep the woman in their chambers while Philoetius bolted the hall door.
"But already Odysseus was turning the bow this way and that testing
it lest the worms had devoured it in his absence. Then when he had
balanced it and looked it all over, even as when a man skilled in
the lyre and song easily putteth a new string about a peg, even so
without an effort Odysseus strung his mighty bow. Taking it in his
right hand he tried the string which sang sweetly beneath his touch
like to the voice of a swallow. Then he took an arrow and shot it
with a straight aim through the axes, missing not one. Then he spake
to Telemachus: 'Thy guest bringeth thee no shame as he sitteth in
thy halls, for I missed not the mark nor spent much time in the
stringing. My strength is yet whole within me. But now it is time to
make a banquet for the Achaeans in the light of day and then season
it with song and dance, which are the crown of revelry.' So speaking
he nodded, and his son took a sword and a spear and stood by him
clad in gleaming bronze."
The first victim was Antinous, whom Odysseus shot through the neck as he
was in the act of drinking, never dreaming that one man would attack
a multitude of suitors. Eurymachus fell after vainly attempting a
compromise. Melanthius was caught in the act of supplying arms to the
rest and was left bound to be dealt with when the main work was
done. Athena herself encouraged Odysseus in his labour of vengeance,
deflecting from him any weapons that were hurled at him. At length all
was over, the serving women were made to cleanse the hall of all traces
of bloodshed; the guiltiest of them were hanged, while Melanthius died
a horrible death by mutilation. Odysseus then summoned his wife to his
presence.
Eurycleia carried the message to her, laughing with joy so much that
Penelope deemed her mad. The story of the vengeance which Odysseus had
exacted was so incredible that it must have been the act of a god, not
a man. When she entered the hall Telemachus upbraided her for her
unbelief, but Odysseus smiled on hearing that she intended to test him
by certain proofs which they two alone were aware of. He withdrew for
a time to cleanse him of his stains and to put on his royal garments,
after ordering the servants to maintain a revelry to blind the people to
the death of their chief men.
When he reappeared, endued with grace which Athena gave him, he
marvelled at the untoward heart which the gods had given his wife and
bade his nurse lay him his bed. Penelope caught up his words quickly;
the bed was to be laid outside the chamber which he himself had made.
The words filled Odysseus with dismay:
"Who hath put my bed elsewhere? It would be a hard task for any man
however cunning, except a god set it in some other place. Of men
none could easily shift it, for there is a wonder in that cunningly
made bed whereat I laboured and none else. Within the courtyard was
growing the trunk of an olive; round it I built my bed-chamber with
thick stones and roofed it well, placing in it doors that shut tight.
Then I cut away the olive branches, smoothed the trunk, made a
bedpost, and bored all with a gimlet. From that foundation I smoothed
my bed, tricking it out with gold and silver and ivory and stretching
from its frame thongs of cow-hide dyed red. Such is the wonder I tell
of, yet I know not, Lady, whether the bed is yet fixed there, or
whether another hath moved it, cutting the foundation of olive from
underneath."
On hearing the details of their secret Penelope ran to him casting
her arms about him and begging him to forgive her unbelief, for many
a pretender had come, making her ever more and more suspicious. Thus
reunited the two spent the night in recounting the agonies of their
separation; Odysseus mentioned the strange prophecy of Teiresias,
deciding to seek out his father on the morrow.
A vivid description tells how the souls of the suitors were conducted
to the realm of the dead, the old comrades of Odysseus before Troy
recognising in the vengeance all the marks of his handiwork. Odysseus
found his father in a wretched old age hoeing his garden, clad in
soiled garments with a goat-skin hat on his head which but increased his
sorrow. At the sight Odysseus was moved to tears of compassion. Yet even
then he could not refrain from his wiles, for he told how he had indeed
seen Odysseus though five years before. In despair the old man took the
dust in his hands and cast it about his head in mighty grief.
"Then Odysseus' spirit was moved and the stinging throb smote his
nostrils. Clinging to his father he kissed him and told him he was
indeed his son, returned after twenty years."
For a moment the old man doubted, but believed when Odysseus showed the
scar and told him the number and names of the trees they had planted
together in their orchard.
Meanwhile news of the death of the wooers had run through the city. The
father of Antinous raised a tumult and led a body of armed men to demand
satisfaction. The threatening uproar was stopped by the intervention of
Athena who thus completed the restoration of her favourite as she had
begun it.
* * * * *
It is strange that this poem, which is such a favourite with modern
readers, should have made a less deep impression on the Greeks. To
them, Homer is nearly always the _Iliad_, possibly because Achilles was
semi-divine, whereas Odysseus was a mere mortal. But the latter is for
that very reason of more importance to us, we feel him to be more akin
to our own life. Further, the type of character which Odysseus stands
for is really far nobler than the fervid and somewhat incalculable
nature of the son of Thetis. Odysseus is patient endurance, common
sense, self-restraint, coolness, resource and strength; he is indeed
a manifold personality, far more complex than anything attempted
previously in Greek literature and therefore far more modern in
his appeal. It is only after reading the _Odyssey_ that we begin to
understand why Diomedes chose Odysseus as his companion in the famous
Dolon adventure in Noman's land. Achilles would have been the wrong man
for this or any other situation which demanded first and last a cool
head.
The romantic elements which are so necessary a part of all Epic are much
more convincing in the _Odyssey_; the actions and adventures are indeed
beyond experience, but they are treated in such a masterly style that
they are made inevitable; it would be difficult to improve on any of the
little details which force us to believe the whole story. Added to them
is another genuine romantic feature, the sense of wandering in strange
new lands untrodden before of man's foot; the beings who move in these
lands are gracious, barbarous, magical, monstrous, superhuman, dreamy,
or prophetic by turns; they are all different and all fascinating. The
reader is further introduced to the life of the dead as well as of the
living and the memory of his visit is one which he will retain for ever.
Not many stories of adventure can impress themselves indelibly as does
the _Odyssey_.
To English readers the poem has a special value, for it deals with the
sea and its wonders. The native land of its hero is not very unlike our
own, "full of mist and rain", yet able to make us love it far more than
a Calypso's isle with an offer of immortality to any who will exchange
his real love of home for an unnatural haven of peace. A splendid hero,
a good love-story, admirable narrative, romance and excitement, together
with a breath of the sea which gives plenty of space and pure air have
made the _Odyssey_ the companion of many a veteran reader in whom the
Greek spirit cannot die.
* * * * *
Of the impression which Homer has made upon the mind of Europe it would
be difficult to give an estimate. The Greeks themselves early came to
regard his text with a sort of veneration; it was learned by heart and
quoted to spellbound audiences in the cities and at the great national
meetings at Olympia. Every Greek boy was expected to know some portion
at least by heart; Plato evidently loved Homer and when he was obliged
to point out that the system of morality which he stood for was
antiquated and needed revision, apologised for the criticism he could
not avoid. It is sometimes said that Homer was the Bible of the Greeks;
while this statement is probably inaccurate--for no theological system
was built on him nor did he claim any divine revelation--yet it is
certain that authors of all ages searched the text for all kinds of
purposes, antiquarian, ethical, social, as well as religious. This
careful study of Homer culminated in the learned and accurate work of
the great Alexandrian school of Zenodotus and Aristarchus.
In Roman times Homer never failed to inspire lesser writers; Ennius
is said to have translated the _Odyssey_, while Virgil's _Aeneid_ is
clearly a child of the Greek Homeric tradition. In the Middle Ages the
Trojan legend was one of the four great cycles which were treated over
and over again in the Chansons. Even drama was glad to borrow the great
characters of the _Iliad_, as Shakespeare did in _Troilus and Cressida_.
In England a number of famous translations has witnessed to the undying
appeal of the first of the Greek masters. Chapman published his _Iliad_
in 1611, his _Odyssey_ in 1616; Pope's version appeared between 1715
and 1726; Cowper issued his translation in 1791. In the next century the
Earl Derby retranslated the _Iliad_, while an excellent prose version of
the _Odyssey_ by Butcher and Lang was followed by a prose version of the
_Iliad_ by Lang Myers and Leaf. At a time when Europe had succeeded in
persuading itself that the whole story of a siege of Troy was an obvious
myth, a series of startling discoveries on the site of Troy and on
the mainland of Greece proved how lamentably shallow is some of the
cleverest and most destructive Higher Criticism.
The marvellous rapidity and vigour of these two poems will save them
from death; the splendid qualities of direct narration, constructive
skill, dignity and poetical power will always make Homer a name to love.
Those who know no Greek and therefore fear that they may lose some of
the directness of the Homeric appeal might recall the famous sonnet
written by Keats who had had no opportunity to learn the great
language. His words are no doubt familiar enough; that they have become
inseparable from Homer must be our apology for inserting them here.
Much have I travelled in the realms of gold,
And many goodly states and Kingdoms seen;
Round many western islands have I been
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told
That deep-browed Homer ruled as his demesne:
Yet never did I breathe its pure serene
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold.
Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
When a new planet swims into his ken,
Or like stout Cortes, when with eagle eyes
He stared at the Pacific--and all his men
Look'd at each other with a wild surmise--
Silent, upon a peak in Darien.
TRANSLATIONS. As INDICATED IN THE TEXT OF THE ESSAY.
The whole of the Homeric tradition is affected by the recent discoveries
made in Crete. The civilisation there unearthed raises questions of
great interest; the problems it suggests are certain to modify current
ideas of Homeric study.
See _Discoveries in Crete_, by R. Burrows (Murray, 1907).
A very good account of the early age of European literature is in _The
Heroic Age_, by Chadwick (Cambridge, 1912).
The best interpretation of Greek poetry is Symonds' _Greek Poets_, 2
vols. (Smith Elder).
Jebb's _Homer_ is the best introduction to the many difficulties
presented by the poems.
Flaxman's engravings for the _Iliad_ and _Odyssey_ are of the highest
order.
AESCHYLUS
Towards the end of the sixth century before Christ, one of the most
momentous advances in literature was made by the genius of Aeschylus.
European drama was created and a means of utterance was given to the
rapidly growing democratic spirit of Greece. Before Aeschylus wrote,
rude public exhibitions had been given of the life and adventures of
Dionysus, the god of wine. Choruses had sung odes to the deity and
variety was obtained by a series of short dialogues between one of the
Chorus and the remainder. Aeschylus added a second actor to converse
with the first; he thus started a movement which eventually ousted
the Chorus from its place of importance, for the interest now began to
concentrate on the two actors; it was their performance which gave drama
its name. In time more characters were added; the Chorus became less
necessary and in the long run was felt to be a hindrance to the movement
of the story. This process is plainly visible in the extant works of the
Attic tragedians.
Aeschylus was born at Eleusis in 525; before the end of the century he
was writing tragedies. In 490 he fought in the great battle of Marathon
and took part in the victory of Salamis in 480. This experience of the
struggle for freedom against Persian despotism added a vigour and
a self-reliance to his writing which is characteristic of a growing
national spirit. He is said to have visited Sicily in 468 and again in
458, various motives being given for his leaving Athens. His death
at Gela in 456 is said to have been due to an eagle, which dropped a
tortoise upon his head which he mistook for a stone. He has left to
the world seven plays in which the rapid development of drama is
conspicuous.
One of the earliest of his plays is the _Suppliants_, little read
owing to the uncertainty of the text and the meagreness of the dramatic
interest. The plot is simple enough. Danaus, sprung from Io of Argos,
flees from Egypt with his fifty daughters who avoid wedlock with the
fifty sons of Aegyptus. He sails to Argos and lays suppliant boughs on
the altars of the gods, imploring protection. The King of Argos after
consultation with his people decides to admit the fugitives and to
secure them from Aegyptus' violence. A herald from the latter threatens
to take the Danaids back with him, but the King intervenes and saves
them. There is little in this play but long choral odes; yet one or two
Aeschylean features are evident. The King dreads offending the god of
suppliants
"lest he should make him to haunt his house, a dread visitor who
quits not sinners even in the world to come."
The Egyptian herald reverences no gods of Greece "who reared him not
nor brought him to old age". The Chorus declare that "what is fated will
come to pass, for Zeus' mighty boundless will cannot be thwarted". Here
we have the three leading ideas in the system of Aeschylus--the doctrine
of the inherited curse, of human pride and impiety, and the might of
Destiny.
The _Persians_ is unique as being the only surviving historical play in
Greek literature. It is a poem rather than a drama, as there is little
truly dramatic action. The piece is a succession of very vivid sketches
of the incidents in the great struggle which freed Europe from the
threat of Eastern despotism. A Chorus of Persian elders is waiting for
news of the advance of the great array which Xerxes led against Greece
in 480. They tell how Persia extended her sway over Asia. Yet they are
uneasy, for
"what mortal can avoid the crafty deception of Heaven? In seeming
kindness it entices men into a trap whence they cannot escape."
The Queen-mother Atossa enters, resplendent with jewels; she too is
anxious, for in a dream she had seen Xerxes yoke two women together who
were at feud, one clad in Persian garb, the other in Greek. The former
was obedient to the yoke, but the latter tore the car to pieces and
broke the curb. The Chorus advises her to propitiate the gods with
sacrifice, and to pray to Darius her dead husband to send his son
prosperity. At that moment a herald enters with the news of the Greek
victory at Salamis. Xerxes, beguiled by some fiend or evil spirit, drew
up his fleet at night to intercept the Greeks, supposed to be preparing
for flight. But at early dawn they sailed out to attack, singing
mightily
"Ye sons of Greece, onward! Free your country, your children and
wives, the shrines of your fathers' gods, and your ancestral tombs.
Now must ye fight for all."
Winning a glorious victory, they landed on the little island
(Psyttaleia) where the choicest Persian troops had been placed to cut
off the retreat of the Greek navy, and slew them all. Later, they drove
back the Persians by land; through Boeotia, Thessaly and Macedonia the
broken host retreated, finally recrossing to Asia over the Hellespont.
On hearing the news Atossa disappears and the Persian Chorus sing a
dirge. The Queen returns without her finery, attired as a suppliant; she
bids the Chorus call up Darius, while she offers libations to the
dead. The ghost of the great Empire-builder rises before the astonished
spectators, enquiring what trouble has overtaken his land. His release
from Death is not easy, "for the gods of the lower world are readier to
take men's spirits than to let them go". On learning that his son has
been totally defeated, he delivers his judgment. The oracles had long
ago prophesied this disaster; it was hurried on by Xerxes' rashness,
for when a man is himself hurrying on to ruin Heaven abets him. He had
listened to evil counsellors, who bade him rival his father's glory by
making wider conquests. The ruin of Persia is not yet complete, for when
insolence is fully ripe it bears a crop of ruin and reaps a harvest of
tears. This evil came upon Xerxes through the sacrilegious demolition of
altars and temples. Zeus punishes overweening pride, and his correcting
hand is heavy. Darius counsels Atossa to comfort their son and to
prevent him from attacking Greece again; he further advises the Chorus
to take life's pleasures while they can, for after death there is
no profit in wealth. A distinctly grotesque touch is added by the
appearance of Xerxes himself, broken and defeated, filling the scene
with lamentations for lost friends and departed glory, unable to answer
the Chorus when they demand the whereabouts of some of the most famous
Persian warriors.
The play is valuable as the result of a personal experience of the poet.
As a piece of literature it is important, for it is a poetic description
of the first armed conflict between East and West. It directly inspired
Shelley when he wrote his _Hellas_ at a time when Greece was rousing
herself from many centuries of Eastern oppression. As a historical
drama it is of great value, for it is substantially accurate in its main
facts, though Aeschylus has been compelled to take some liberties
with time and human motives in order to satisfy dramatic needs. From
Herodotus it seems probable that Darius himself hankered after the
subjugation of Greece, while Xerxes at the outset was inclined to leave
her in peace.
One or two characteristic features are worth note. The genius of
Aeschylus was very bold; it was a daring thing to bring up a ghost from
the dead, for the supernatural appeal does not succeed except when it
is treated with proper insight; yet even Aeschylus' genius has not quite
succeeded in filling his canvas, the last scenes being distinctly poor
in comparison with the splendour of the main theme. On the other hand
a notable advance in dramatic power has been made. The main actors are
becoming human; their wills are beginning to operate. Tragedy is based
on a conflict of some sort; here the wilful spirit of youth is portrayed
as defying the forces of justice and righteousness; it is insolence
which brings Xerxes to ruin. The substantial creed of Aeschylus is
contained in Darius' speech; as the poet progresses in dramatic cunning
we shall find that he constantly finds his sources of tragic inspiration
in the acts of the sinners who defy the will of the gods.
_The Seven against Thebes_ was performed in 472. It was one of a
trilogy, a series of three plays dealing with the misfortunes of
Oedipus' race. After the death of Oedipus his sons Polyneices and
Eteocles quarrelled for the sovereignty of Thebes. Polyneices, expelled
and banished by his younger brother, assembled an army of chosen
warriors to attack his native land. Eteocles opens the play with a
speech which encourages the citizens to defend their town. A messenger
hurries in telling how he left the besiegers casting lots to decide
which of the seven gates of Thebes each should attack. Eteocles prays
that the curse of his father may not destroy the town and leaves to
arrange the defences. In his absence the Chorus of virgins sing a wild
prayer to the gods to save them. Hearing this, the King returns
to administer a vigorous reproof; he declares that their frenzied
supplications fill the city with terrors, discouraging the fighting men.
He demands from them obedience, the mother of salvation; if at last they
are to perish, they cannot escape the inevitable. His masterful spirit
at last cows them into a better frame of mind; this scene presents to us
one of the most manly characters in Aeschylus' work.
After a choral ode a piece of intense tragic horror follows. The
messenger tells the names of the champions who are to assault the gates.
As he names them and the boastful or impious mottoes on their shields,
the King names the Theban champions who are to quell their pride in the
fear of the gods. Five of the insolent attackers are mentioned, then the
only righteous one of the invading force, Amphiaraus the seer; he it was
who rebuked the violence of Tydeus, the evil genius among the besiegers,
and openly reviled Polyneices for attacking his own native land. He had
prophesied his own death before the city, yet resolved to meet his fate
nobly; on his shield alone was no device, for he wished to be, not to
seem, a good man. The pathos of the impending ruin of a great character
through evil associations is heightened by the terror of what follows.
Only one gate remains without an assailant, the gate Eteocles is to
defend; it is to be attacked by the King's own brother, Polyneices.
Filled with horror, the Chorus begs him send another to that gate,
for "there can be no old age to the pollution of kindred bloodshed".
Recognising that his father's curse is working itself out, he departs to
kill and be killed by his own brother, for "when the gods send evil none
can avoid it".
In an interval the Chorus reflect on their King's impending doom. His
father's curse strikes them with dread; Oedipus himself was born of a
father Laius who, though warned thrice by Apollo that if he died without
issue he would save his land, listened to the counsels of friends and
in imprudence begat his own destroyer. Their song is interrupted by a
messenger who announces that they have prospered at six gates, but at
the seventh the two brothers have slain each other. This news inspires
another song in which the joy of deliverance gradually yields to pity
for an unhappy house, cursed and blighted, the glory of Oedipus serving
but to make more acute the shame of his latter end and the triumph of
the ruin he invoked on his sons. The agony of this scene is intensified
by the entry of Ismene and Antigone, Oedipus' daughters, the latter
mourning for Polyneices, the former for Eteocles. The climax is
reached when a herald announces a decree made by the senate and people.
Eteocles, their King who defended the land, was to be buried with all
honours, but Polyneices was to lie unburied. Calmly and with great
dignity Antigone informs the herald that if nobody else buries her
brother, she will. A warning threat fails to move her. The play closes
with a double note of terror at the doom of Polyneices and pity for the
death of a brave King.
Further progress in dramatic art has been made in this play. One of the
main sources of the pathos of human life is the operation of what
seems to us to be mere blind chance. Just as the casual dropping of
Desdemona's handkerchief gave Iago his opportunity, so the casual
allotting of the seven gates brings the two brothers into conflict.
But behind it was the working of an inherited curse; yet Aeschylus is
careful to point out that the curse need never have existed at all but
for the wilfulness of Laius; he was the origin of all the mischief,
obstinately refusing to listen to a warning thrice given him by Apollo.
Another secret of dramatic excellence has been discovered by the poet,
that of contrast. Two brothers and two sisters are balanced in pairs
against one another. The weaker sister Ismene laments the stronger
brother, while the more unfortunate Polyneices is championed by the
more firmly drawn sister. Equally admirable is the contrast between the
righteous Amphiaraus and his godless companions. The character of
each of these is a masterpiece. War, horror, kindred bloodshed, with
a promise of further agonies to arise from Antigone's resolve are the
elements which Aeschylus has fused together in this vivid play.
"There was war in Heaven" between the new gods and the old. The
_Prometheus Bound_ contains the story of the proud tyranny of Zeus,
the latest ruler of the gods. Hephaestus, the god of fire, opens a
conversation with Force and Violence who are pinning Prometheus with
chains of adamant to the rocks of Caucasus. Hephaestus performs his task
with reluctance and in pity for the victim, the deep-counselling son
of right-minded Law. Yet the command of Zeus his master is urgent,
overriding the claims of kindred blood. Force and Violence, full of
hatred, hold down the god who has stolen fire, Hephaestus' right, and
given it to men. They bid the Fire-God make the chains fast and drive
the wedge through Prometheus' body. When the work is done they leave him
with the taunt:
"Now steal the rights of the gods and give them to the creatures
of the day; what can mortals do to relieve thy agonies? The gods
wrongly call thee a far-seeing counsellor, who thyself lackest a
counsellor to save thee from thy present lot."
Abandoned of all, Prometheus breaks out into a wild appeal to earth,
air, the myriad laughter of the sea, the founts and streams to witness
his humiliation; but soon he reflects that he had foreseen his agony
and must bear it as best he can, for the might of Necessity is not to
be fought against. A sound of lightly moving pinions strikes his ears;
sympathisers have come to visit him; they are the Chorus, the daughters
of Ocean, who have heard the sound of the riveted chains and hurried
forth in their winged car Awestruck, they come to see how Zeus is
smiting down the mighty gods of old. It would be difficult to imagine a
more natural and touching motive for the entry of a Chorus.
In the dialogue that follows the tragic appeal to pity is quickly
blended with a different interest. By a superb stroke of art Aeschylus
excites the audience to an intense curiosity. Though apparently subdued,
Prometheus has the certainty of ultimate triumph over his foe; he alone
has secret knowledge of something which will one day hurl Zeus from his
throne; the time will come when the new president of Heaven will hurry
to him in anxious desire for reconciliation; when ruin threatens him he
will forsake his pride and beg Prometheus to save him. But no words will
prevail on the sufferer till he is released from his bonds and receives
ample satisfaction for his maltreatment. The Chorus bids him tell the
whole history of the quarrel. To them he unfolds the story of Zeus'
ingratitude. There was a discord among the older gods, some wishing to
depose Cronos and make Zeus their King. Warned by his mother, Prometheus
knew that only counsel could avail in the struggle, not violence. When
he failed to persuade the Titans to use cunning, he joined Zeus who with
his aid hurled his foes down to Tartarus. Securing the sovereignty, Zeus
distributed honours to his supporters, but was anxious to wipe out
the human race and create a new stock. Prometheus resisted him, giving
mortals fire the creator of many arts and ridding them of the dread
of death. This act brought him into conflict with Zeus. He invites the
Chorus to step down from their car and hear the rest of his story. At
this point Ocean enters, one of the older gods. He offers to act as
a mediator with Zeus, but Prometheus warns him to keep out of the
conflict; he has witnessed the sorrows of Atlas, his own brother, and
of Typhos, pinned down under Etna, and desires to bring trouble upon no
other god; he must bear his agonies alone till the time of deliverance
is ripe. Ocean departing, Prometheus continues his story. He gave men
writing and knowledge of astronomy, taught them to tame the wild beasts,
invented the ship, created medicine, divination and metallurgy. Yet for
all this, his art is weaker far than Necessity, whereof the controllers
are Fate and the unforgetting Furies. Terror-struck at his sufferings,
the Chorus point out how utterly his goodness has been wasted in helping
the race of mortals who cannot save him. He warns them that a time
would come when Zeus should be no longer King; when they ask for more
knowledge, he turns them to other thoughts, bidding them hide the secret
as much as possible. Their interest is drawn away to another of Zeus'
victims, who at this moment rushes on the scene; it is lo, cajoled and
abandoned by Zeus, plagued and tormented by the dread unsleeping gadfly
sent by Zeus' consort Hera. She relates her story to the wondering
Chorus, and then Prometheus tells her the long tale of misery and
wandering that await her as she passes from the Caucasus to Egypt, where
she is promised deliverance from her tormentor.
The play now moves to its awful climax. The sight of Io stirs Prometheus
to prophesy more clearly the end in store for Zeus. There would be born
one to discover a terror far greater than the thunderbolt, and smite
Zeus and his brother Poseidon into utter slavery. On hearing this Zeus
sends from heaven his messenger Hermes to demand fuller knowledge of
this new monarch. Disdaining his threats, Prometheus mocks the new
gods and defies their ruler to do his worst. Hermes then delivers his
warning. Prometheus would be overwhelmed with the terrors of thunder and
lightning, while the red eagle would tear out his heart unceasingly till
one should arise to inherit his agonies, descending to the depths of
Tartarus. He advises the Chorus to depart from the rebel, lest they too
should share in the vengeance. They remain faithful to Prometheus, ready
to suffer with him; then descend the thunderings and lightnings, the
mountains rock, the winds roar, and the sky is confounded with sea; the
dread agony has begun.
Once more the bold originality of Aeschylus displays itself. Here is a
theme unique in Greek literature. The strife between the two races of
gods opens out a vista of the world ages before man was created. It will
provide a solution to a very difficult problem which will confront us in
a later play. The conflict between two stubborn wills is the source of a
sublime tragedy in which our sympathies are with the sufferer; Zeus, who
punishes Prometheus for "unjustly" helping mortals, himself falls
below the level of human morality; he is tyrannous, ungrateful and
revengeful--in short, he displays all the wrong-headedness of a new
ruler. No doubt in the sequel these defects would have disappeared;
experience would have induced a kindlier temper and the sense of an
impending doom would have made it essential for him to relent in order
to learn the great secret about his successor.
Pathos is repeatedly appealed to in the play. Hephaestus is one of the
kindliest figures in Greek tragedy; the noble-hearted young goddesses
cannot fail to hold our affection. They are the most human Chorus in all
drama; their entry is admirable; in the sequel we should have found
them still near Prometheus after his cycle of tortures. But the
subject-matter is calculated to win the admiration of all humanity; it
is the persecution of him to whom on Greek principles mankind owes all
that it is of value in its civilisation. We cannot help thinking of
another God, racked and tormented and nailed to a cross of shame to save
the race He loved. The very power and majesty of Aeschylus' work has
made it difficult for successors to imitate him; few can hope to equal
his sublime grandeur; Shelley attempted it in his _Prometheus Unbound_,
but his Prometheus becomes abstract Humanity, ceasing to be a character,
while his play is really a mere poem celebrating the inevitable victory
of man over the evils of his environment and picturing the return of an
age of happiness.
Nearly all the characters in Greek tragedy were the heroes of well-known
popular legends. In abandoning the well-trodden circle Aeschylus has
here ensured an undying freshness for his work--it is novel, free and
unconventional; more than that, it is dignified.
The slightest error of taste would have degraded if to the level of
a comedy; throughout it maintains a uniform tone of loftiness and
sincerity. The language is easy but powerful, the art with which the
story is told is consummate. Finally, it is one of the few pieces in the
literature of the world which are truly sublime; it ranks with Job
and Dante. The great purpose of creation, the struggles of beings of
terrific power, the majesty of gods, the whole universe sighing and
lamenting for the agonies of a deity of wondrous foresight, saving
others but not himself--such is the theme of this mighty and affecting
play.
In 458 Aeschylus wrote the one trilogy which is extant. It describes the
murder of Agamemnon, the revenge of Orestes and his purification
from blood-guiltiness. It will be necessary to trace the history
of Agamemnon's family before we can understand these plays. His
great-grandfather was Tantalus, who betrayed the secrets of the gods and
was subjected to unending torture in Hades. Pelops, his son, begat two
sons, Atreus and Thyestes. The former killed Thyestes' son, invited the
father to a banquet and served up his own son's body for him to eat.
The sons of Atreus were Agamemnon and Menelaus, who married respectively
Clytemnestra and Helen, daughters of Zeus and Leda, both evil women;
the son of Thyestes was Aegisthus, a deadly foe of his cousins who had
banished him. The "inherited curse" then had developed itself in this
unhappy stock and it did not fail to ruin it.
When Helen abandoned Menelaus and went to Troy with Paris, Agamemnon led
a great armament to recover the adulteress. The fleet was wind-bound
at Aulis, because the Greeks had offended Artemis. Chalcas the seer
informed Agamemnon that it would be impossible for him to reach Troy
unless he offered his eldest daughter Iphigeneia to Artemis. Torn by
patriotism and fatherly affection, Agamemnon resorted to a strategem to
bring his daughter to the sacrifice. He sent a messenger to Clytemnestra
saying he wished to marry their child to Achilles. When the mother and
daughter arrived at Aulis they learned the bitter truth. Iphigeneia
was indeed sacrificed, but Artemis spirited her away to the country
now called Crimea, there to serve as her priestess. Believing that her
daughter was dead, Clytemnestra returned to Argos to plot destruction
for her husband, forming an illicit union with his foe Aegisthus,
nursing her revenge during the ten years of the siege.
The _Agamemnon_, the first play of the trilogy, opens in a romantic
setting. It is night. A watchman is on the wall of Argos, stationed
there by the Queen. For ten years he had waited for the signal of the
beacon-fire to be lit at Nauplia, the port of Argos, to announce the
fall of Troy. At last the expected signal is given. He hurries to tell
the news to the Queen, a woman with the resolution of a man; in his
absence the Chorus of Argive Elders enter the stage, singing one of the
finest odes to be found in any language. It likens Agamemnon and his
brother to two avenging spirits sent to punish the sinner. The Chorus
are past military age, and are come to learn from Clytemnestra why
there is sacrifice throughout all Argos. They remember the woes at the
beginning of the campaign, how Chalcas prophesied that in time Troy
would be taken, yet hinted darkly of some blinding curse of Heaven
hanging over the Greeks, his burden being
"Sing woe, sing woe, but let the good prevail."
"Yea, the law of Zeus is, wisdom by suffering, for thus soberness of
thought comes to those who wish not for it. First men are emboldened
by ill-counselling foolish frenzy which begins their troubles; even
as Agamemnon, through sin against Artemis, was compelled to slay his
daughter to save his armament. Her cries for a father's mercy, her
unuttered appeals to her slayers--these he disregarded. What is to
come of it, no man knows; yet it is useless to lament the issue before
it comes, as come it will, clear as the light of day."
Clytemnestra enters, the sternest woman figure in all literature. She
reminds the Chorus that she is no child and is not known to have a
slumbering wit. When they enquire how she has learned so quickly of the
capture of Troy, she describes with great brilliance the long chain of
beacon fires she has caused to be made, stretching from Ida in Troyland
to Argos. She imagines the wretched fate of the conquered and the joy
of the victors, rid for ever of their watchings beneath the open sky.
Striking the same ominous note as Chalcas did, she continues:
"If they reverence the Gods of Troy and their shrines, they shall not
be caught even as they have taken the city. May no lust of plundering
fall upon the army, for it needs a safe return home. Yet even if the
army sins not against the gods, the anger of the slain may awake,
though no new ills arise. But let the right prevail, for all to see
it clearly."
This speech inspires the Chorus to sing another solemn ode. Too much
prosperity leads to godlessness; Paris carried away Helen in pride and
infatuation, stealing the light of Menelaus' eyes, leaving him only the
torturing memories of her beauty which visited him in his dreams. But
there is a spirit of discontent in every city of Greece; all had sent
their young men to Troy in the glory of life, and in return they had a
handful of ashes, asking why their sons should fall in murderous strife
for another man's wife. At night the dark dread haunts Argos that the
gods care not for men who shed much blood, who succeed by injustice, who
are well spoken of overmuch. Often these are smitten full in the face by
the thunderbolt; and perhaps this beacon message is mere imagining or a
lie sent from heaven.
Hearing this the Queen comes forth to prove the truth of her story. A
herald at that moment advances to confirm it, for Troy has been sacked.
"Altars and shrines have been demolished and all the seed of land
destroyed. Thus is Agamemnon the happiest man of mortals, most
worthy of honour, for Paris and his city cannot say that their
crime was greater than its punishment."
Immediately after learning this story, Clytemnestra makes the first of a
number of speeches charged with a dreadful double meaning.
"When the first news came, I shouted for joy, but now I shall hear
the story from the King himself. And I will use all diligence to
give my lord the best of all possible welcomes. Bid him come with
speed. May he find in the house a wife as faithful as he left her!
I know of no wanton pleasure with another man more than I know how
to dye a sword."
The Chorus understand well the hidden force of this sinister speech and
bid the messenger speak of Menelaus, the other beloved King of the land.
In reply he tells how a dreadful storm sent by the angry gods descended
upon the Greek fleet. In it fire and water, those ancient foes, forsook
their feud, conspiring to destroy the unhappy armament. Whether Menelaus
was alive or not was uncertain; if he lived, it was only by the will of
Zeus who desired to save the royal house. The Chorus who look at things
with a deeper glance than the herald, hear his story with a growing
uneasiness.
"Helen, the cause of the war, at first was a spirit ofcalm to Troy,
but at the latter end she was their bane, the evil angel of ruin.
For one act of violence begets many others like it, until
righteousness can no longer dwell within the sinner."
They touch a more joyous chord of welcome and loyalty when at last they
see the actual arrival of Agamemnon himself.
The King enters the stage accompanied by Cassandra, the prophetic
daughter of Priam, thus giving visible proof of his contempt for Apollo,
the Trojan protector and inspirer of the prophetess. He has heard
the Chorus' welcome and promises to search out the false friends and
administer healing medicine to the city. Clytemnestra replies in a
second speech of double significance.
"The Argive Elders well know how dearly she loves her lord and the
impatience of her life while he was at Troy. Often stories came of
his wounds; were they all true, he would have more scars than a net
has holes. Orestes their son has been sent away, lest he should be
the victim of some popular uprising in the King's absence. Her fount
of tears is dried up, not a drop being left."
After some words of extravagant flattery, she bids her waiting women lay
down purple carpets on which Justice may bring him to a home which he
never hoped to see. Agamemnon coldly deprecates her long speech; the
honour she suggests is one for the gods alone; his fame will speak loud
enough without gaudy trappings, for a wise heart is Heaven's greatest
gift. But the Queen, not to be denied, overcomes his scruples. Giving
orders that Cassandra is to be well treated, he passes over the purple
carpets, led by Clytemnestra who avows that she would have given many
purple carpets to get him home alive. Thus arrogating to himself the
honours of a god, he proceeds within the palace, while she lingers
behind for one brief moment to pray openly to Zeus to fulfil her prayers
and to bring his will to its appointed end. Thoroughly alarmed, the
Chorus give free utterance to the vague forebodings which shake them,
the song of the avenging Furies which cries within their hearts.
"Human prosperity often strikes a sunken rock; bloodshed calls to
Heaven for vengeance; yet there is comfort, for one destiny may
override another, and good may yet come to pass."
These pious hopes are broken by the entry of the Queen who summons
Cassandra within: when the captive prophetess answers her not a word,
Clytemnestra declares she has no time to waste outside the palace:
already there stands at the altar the ox ready for sacrifice, a joy she
never looked to have; if Cassandra will not obey, she must be taught to
foam out her spirit in blood.
In the marvellous scene which follows Aeschylus reaches the pinnacle
of tragic power. Cassandra advances to the palace, but starts back in
horror as a series of visions of growing vividness comes before her
eyes. These find utterance in language of blended sanity and madness,
creating a terror whose very vagueness increases its intensity. First
she sees Atreus' cruel murder of his brother's children; then follows
the sight of Clytemnestra's treacherous smile and of Agamemnon in the
bath, hand after hand reaching at him; quickly she sees the net cast
about him, the murderess' blow. In a flash she foresees her own end
and breaks out into a wild lament over the ruin of her native city. Her
words work up the Chorus into a state of confused dread and foreboding;
they can neither understand nor yet disbelieve. When their mental
confusion is at its height, relief comes in a prophecy of the greatest
clearness, no longer couched in riddling terms. The palace is peopled by
a band of kindred Furies, who have drunk their fill of human blood and
cannot be cast out; they sit there singing the story of the origin
of its ruin, loathing the murder of the innocent children. Agamemnon
himself would soon pay the penalty, but his son would come to avenge
him. Foretelling her own death, she hurls away the badges of her office,
the sceptre and oracular chaplets, things which have brought her nothing
but ridicule. She prays for a peaceful end without a struggle; comparing
human life to a shadow when it is fortunate and to a picture wiped out
by a sponge when it is hapless, she moves in calmly to her fate.
There is a momentary interval of reflection, then Agamemnon's dying
voice is heard as he is stricken twice. Frantic with horror, the Chorus
prepare to rush within but are checked by the Queen, who throws open the
door and stands glorying in the triumph of self-confessed murder. Her
real character is revealed in her speech.
"This feud was not unpremeditated; rather, it proceeds from an
ancient quarrel, matured by time. Here I stand where I smote him,
over my handiwork. So I contrived it, I freely confess, that he
could neither escape his fate nor defend himself. I cast over him
the endless net, and I smote him twice--in two groans he gave up
the ghost--adding a third in grateful thanksgiving to the King of
the dead in the nether world. As he fell he gasped out his spirit,
and breathing a swift stream of gore he smote me with a drop of
murderous dew, while I rejoiced even as does the cornfield under
the Heavensent shimmering moisture when it brings the ears to the
birth. Ye Argive Elders, rejoice if ye can, but I exult. If it were
fitting to pour thank-offerings for any death, 'twere just, nay,
more than just, to offer such for him, so mighty was the bowl of
curses he filled up in his home, then came and drank them up himself
to the dregs."
To their solemn warning that she would herself be cut off, banished and
hated, she replies:
"He slew my child, my dearest birth-pang, to charm the Thracian
winds. In the name of the perfect justice I have exacted for my
daughter, in the name of Ruin and Vengeance, to whom I have
sacrificed him, my hopes cannot tread the halls of fear so long
as Aegisthus is true to me. There he lies, seducer of this woman,
darling of many a Chryseis in Troyland. As for this captive
prophetess, this babbler of oracles, she sat on the ship's bench
by his side and both have fared as they deserved. He died as ye see;
but she sang her swan-song of death and lies beside him she loved,
bringing me a sweet relish for the luxury of my own love."
A little later she denies her very humanity.
"Call me not his spouse; rather the ancient dread haunting evil
genius of this house has taken a woman's shape and punished him,
a full-grown man in vengeance for little children."
Burial he should have, but without any dirges from his people.
"Let Iphigeneia, his daughter, as is most fitting, meet her father
at the swift-conveying passage of woe, throw her arms about him and
kiss him welcome."
The last scene of this splendid drama brings forward the poltroon
Aegisthus who had skulked behind in the background till the deed was
done. He enters to air his ancient grievance, reminding the Chorus how
his father was outraged by Atreus, how he himself was a banished man,
yet found his arm long enough to smite the King from far away. In
contempt for the coward the Elders prepare to offer him battle; they
appeal to Orestes to avenge the murder. The quarrel was stopped by
Clytemnestra, who had had enough of bloodshed and was content to leave
things as they were, if the gods consented thereto.
Before the sustained power of this masterpiece criticism is nearly dumb.
The conception of the inherited curse is by now familiar to us; familiar
too is the teaching that sacrilege brings its own punishment, that human
pride may be flattered into assuming the privilege of a deity. These
were enough to cause Agamemnon's undoing. But it is the part played by
Clytemnestra which fixes the dramatic interest. She is inspired by a
lust for vengeance, yet, had she known the truth that her daughter was
not dead but a priestess, she would have had no pretext for the murder.
This ignorance of essentials which originates some human action is
called Irony; it was put to dramatic uses for the first time in European
literature by Aeschylus. The horrible tragedy it may cause is clear
enough in the _Agamemnon_; its power is terrible and its value as a
dramatic source is inestimable. There is another and a far more subtle
form of Irony, in which a character uses riddling speech interpreted by
another actor in a sense different from the truth as it is known to the
spectators; this too can be used in such a manner as to charge human
speech with a sinister double meaning which bodes ruin under the mask
of words of innocence. Few dramatic personages have used this device so
effectively as Clytemnestra, certainly none with a more fiendish intent.
Again, in this play the Chorus is employed with amazing skill; their
vague uneasiness takes more and more definitely the shape of actual
terror in every ode; this terror is raised to its height in the
masterly Cassandra scene--it is then abated a little, perhaps it is just
beginning to disappear, for nobody believed Cassandra, when the blow
falls. This integral connection between the Chorus and the main action
is difficult to maintain; that it exists in the _Agamemnon_ is evidence
of a constructive genius of the highest order.
The _Choephori_ (Libation-bearers), the second play of the trilogy,
opens with the entry of Orestes. He has just laid a lock of hair on
his father's tomb and sees a band of maidens approaching, among them
Electra, his sister. He retires with Pylades his faithful friend to
listen to their conversation. The Chorus tell how in consequence of
a dream of Clytemnestra they have been sent to offer libations to the
dead, to appease their anger and resentment against the murderers.
They give utterance to a wild hopeless song, full of a presentiment of
disaster coming on successful wickedness enthroned in power. They are
captives from Troy, obliged to look on the deeds of Aegisthus, whether
just or unjust, yet they weep for the purposeless agonies of Agamemnon's
house. When asked by Electra what prayers she should offer to her dead
father, they bid her pray for some avenging god or mortal to requite the
murderers. Returning to them from the tomb, she tells them of a strange
occurrence; a lock of hair has been laid on the grave, and there are two
sets of footprints on the ground, one of which corresponds with her
own. Orestes then comes forward to reveal himself; as a proof of his
identity, he bids her consider the garments which she wove with her own
hands; urging her to restrain her joy lest she betray his arrival,
he tells how Apollo has commanded him to avenge his father's death,
threatening him with sickness, frenzy, nightly terrors, excommunication
and a dishonoured death if he refuses.
In a long choral dialogue the actors tell of Clytemnestra's insolent
treatment of the dead King; she had buried him without funeral rites or
mourning, with no subjects to follow the corpse; she even mangled his
body and thrust Electra out of the palace; thus she filled the cup of
her iniquity. The Chorus remind Orestes of his duty to act, but first he
inquires why oblations have been offered; on learning that they are the
result of Clytemnestra's dreaming that she suckled a serpent that stung
her, and that she hopes to appease the angry dead, he interprets the
dream of himself. He then unfolds his plot. He and Pylades will imitate
a Phocian dialect and will seek out and slay Aegisthus. An ode
which succeeds recounts the legends of evil women, closing with the
declaration that Justice is firmly seated in the world, that Fate
prepares a sword for a murderer and a Fury punishes him with it.
Approaching the palace Orestes summons the Queen and tells her that a
stranger called Strophius bade him bring to Argos the news that Orestes
is dead. Clytemnestra commands her servants within the house to welcome
him and sends out her son's old nurse Cilissa to take the news to
Aegisthus. The nurse stops to speak to the Chorus in the very language
of grief for the boy she had reared, like Constance in _King John_. The
Chorus advise her to summon Aegisthus alone without his bodyguard, for
Orestes is not yet dead; when she departs they pray that the end may
be speedily accomplished and the royal house cleansed of its curse.
Aegisthus crosses the stage into the palace to meet a hasty end; seeing
the deed, a servant rushes out to call Clytemnestra, while Orestes
bursts out from the house and faces his mother. For a moment his
resolution wavers; Pylades reminds him of Apollo's anger if he fails. To
his mother's plea that Destiny abetted her deed he replies that Destiny
intends her death likewise; before he thrusts her into the palace she
warns him of the avenging Furies she will send to persecute him. She
then passes to her doom.
After the Chorus have sung an ode of triumph Orestes shows the bodies of
the two who loved in sin while alive and were not separated in death. He
then displays the net which Clytemnestra threw around her husband's
body and the robe in which she caught his feet; he holds up the garment
through which Aegisthus' dagger ran. But in that very moment the cloud
of more agonies to come descends upon the hapless family. In obedience
to Apollo's command he takes the suppliant's branch and chaplet, and
prepares to hasten to Delphi, a wanderer cut off from his native land.
The dreadful shapes of the avenging Furies close in upon him: the
fancies of incipient madness thicken on his mind: he is hounded out,
his only hope of rest being Apollo's sacred shrine. The play ends with a
note of hopelessness, of calamity without end.
After the _Agamemnon_ this play reads weak indeed. Yet it displays
two marked characteristics. It is full of vigorous action; the plot is
quickly conceived and quickly consummated; the business is soon over.
Further, Aeschylus has discovered yet another source of tragic power,
the conflict of duties. Orestes has to choose between obedience to
Apollo and reverence for his mother. That these duties are incompatible
is clear; whichever he performed, punishment was bound to follow. It
is in this enforced choice between two evils that the pathos of life is
often to be found; that Aeschylus should have so faithfully depicted it
is a great contribution to the growth of drama.
The concluding play, the _Eumenides_, calls for a briefer description.
It opens with one of the most awe-inspiring scenes which the imagination
of man has conceived. The priestess of Delphi finds a man sitting as
a suppliant at the central point of the earth, his hands dripping with
blood, a sword and an olive branch in his hand. Round him is slumbering
a troop of dreadful forms, beings from darkness, the avengers. When the
scene is disclosed, Apollo himself is seen standing at Orestes' side. He
urges Hermes to convey the youth with all speed to Athens where he is to
clasp the ancient image of Athena. Immediately the ghost of Clytemnestra
arises; waking the sleeping forms, she bids them fly after their victim.
They arise and confront Apollo, a younger deity, whom they reproach for
protecting one who should be abandoned to them. Apollo replies with a
charge that they are prejudiced in favour of Clytemnestra, whom, though
a murderess, they had never tormented.
The scene rapidly changes to Athens, where Orestes calls upon Athena;
confident in the privilege of their ancient office the Chorus awaits the
issue. The goddess appears and consents to try the case, the Council
of the Areopagus acting as a jury. Apollo first defends his action
in saving Orestes, asserting that he obeys the will of Zeus. The main
question is, which of the two parents is more to be had in honour?
Athena herself had no mother; the female is merely the nurse of the
child, the father being the true generative source. The Chorus points
out that the sin of slaying a husband is not the same as that of
murdering a mother, for the one implies kinship, while the other does
not. Athena advises the Court to judge without fear or favour. When the
votes are counted, it is found that they are exactly even. The goddess
casts her vote for Orestes, who is thus saved and restored.
The Chorus threaten that ruin and sterility shall visit Athena's city;
they are elder gods, daughters of night, and are overridden by younger
deities. But Athena by the power of her persuasion offers them a full
share in all the honours and wealth of Attica if they will consent
to take up their abode in it. They shall be revered by countless
generations and will gain new dignities such as they could not have
otherwise obtained. Little by little their resentment is overcome; they
are conducted to their new home to change their name and become the
kindly goddesses of the land.
The boldness of Aeschylus is most evident in this play. Not content with
raising a ghost as he had done in the _Persae_, he actually shows upon
a public stage the two gods whom the Athenians regarded as the special
objects of their worship. More than this, he has brought to the light
the dark powers of the underworld in all their terrors; it is said that
at the sight of them some of the women in the audience were taken with
the pangs of premature birth. The introduction of these supernatural
figures was the most vivid means at Aeschylus' disposal for bringing
home to the minds of his contemporaries the seriousness of the dramatic
issue. It will be remembered that the _Prometheus_ was the last echo of
the contest between two races of gods. The same strain of thought has
made the poet represent the struggle in the mind of Orestes as a trial
between the primeval gods and the newer stock; the result was the
same, the older and perhaps more terrifying deities are beaten, being
compelled to change their names and their character to suit the gentler
spirit which a religion takes to itself as it develops. At any rate,
such is Aeschylus' solution of the eternal question, "What atonement can
be made for bloodshed and how can it be secured?" The problem is of the
greatest interest; it may be that there is no real answer for it, but it
is at least worth while to examine the attempts which have been made to
solve it.
Before we begin to attempt an estimate of Aeschylus it is well to face
the reasons which make Greek drama seem a thing foreign to us. We are at
times aware that it is great, but we cannot help asking, "Is it
real?" Modern it certainly is not. In the first place, the Chorus was
all-important to the Greeks, but is non-existent with us. To them drama
was something more than action, it was music and dancing as well. Yet
as time went on, the Greeks themselves found the Chorus more and more
difficult to manage and it was discarded as a feature of the main plot.
Only in a very few instances could a play be constructed in such
a manner as to allow the Chorus any real influence on the story.
Aeschylus' skill in this branch of his art is really extraordinary; the
Chorus does take a part, and a vital part too, in the play. Again,
the number of Greek actors was limited, whereas in a modern play
their number is just as great as suits playwright's convenience or his
capacity. The impression then of a Greek play is that it is a somewhat
thin performance compared with the vivacity and complexity of the great
Elizabethans. The plot, where it exists, seems very narrow in Attic
drama; it could hardly be otherwise in a society which was content with
a repeated discussion of a rather close cycle of heroic legends.
Yet here, too, we might note how Aeschylus trod out of the narrow
circumscribed round, notably in the _Prometheus_ and the _Persoe_.
Lastly, the Greek play is short when compared with a full-bodied
five-act tragedy. It must be remembered, however, that very often
these plays are only a third part of the real subject dealt with by the
playwright.
All Greek tragedy is liable to these criticisms; it is not fair to judge
a process just beginning by the standards of an art which thinks itself
full-blown after many centuries of history. Considering the meagre
resources available for Aeschylus--the masks used by Greek actors made
it impossible for any of them to win a reputation or to add to the fame
of a play--we ought to admire the marvellous success he achieved. His
defects are clear enough; his teaching is a little archaic, his
plots are sometimes weak or not fully worked out, his tendency is to
description instead of vigorous action, he has a superabundance of
choric matter. Sometimes it is said that the doctrine of an inherited
curse on which much of his work is written is false; let it be
remembered that week by week a commandment is read in our churches which
speaks of visiting the sins of the fathers upon the third and fourth
generation of them that hate God; all that is needed to make Aeschylus'
doctrine "real" in the sense of "modern" is to substitute the
nineteenth-century equivalent Heredity. That he has touched on a genuine
source of drama will be evident to readers of Ibsen's _Ghosts_. More
serious is the objection that his work is not dramatic at all; the
actors are not really human beings acting as such, for their wills and
their deeds are under the control of Destiny. What then shall we say of
this from Hamlet:--
"There's a divinity that shapes our ends,
Rough-hew them as we will?"
In this matter we are on the threshold of one of our insoluble
problems--the freedom of the will. An answer to this real fault in
Aeschylus will be found in the subsequent history of the Attic drama
attempted in the next two chapters. Suffice it to say that, whether
the will is free or not, we act as if it were, and that is enough to
represent (as Aeschylus has done) human beings acting on a stage as we
ourselves would do in similar circumstances, for the discussions about
Destiny are very often to be found in the mouths not of the characters,
but of the Chorus, who are onlookers.
The positive excellences of Aeschylus are numerous enough to make us
thankful that he has survived. His style is that of the great sublime
creators in art, Dante, Michaelangelo, Marlowe; it has many a "mighty
line". His subjects are the Earth, the Heavens, the things under the
Earth; more, he reveals a period of unsuspected antiquity, the present
order of gods being young and somewhat inexperienced. He carries us back
to Creation and shows us the primeval deities, Earth, Night, Necessity,
Fate, powers simply beyond the knowledge of ordinary thoughtless men.
His characters are cast in a mighty mould; he taps the deepest
tragic springs; he teaches that all is not well when we prosper. The
thoughtless, light-hearted, somewhat shallow mind which thinks it can
speak, think, and act without having to render an account needs the
somewhat stern tonic of these seven dramas; it may be chastened into
some sobriety and learn to be a little less flippant and irreverent.
Aeschylus' influence is rather of the unseen kind. His genius is of
a lofty type which is not often imitated. Demanding righteousness,
justice, piety, and humility, he belongs to the class of Hebrew prophets
who saw God and did not die.
TRANSLATIONS:--
Miss Swanwick; E. D. A. Morshead; Campbell (all in verse). Paley
(prose).
Versions also appear in Verrall's editions of separate plays
(Macmillan).
An admirable volume called _Greek Tragedy_ by G. Norwood (Methuen)
contains a summary of the latest views on the art of the Athenian
dramatists.
See Symonds' _Greek Poets_ as above.
SOPHOCLES
In Aeschylus' dramas the will of the gods tended to override human
responsibility. An improvement could be effected by making the
personages real captains of their souls; drama needed bringing down from
heaven to earth. This process was effected by Sophocles. He was born at
Colonus, near Athens, in 495, mixed with the best society in Periclean
times, was a member of the important board of administrators who
controlled the Delian League, the nucleus of the Athenian Empire, and
composed over one hundred tragedies. In 468 he defeated Aeschylus,
won the first prize twenty-two times and later had to face the more
formidable opposition of the new and restless spirit whose chief
spokesman was Euripides. For nearly forty years he was taken to be the
typical dramatist of Athens, being nicknamed "the Bee"; his dramatic
powers showed no abatement of vigour in old age, of which the _Oedipus
Coloneus_ was the triumphant issue. He died in 405, full of years and
honours.
Providence has ordained it that his art, like his country's tutelary
goddess Athena, should step perfect and fully armed from the brain
of its creator. The _Antigone_, produced in 440, discusses one of the
deepest problems of civilised life. On the morning after the defeat
of the Seven who assaulted Thebes Polyneices' body lay dishonoured and
unburied, a prey to carrion birds before the gates of the city which had
been his home. His two sisters, Antigone and Ismene, discuss the edict
which forbids his burial. Ismene, the more timid of the two, intends to
obey it, but Antigone's stronger character rises in rebellion.
Loss of burial was the most awful fate which could overtake a
Greek--before he died Sophocles was to see his country condemn ten
generals to death for neglect of burial rites, though they had been
brilliantly successful in a naval engagement. Rather than obey Antigone
would die.
"Bury him I will; I will lie in death with the brother I love,
sinning in a righteous cause. Far longer is the time in which I
must please the dead than men on earth, for among the former I
shall dwell for ever. Do thou, if it please thee, hold in dishonour
what is honoured by Heaven."
Here is the source of the tragedy, the will of the individual in
conflict with established authority.
A chorus of Theban elders enters, singing an ode of deliverance and
joy; they have been summoned by Creon, the new King, uncle of Oedipus'
children. Full of the sense of his own importance Creon states the
official view. Polyneices is to remain unburied.
"Any man who considers private friendship to be more important than
the State is a man of naught. In the name of all-seeing Zeus I would
not hold my tongue if I saw ruin coming to the citizens instead of
safety, nor would I make a friend of my country's enemy. Sure am I
that it is the State that saves us; she is the ship that carries us;
we make our friendships without overturning her."
The elders promise obedience, but grave news is reported by a guard who
has been set to watch the corpse. Someone had scattered dust lightly
over the dead and departed without leaving any trace; neither he nor his
companions had done the deed.
When the Chorus suggest that it is the work of some deity, Creon answers
in great impatience:
"Cease, lest thou be proved a fool as well as old. Thy words are
intolerable when thou sayest that the gods can have a care of this
corpse. What, have they buried him in honour for his services to them?
Did he not come to burn their pillared temples and offerings and
precincts and shatter our laws?"
He angrily thrusts the watchman forth, threatening to hang him and his
companions alive unless they find the culprit.
"There are many marvels, but none greater than Man. He crosses the
wintry sea, he wears away the hard earth with his plough, ensnareth
the light-hearted race of birds, catcheth the wild beasts, trappeth
the things of the deep, yoketh the horse and the unwearying ox. He
hath taught himself speech and thought swift as the wind, hath learnt
the moods of a city life and can avoid the shafts of the frost; he
hath a device for every problem save Death--though disease he can
escape. Sometimes he moveth to ill, again to good; his cities rear
their heads when they reverence the laws and the gods; he wrecketh
his city when he boldly forsakes the good. May an evil-doer never
share my hearth or heart."
Such is the ordinary man's view of the action of Polyneices, for in
Sophocles the Chorus certainly represents average public opinion. It
is quickly challenged by the entry of Antigone with the Watchman, whose
story Creon hastens out to hear. With no little self-satisfaction the
Watchman tells how they caught the girl in the very act of replacing
the dust they had removed and pouring libations over the dead. Antigone
admits the deed. When asked how she dare defy the official ordinance,
she replies--
"It came neither from Zeus nor from Justice, nor did I deem that thy
decrees had such power that a mortal could override the unwritten
and unshaken laws of Heaven. These have not their life from now or
yesterday, but from everlasting, and no man knows whence they have
appeared. It was not likely that, through fear of any man's will,
I would pay Heaven's penalty for their infringement. Die I must, even
hadst thou made no proclamation; if I die before my time, I count
it all gain. If my act seem folly to thee, maybe it is a foolish
judge who counts me mad."
Creon replies that this is sheer insolence; it is an insult that he, a
man, should give way to a woman. He threatens to destroy both girls, but
Antigone is sure that public opinion is with her, though for the moment
it is muzzled through fear. Ismene is brought in and offers to die with
her sister; Antigone refuses her offer, insisting that she alone has
deserved chastisement.
In a second ode the gradual extinction of Oedipus' race is described,
owing to foolish word and insensate thought, for "when Heaven leads a
man to ruin it makes him believe that evil is good". A new interest is
added by Creon's son Haemon, the affianced lover of Antigone, who comes
to interview his father. This is the first instance in European drama of
that without which much modern literature would have little reason for
existing at all--the love element, wisely kept in check by the Greeks. A
further conflict of wills adds to the dramatic effect of the play; Creon
insists on filial obedience, for he cannot claim to rule a city if
he fails to control his own family. Haemon answers with courtesy and
deference; he points out that the force of public opinion is behind
Antigone and suggests that the official view may perhaps be wrong
because it is the expression of an individual's judgment. When he is
himself charged thus directly with the very fault for which he claimed
to punish Antigone, Creon lets his temper get the mastery; after a
violent quarrel Haemon parts from him with a dark threat that the girl's
death will remove more than one person, and vows never to cross his
father's doorstep again.
Antigone is soon carried away to her doom; she is to be shut up in a
cavern without food. In a dialogue of great beauty she confesses her
human weakness--death is near, and with it banishment from the joys of
life. Creon bids her make an end; her last speech concludes with a clear
statement of the problem. Who knows if she is right? She herself will
know after death. If she has erred, she will confess it; if the King is
wrong, she prays he may not suffer greater woes than her own.
A reaction now occurs. Teiresias, the blind seer, seeks out Creon
because of the failure of his sacrificial rites; the birds of the air
are gorged with human blood, and fail to give the signs of augury. He
bids Creon return to his right senses and quit his stubbornness. When
the latter mockingly accuses the seer of being bribed, he learns the
dread punishment his obstinacy has brought him.
"Know that thou shalt not see out many hurrying rounds of the sun
before thou shalt give one sprung from thine own loins in exchange
for the dead, one in return for two, for thou hast thrust below
one of the children of the light, penning up her spirit in a tomb
with dishonour, and thou keepest above ground a body that belongs
to the gods below, without its share of funerals, unrighteously;
wherefore the late-punishing ruinous gods of death and the
Furies lie in wait for thee, to catch thee in like agonies."
Cowed by the terror, the King hurries to undo his work, calling for
pickaxes to open the tomb and himself going with all speed to set free
its victim.
The sequel is told by a messenger who at the outset strikes a note of
woe.
"Creon I once envied, for he was the saviour of his land, and was
the father of noble children. Now all is lost. When men lose
pleasure, I deem that they are not alive but moving corpses. Heap
up wealth and live in kingly state, but if there is no pleasure
withal, I would not pay the worth of a shadow for all the rest.
Haemon is dead."
Hearing the news, Eurydice the Queen comes out, and bids him tell his
story in full. Creon found Haemon clasping the body of Antigone who had
hung herself. Seeing his father, he made a murderous attack on him;
when it failed, he drew his sword and fell on it--thus in death the
two lovers were not separated. In an ominous silence the Queen departs.
Creon enters with his son's body, to be utterly shattered by a second
and an unexpected blow, for his wife has slain herself. Broken and
helpless he admits his fault, while the Chorus sing in conclusion:--
"By far the greatest part of happiness is wisdom; men should
reverence the gods; mighty plagues repay the mighty words of the
over-proud, teaching wisdom to the aged."
To Aeschylus the power that largely controlled men's acts was Destiny. A
notable contrast is visible in the system of Sophocles. Destiny does not
disappear, rather it retires into the background of his thought. To
him the leading cause of ruin is evil counsel. Over and over again
this teaching is driven home. All the leading characters mention
it, Antigone, Haemon, Teiresias, and when it is disregarded, it is
remorselessly brought home by disaster. The dramatic gain is enormous;
man's sorrows are ascribed primarily to his own lack of judgment, the
tragic character takes on a more human shape, for he is more nearly
related to the ordinary persons we meet in our own experience. Another
great advance is visible in the construction of the plot. It is more
varied, more flexible; it never ceases developing, the action continuing
to the end instead of stopping short at a climax. Further, the Chorus
begins to fall into a more humble position, it exercises but little
influence on the great figures of the plot, being content to mirror the
opinions of the interested outside spectator. Truly drama is beginning
to be master of itself--"the play's the thing".
But far more important is the subject of this play. It raises one of the
most difficult problems which demand a solution, the harmonisation
of private judgment with state authority. The individual in a growing
civilisation sooner or later asks how far he ought to obey, who is the
lord over his convictions, whether disobedience is ever justifiable. If
a law is wrong how are we to make its immorality evident? In an age when
a central authority is questioned or loses its hold on men's allegiance,
this problem will imperiously demand an answer. When Europe was aroused
from the slumber of the Middle Ages and the spiritual authority
which had governed it for centuries was shattered, the same right of
resistance as that which Antigone claimed was insisted upon by various
reformers. It did not fail to bring with it tragic consequences, for the
"power beareth not the sword in vain". Its sequel was the Thirty Years'
War which barbarised central Germany, leaving in many places a race of
savage beings who had once been human. In our own days resistance
is preached almost as a sacred duty. We have passive resisters,
conscientious objectors, strikers and a host of young and imperfectly
educated persons, some armed with the very serious power of voting, who
claim to set their wills in flat opposition to recognised authority. One
or two contributions to the solution of this problem may be found in
the _Antigone_. The central authority must be prepared to prove that its
edicts are not below the moral standard of the age; on the other hand,
non-compliance must be backed by the force of public opinion; it must
show that the action it takes will ultimately bring good to the whole
community. It is of little use to appeal to the so-called conscience
unless we can produce some credentials of the proper training and
enlightenment of that rather vague and uncertain faculty, whose normal
province is to condemn wrong acts, not to justify law-breaking. Most
resisters talk the very language of Antigone, appealing to the will of
Heaven; would that they could prove as satisfactorily as she did that
the power behind them is that which governs the world in righteousness.
A somewhat similar problem reappears in the _Ajax_. This play opens at
early dawn with a dialogue between Athena, who is unseen, and Odysseus;
the latter has traced Ajax to his tent after a night of madness in which
he has slain much cattle and many shepherds, imagining them to be his
foes, especially Odysseus himself who had worsted him in the contest for
the arms of Achilles. Athena calls out the beaten hero for a moment and
the sight of him moves Odysseus to say:--
"I pity him, though my foe; for I think of mine own self as much as
of him. We men are but shadows, all of us, or fleeting shades."
To this Athena replies:--
"When thou seest such sights, utter no haughty word against the gods
and be not roused to pride, if thou art mightier than another in
strength or store of wealth. One day can bring down or exalt all
human state, but the gods love the prudent and hate the sinners."
A band of mariners from Salamis enter as the chorus; they are Ajax'
followers who have come to learn the truth. They are confronted by
Tecmessa, Ajax' captive, who confirms the grievous rumour, describing
his mad acts. When the fit was over, she had left him in his tent
prostrate with grief and shame among the beasts he had slain, longing
for vengeance on his enemies before he died.
The business of the play now begins. Coming forth, Ajax in a long
despairing speech laments his lot--persecuted by Athena, hated of Greeks
and Trojans alike, the secret laughter of his enemies.
Where shall he go? Home to the father he has disgraced? Against Troy,
leading a forlorn hope? He had already reminded Tecmessa with some
sternness that silence is a woman's best grace; now she appeals to his
pity. Bereft of him, she would speedily be enslaved and mocked; their
son would be left defenceless; the many kindnesses she had done him cry
for some return from a man of chivalrous nature, Ajax bade her be of
good cheer; she must obey him in all things and first must bring his son
Eurysaces. Taking him in his arms, he says:--
"If he is my true son, he will not quail at the sight of blood.
But he must speedily be broken into his father's warrior habit
and imitate his ways. My son, I pray thou mayest be happier than
thy sire, but like him otherwise, then thou shalt be no churl.
Yet herein I envy thee that thou canst not feel my agonies. Life
is sweetest in its careless years before it learns joy and pain;
but when thou art come to that, show thy father's enemies thy
nature and birth. Till then feed on the spirit of gladness,
gambol in the life of boyhood and gladden thy mother's heart."
He reflects that his son will be safe as long as Teucer lives, whom he
charges on his return to take the boy to his own father and mother to be
their joy. His arms shall not be a prize to be striven for; they should
be buried with him except his shield, which his son should take and
keep. This ominous speech dashes the hopes which he had raised in
Tecmessa's heart, even the Chorus sadly admitting that death is the best
for a brainsick man, born of the highest blood, no longer true to his
character.
Ajax re-enters, a sword in his hands. He feels his heart touched by
Tecmessa's words and pities her helplessness. He resolves to go to the
shore and there bury the accursed sword he had of Hector, which had
robbed him of his peace. He will soon learn obedience to the gods and
his leaders; all the powers of Nature are subject to authority, the
seasons, the sea, night and sleep. He has but now learned that an enemy
is to be hated as one who will love us later, while friendship will not
always abide. Yet all will be well; he will go the journey he cannot
avoid; soon all will hear that his evil destiny has brought him
salvation. This splendid piece of tragic irony is interpreted at its
surface value by the Chorus, who burst into a song of jubilation. But
the words have a darker meaning; this transient joy is but the last
flicker of hope before it is quenched in everlasting night.
A messenger brings the news that Teucer, Ajax' brother, on his return
to the camp from a raid was nearly stoned to death as the kinsman of the
army's foe. He inquires where Ajax is; hearing that he had gone out to
make atonement, he knows the terror that is to come. Chalcas the seer
adjured Teucer to use all means in his power to keep Ajax in his tent
that day, for in it alone Athena's wrath would persecute him. She had
punished him with madness for two proud utterances. On leaving his
father he had boasted he would win glory in spite of Heaven, and later
had bidden Athena assist the other Greeks, for the line would never
break where he stood. Such was his pride, and such its punishment.
Tecmessa hurries in and sends some to fetch Teucer, others to go east
and west to seek out her lord. The scene rapidly changes to the shore,
where Ajax cries to the gods, imprecates his foes, prays to Death, and
after a remembrance of his native land falls on his sword.
The Chorus enter in two bands, but find nothing. Tecmessa discovers the
body in a brake, and hides it under her robe. Distracted and haunted by
the dread of slavery and ridicule, she gives way to grief. Teucer enters
to learn of the tragedy; after dispatching Tecmessa to save the child
while there is yet time, he reflects on his own state. Telamon his
father will cast him off for being absent in his brother's hour of
weakness whom he loved as his own life. Sadly he bears out the truth of
Ajax utterance, that a foe's gifts are fraught with ruin; the belt that
Ajax gave Hector served to tie his feet to Achilles' car--and Hector's
sword was in his brother's heart.
The plot now appeals to fiercer passions. Menelaus entering commands
Teucer to leave the corpse where it is, for an enemy shall receive no
burial. He strikes the same note as Creon:--
"It is the mark of an ill-conditioned man that he, a commoner,
should see fit to disobey the powers that be. Law cannot prosper
in a city where there is no settled fear; where a man trembles and
is loyal, there is salvation; when he is insolent and does as he
will, his city soon or late will sink to ruin."
Teucer answers that Ajax never was a subject, but was always an equal.
He fought, not for Helen, but for his oath's sake. The dispute waxes
hot; the calm dignity of Teucer easily discomfits the Spartan braggart,
who departs to bring aid. Meanwhile Tecmessa returns with the child whom
Teucer in a scene of consummate pathos bids kneel at his father's side,
holding in his hand a triple lock of hair--Teucer's, his mother's, his
own; this sacred symbol, if violated, would bring a curse on any who
dared outrage him. While the Chorus sing a song full of longings for
home, Agamemnon advances to the place, followed by Teucer. The King is
deliberately insolent, reviling Teucer for the stain on his birth. In
reply the latter in a great speech reminds him that there was a time
when the flames licked the Greek ships and there was none to save them
but Ajax, who had faced Hector single-handed. With kindling passion he
hurls the taunt of a stained birth back on Agamemnon and plainly tells
him that Ajax shall be buried and that the King will rue any attempt at
violence. Odysseus comes in to hear the quarrel. He admits that he
had once been the foe of the dead man, who yet had no equal in bravery
except Achilles. For all that, enmity in men should end where death
begins. Astonished at this defence of a foe, Agamemnon argues a little
with Odysseus, who gently reminds him that one day he too will need
burial. This human appeal obtains the necessary permission; Odysseus,
left alone with Teucer, offers him friendship. Too much overcome by
surprise and joy to say many words, Teucer accepts his friendship and
the play ends with a ray of sunlight after storm and gloom.
Once more Sophocles has filled every inch of his canvas. The plot never
flags and has no diminuendo after the death of Ajax. The cause of the
tragedy is not plainly indicated at the outset; with a skill which is
masterly, Sophocles represents in the opening scene Athena and Odysseus
as beings purely odious, mocking a great man's fall. With the progress
of the action these two characters recover their dignity; Athena has
just cause for her anger, while Odysseus obtains for the dead his right
of burial. We should notice further how the pathos of this fine play is
heightened by the conception of the "one day" which brought ruin to a
noble warrior. Had he been kept within his tent that one day--had this
fatal day been known, the ruin need not have happened. "The pity of it",
the needless waste of human life, what a theme is there for a tragedy!
The _Ajax_ has never exercised an acknowledged influence on literature.
It was a favourite with the Greeks, but modern writers have strangely
overlooked it. For us it has a good lesson. Here was a hero, born in an
island, who unaided saved a fleet when his allies were forced back
on their trenches and beyond them to the sea. His reward was such as
Wordsworth tells of:--
Alas! the gratitude of men
Has oftener left me mourning.
We remember many a long month of agony during which another island kept
destruction from a fleet and saved her allies withal. In some quarters
this island has received the gratitude which Ajax had; her friends
asked, "What has England done in the war, anyhow?" If it befits anybody
to answer, it must be England's Teucer, who has built another Salamis
overseas, just as he did. Our kindred across the oceans will give us the
reward of praise; for us the chastisement of Ajax may serve to reinforce
the warning which is to be found on the lips of not the least of our own
poets:--
"For frantic boast and foolish word
Thy mercy on Thy people, Lord."
The _Electra_ is Sophocles' version of the revenge of Orestes which
Aeschylus described in the _Choephori_ and is useful as affording a
comparison between the methods of the two masters. An aged tutor at
early dawn enters the scene with Orestes to whom he shows his father's
palace and then departs with him to offer libations at the dead king's
tomb. Electra with a Chorus of Argive girls comes forward, the former
describing the insolent conduct of Clytemnestra who holds high revelry
on the anniversary of her husband's death and curses Electra for saving
Orestes. Chrysothemis, another daughter, comes out to talk with Electra;
she is of a different mould, gentle and timid like Ismene, and warns
Electra that in consequence of her obstinacy in revering her father's
memory Aegisthus intends to shut her up in a rocky cavern as soon as he
returns. She advises her to use good counsel, then departs to pour on
Agamemnon's tomb some libations which Clytemnestra offers in consequence
of a dream.
The Queen finds Electra ranging abroad as usual in the absence of
Aegisthus. She defends the murder of her husband, but is easily refuted
by Electra who points out that, if it is right to exact a life for a
life, she ought to suffer death herself. Clytemnestra prays to Apollo
to avert the omen of her dream, her prayer seemingly being answered
immediately by the entry of the old tutor who comes to inform her of
the death of Orestes, killed at Delphi in a chariot race which he
brilliantly describes. Torn by her emotions, Clytemnestra can be neither
glad nor sorry.
"Shall I call this happy news, or dreadful but profitable? Hapless
am I, if I save my life at the cost of my own miseries. Strong is
the tie of motherhood; no parent hates a child even if outraged by
him. Yet, now that he is gone, I shall have rest and peace from his
threats."
Hearing so circumstantial a proof of her brother's death, Electra is
plunged into the depths of misery.
But soon Chrysothemis returns in a state of high excitement. She has
found a lock of Orestes' hair and some offerings at the tomb. Electra
quickly informs her that her elation is groundless, for their brother
is dead; she suggests that they two should strike the murderers, but
Chrysothemis recoils in horror from the plot. Then Orestes enters with
a casket in his hand; this he gives to Electra, saying it contains the
mortal remains of the dead prince. In utter hopelessness Electra takes
it and soliloquises over it. Seeing her misery, Orestes cannot refrain;
gently taking the casket from her he gradually reveals himself. The
tutor enters and recalls him to their immediate business. Electra asks
who the stranger is and learns that it is the very man to whom she
gave the infant boy her brother. The three advance to the palace which
Orestes enters to dispatch his mother, Electra bidding him smite with
double force, wishing only that Aegisthus were with her mother.
The end of Aegisthus himself is contrived with Sophoclean art. He comes
in hurriedly to find the two strangers who have proof of Orestes' death.
Electra tells him they are in the palace; they have not only told her of
the dead Orestes, but have shown him to her; Aegisthus himself can see
the unenviable sight; he can rejoice at it, if there is any joy in it.
Exulting, he sings a note of triumph at the removal of his fears and
threatens to chastise all who try henceforth to thwart his will. He
dashes open the door, and there sees the Queen lying dead. Orestes bids
him enter the palace, to be slain on the very spot where his father was
murdered.
Fortune has been kind in preserving us this play. The great difference
between the art of Sophocles and that of Aeschylus is here apparent.
Only one man has ventured to paint for us Aeschylus' Clytemnestra;
Leighton has revealed her, stern as Nature herself, remorseless, armed
with a sword to smite first, then argue if she can find time to do so.
Sophocles' Clytemnestra is a woman, lost as soon as she begins to reason
out her misdeeds. She prays to Apollo in secret, for fear lest Electra
may overhear her prayer and make it void. But the crudity of Aeschylus'
resources did not satisfy Sophocles, whose taste demanded a contrast to
heighten the character of his heroine and found one in the Homeric story
that Agamemnon had a second daughter. Aeschylus' stern nature did not
shrink from the sight of a meeting between mother and son; Sophocles
closed the doors upon the act of vengeance, though he represents Electra
as encouraging her brother from outside the palace. The Aegisthus
incident maintains the interest to the end in the masterly Sophoclean
style of refined and searching irony. The tone of the play is singular;
from misery it at first sinks to hopelessness, then to despair, and
finally it soars to triumphant joy. Such a dangerous venture was
unattempted before.
The most lovable woman in Greek literature is the heroine of the next
play, the _Trachiniae_, produced at an uncertain date. Deianeira had
been won and wed by Heracles; after a brief spell of happiness she found
herself left more and more alone as her husband's labours called him
away from her. For fifteen months she had heard no news of him. Her
nurse suggests that she should send her eldest son to Euboea to seek him
out, a rumour being abroad that he has reached that island. The mother
in her loneliness is comforted by a band of girls of Trachis, the
scene of the action. But her uneasiness is too great to be cheered; she
describes the strange curse of womanhood:--
"When it is young it groweth in a clime of its own, plagued by no
heat of the sun nor rain nor wind; in careless gaiety it builds up
its days till it is no longer maid, but wife; then in the night it
hath its meed of cares, terrified for lord or children. Only such a
one can know from the sight of her own sorrows what is my burden
of grief."
But there is a deeper cause for anxiety; Heracles had said that if he
did not return in fifteen months he would either die or be rid for ever
of his labours; that very hour had come.
News reached her that Heracles is alive and triumphant; Lichas was
coming to give fuller details. Very soon he enters with a band of
captive maidens, telling how his master had been kept in slavery in
Lydia; shaking off the yoke, he had sacked and destroyed the city of
Eurytus who had caused his captivity, the girls were Heracles' offering
of the spoils to Deianeira. Filled with pity at their lot, she looked
closely at them and was attracted by one of them, a silent girl of noble
countenance. Lichas when questioned denied all knowledge of her identity
and departed. When he had gone, the messenger desired private speech
with Deianeira. Lichas had lied; the girl was Iole, daughter of Eurytus;
it was for her sake that his master destroyed the city, for he loved
the maid and intended to keep her in his home to be a rival to his wife.
Lichas on coming out was confronted by the messenger, and attempted to
dissemble, but Deianeira appealed to him thus:--
"Nay, deceive me not. Thou shalt not speak to a woman of evil heart,
who knoweth not the ways of men, how that they by a law of their
own being delight not always in the same thing. 'Tis a fool who
standeth up to battle against Love who ruleth even gods as he will,
and me too; then why not another such as I? Therefore if I revile
my lord when taken with this plague, I am crazed indeed--or this
woman is, who hath brought me no shame or sorrow. If my lord
teacheth thee to lie, thy lesson is no good one; if thou art
schooling thyself to falsehood in a desire to be kind to me, thou
shalt prove unkind. Speak all the truth; it is an ignoble lot for a
man of honour to be called false."
Completely won by this appeal, Lichas confesses the truth.
During the singing of a choral ode Deianeira has had time to reflect.
The reward of her loyalty is to take a second place. The girl is young
and her beauty is fast ripening; she herself is losing her charm. But no
prudent woman should fly into a passion; happily she has a remedy,
for in the first days of her wedded life Heracles had shot Nessus, a
half-human monster, for insulting her. Before he died Nessus bade her
steep her robe in his blood and treasure it as a certain charm for
recovering his waning affection. Summoning Lichas, she gives him strict
orders to take the robe to Heracles who was to allow no light of the sun
or fire to fall upon it before wearing it. After a short interval, she
returns in the greatest agitation; a little tuft of wool which she had
anointed with the monster's blood had caught the sunlight and shrivelled
up to dust. If the robe proved a means of death, she determined to slay
herself rather than live in disgrace. At that moment Hyllus bursts in to
describe the horrible tortures which seized Heracles when he put on the
poisoned mantle; the hero commanded his son to ferry him across from
Euboea to witness the curse which his mother's evil deed would bring
with it. Hearing these tidings Deianeira leaves the scene without
uttering a word.
The old nurse quickly rushes in from the palace to tell how Deianeira
had killed herself--while Hyllus was kissing her dead mother's lips
in vain self-reproach, bereft of both his parents. Heracles himself
is borne in on a litter, tormented with the slow consuming poison. In
agony, he prays for death; when he learns of the decease of his wife and
her beguilement by Nessus into an unintentional crime, his resentment
softens. In a flash of inspiration the double meaning of the oracle
comes over him, his labour is indeed over. Commanding Hyllus to wed Iole
he passes on his last journey to the lonely top of Oeta, to be consumed
on the funeral pyre.
The Sophoclean marks are clear enough in this play--the tragic moment,
the life and movement, the splendid pathos, breadth of outlook and
fascination of language. Yet there is a serious fault as well, for
Sophocles, like the youngest of dramatists, can strangely enough make
mistakes. The entry of Heracles practically makes the play double,
marring its continuity. The necessary and remorseless sequence of events
which is looked for in dramatic writing is absent. This tendency to
disrupt a whole into parts brilliant but unrelated is a feature of
Euripides' work; it may perhaps find a readier pardon exactly because
Sophocles himself is not able to avoid it always. But the greatest
triumph is the character of Deianeira. It is such as one would rarely
find in warm-blooded Southern peoples. She dreads that loss of her power
over her husband which her waning beauty brings; she is grossly insulted
in being forced to countenance a rival living in the same house after
she has given her husband the best years of her life; yet she hopes on,
and perhaps she would have won him back by her very gentleness. This
creation of a type of almost perfect human nature is the justification
of a poet's existence; it was a saying of Sophocles that he painted men
as they ought to be, Euripides painted them as they are.
The rivalry of the younger poet produced its effect on another play with
which Sophocles gained the first prize in 409. _Philoctetes_, the hero
after whom it is named, had lit the funeral pyre of Heracles on Oeta and
had received from him his unconquerable bow and arrows. When he went
to Troy he was bitten in the foot by a serpent in Tenedos. As the wound
festered and made him loathsome to the army he was left in Lemnos in the
first year of the war. An oracle declared that Troy could not be taken
without him and his arrows; at the end of the siege, as Achilles and
Ajax were dead, Philoctetes, outraged and abandoned, became necessary to
the Greeks. How could they win him over to rejoin them?
Odysseus his bitterest foe takes with him Neoptolemus, the young son
of Achilles. Landing at Lemnos, they find the cave in which Philoctetes
lives, see his rude bed, rough-hewn cup and rags of clothing, and lay
their plot. Neoptolemus is to say that he is Achilles' son, homeward
bound in anger with the Greeks for the loss of his father's arms. As he
was not one of the original confederacy, Philoctetes will trust him. He
is then to obtain the bow and arrows by treachery, for violence will be
useless. The young man's soul rises against the idea of foul play
but Odysseus bids him surrender to shamelessness for one day, to reap
eternal glory. Left alone with the Chorus, composed of sailors from
his ship, Neoptolemus pities the hero's deserted existence, wretched,
famished and half-brutalised. He comes along towards them, creeping
and crying in agony. Seeing them he inquires who they are; Neoptolemus
answers as he had been bidden and wins the heart of Philoctetes who
describes the misery of his life, his desertion and the unquenchable
malady that feeds on him. In return Neoptolemus tells how he was
beguiled to Troy by the prophecy that he should capture it after his
father's death; arriving there he obtained possession of all Achilles'
property except the arms, which Odysseus had won. He pretends to return
to his ship, but Philoctetes implores him to set him once more in
Greece. The great pathos of his appeal wins the youth's consent; they
prepare to depart when a merchant enters with a sailor; from him they
learn that Odysseus with Diomedes are on the way to bring Philoctetes by
force or persuasion to Troy which cannot fall without his aid. The mere
mention of Odysseus' name fills Philoctetes with anger and he retires to
the cave, taking Neoptolemus with him.
When they reappear, a violent attack of the malady prostrates
Philoctetes who gives his bow to Neoptolemus, praying him to burn him
and put an end to his agony. Noticing a strange silence in the youth,
suspicions seem to be aroused in him, but when he falls into a slumber
the Chorus takes a decided part in the action, advising the youth to fly
with the bow and to talk in a whisper for fear of waking the sleeper.
The latter unexpectedly starts out of slumber, again begging to be taken
on board. Again Neoptolemus' heart smites him at the villainy he is
about to commit; he reveals that his real objective is Troy. Betrayed
and defenceless, Philoctetes appeals to Heaven, to the wild things, to
Neoptolemus' better self to restore the bow which is his one means of
procuring him food. A profound pity overcomes Neoptolemus, who is in
the act of returning the weapon when Odysseus appears. Seeing him
Philoctetes knows he is undone. Odysseus invites him to come to Troy of
his own freewill, but is met with a curse; as he refuses to rejoin the
Greeks, Odysseus and Neoptolemus depart bearing with them the bow for
Teucer to use.
Left without that which brought him his daily food Philoctetes bursts
out into a wild lyric dialogue with the Chorus. They advise him to make
terms with Odysseus, but he bids them begone. When they obey, he recalls
them to ask one little boon, a sword. At this moment Neoptolemus runs
in, Odysseus close behind him. He has come to restore the bow he got
by treachery. A violent quarrel ends in the temporary retirement of
Odysseus. Advancing to Philoctetes, Neoptolemus gives him his property;
Philoctetes takes it and is barely restrained from shooting at Odysseus
who appears for a moment, only to take refuge in flight. Neoptolemus
then tells him the whole truth about the prophecy, promising him great
glory if he will go back to Troy which can fall only through him. In
vain Neoptolemus assures him of a perfect cure; nothing will satisfy the
broken man but a full redemption of the promise he had to be landed once
more in Greece. When Neoptolemus tells him that such action will earn
him the hatred of the Greeks, Philoctetes promises him the succour of
his unerring shafts in a conflict.
The action has thus reached a deadlock. The problem is solved by the
sudden appearance of the deified Heracles. He commands his old friend
to go to Troy which he is to sack, and return home in peace. His lot is
inseparably connected with that of Neoptolemus and a cure is promised
him at the hands of Asclepius. This assurance overcomes his obstinacy;
he leaves Lemnos in obedience to the will of Heaven.
Such is the work of an old dramatist well over eighty years old. It is
exciting, vigorous, pathetic and everywhere dignified. The characters
of the old hero and the young warrior are masterly. The Chorus takes an
integral part in the action--its whisperings to Neoptolemus remind
the reader of the evil suggestions of which Satan breathed into Eve's
equally guileless ears in _Paradise Lost_. But the most remarkable
feature of the piece is its close resemblance to the new type of drama
which Euripides had popularised. The miserable life of Philoctetes,
his rags, destitution and sickness are a parallel to the Euripidean
Telephus; most of all, the appearance of a god at the end to untie
the knot is genuine Euripides. But there is a great difference; of the
disjointed actions which disfigure later tragedy and are not absent from
Sophocles' own earlier work there is not a trace. The odes are relevant,
the Chorus is indispensable; in short, Sophocles has shown Euripides
that he can beat him even on his own terms. Melodramatic the play may
be, but it wins for its author our affection by the sheer beauty of a
boyish nature as noble as Deianeira's; the return of Neoptolemus upon
his own baseness is one of the many compliments Sophocles has paid to
our human kind.
Many years previously Sophocles had written his masterpiece, the
_Oedipus Tyrannus_. It cannot easily be treated separately from its
sequel. A mysterious plague had broken out in Thebes; Creon had been
sent to Delphi by Oedipus to learn the cause of the disaster. Apollo
bade the Thebans cast out the murderer of the last King Laius, who was
still lurking in Theban territory. Oedipus on inquiry learns that there
are several murderers, but only one of Laius' attendants escaped alive.
In discovering the culprit Oedipus promises the sternest vengeance on
his nearest friends, nay, on his own kin, if necessary. After a prayer
from the Chorus of elders he repeats his determination even more
emphatically, invoking a curse on the assassin in language of a terrible
double meaning, for in every word he utters he unconsciously pronounces
his own doom. With commendable foresight he had summoned the old seer
Teiresias, but the seer for some reason is unwilling to appear. When
at last he confronts the King, he craves permission to depart with his
secret unsaid. Oedipus at once flies into a towering passion, finally
accusing him without any justification of accepting bribes from Creon.
With equal heat Teiresias more and more clearly indicates in every
speech the real murderer, though his words are dark to him who could
read the Sphinx's riddle.
The Chorus break out into an ode full of uneasy surmises as to the
identity of the culprit. When Creon enters, Oedipus flies at him in
headlong passion accusing him of bribery, disloyalty and eventually of
murder. With great dignity he clears himself, warning the King of the
pains which hasty temper brings upon itself. Their quarrel brings out
Jocasta, the Queen and sister of Creon, who succeeds in settling the
unseemly strife. She bids Oedipus take no notice of oracles; one such
had declared that Laius would be slain by his own son, who would marry
her, his mother. The oracle was false, for Laius had died at the hands
of robbers in a place where three roads met. Aghast at hearing this,
Oedipus inquires the exact scene of the murder, the time when it was
committed, the actual appearance of Laius. Jocasta supplies the details,
adding that the one survivor had implored her after Oedipus became King
to live as far away as possible from the city. Oedipus commands him to
be sent for and tells his life story. He was the reputed son of Polybus
and Merope, rulers of Corinth. One day at a wine-party a man insinuated
that he was not really the son of the royal pair. Stung by the taunt he
went to Delphi, where he was warned that he should kill his father and
marry his mother. He therefore fled away from Corinth towards Thebes.
On the road he was insulted by an old man in a chariot who thrust him
rudely from his path; in anger he smote the man at the place where
three ways met. If then this man was Laius, he had imprecated a curse
on himself; his one hope is the solitary survivor whom he had sent for;
perhaps more than one man had killed Laius after all.
An ominous ode about destiny and its workings is followed by the entry
of the Queen who describes the mad terrors of Oedipus. She is come
to pray to Apollo to solve their troubles. At that moment a messenger
enters from Corinth with the tidings that Polybus is dead. In eager joy
Jocasta summons Oedipus, sneering at the truth of oracles. The King on
his appearance echoes her words after hearing the tidings-only to sink
back again into gloomy despondency. What of Merope, is she also dead?
The messenger assures him that his anxiety about her is groundless, for
there is no relationship between them. Little by little he tells Oedipus
his true history. The messenger himself found him on Cithaeron in his
infancy, his feet pierced through. He had him from a shepherd, a servant
of Laius, the very man whom Oedipus had summoned. Suddenly turning to
Jocasta, the King asks her if she knows the man. Appalled at the horror
of the truth which she knows cannot be concealed much longer she affects
indifference and beseeches him search no further. When he obstinately
refuses, bidding the man be brought at once, she leaves the stage with
the cry:
"Alack, thou unhappy one; that is all I may call thee and never
address thee again."
Oedipus by a masterstroke of art is made to imagine that she has
departed in shame, fearing he may be proved the son of a slave.
"But I account myself the son of Fortune, who will never bring me
to dishonour; my brethren are the months, who marked me out for
lowliness and for power. Such being my birth, I shall never prove
false to it and faint in finding out who I am."
The awful power of this astonishing scene is manifest.
The bright joyousness of the King's impulsive speech prepares the way
for the coming horror. When the shepherd appears, the messenger faces
him claiming his acquaintance. The shepherd doggedly attempts to deny
all knowledge of him, cursing him for his mad talkativeness. Oedipus
threatens torture to open his lips. Line by line the truth is dragged
from him; the abandoned child came from another--from a creature of
Laius--was said to be his son--was given him by Jocasta--to be
destroyed because of an oracle--why then passed over to the Corinthian
messenger?--"through pity, and he saved the child alive, for a mighty
misery. If thou art that child, know that thou art born a hapless man".
When the King rushes madly into the palace, the Chorus sings of his
departed glory. The horrors increase with the appearance of a messenger
from within, who tells how Oedipus dashed into Jocasta's apartment to
find her hanging in suicide; then he blinded himself on that day of
mourning, ruin, death and shame. He comes out a little later, an
object of utter compassion. How can he have rest on earth? How face his
murdered father in death? The memories of Polybus and Merope come upon
him, then the years of unnatural wedlock. Creon, whom he has wantonly
insulted, comes not to mock at him, but to take him into the palace
where neither land nor rain nor light may know him. Oedipus begs him
to let him live on Cithaeron, beseeching him to look after his two
daughters whose birth is so stained that no man can ever wed them. Creon
gently takes him within, to be kept there till the will of the gods is
known. The end is a sob of pity for the tragic downfall of the famous
man who solved the Sphinx' enigma.
No man can ever do justice to this masterpiece. It is so constructed
that every detail leads up inevitably to the climax. Slowly, and playing
upon all the deepest human emotions, anxiety, hope, gloom, terror and
horror, Sophocles works on us as no man had ever done before. It is a
sin against him to be content with a mere outline of the play; the words
he has chosen are significant beyond description. Again and again they
fascinate the reader and always leave him with the feeling that there
are still depths of thought left unsounded. The casual mention of the
shepherd at the beginning of the play is the first stroke of perfect
art; Jocasta's disbelief in oracles is the next; then follows the
contrast between the Queen's real motive for leaving and the reason
assigned to it by her son; finally, the shepherd in torture is forced
to tell the secret which plunges the torturer to his ruin. Where is the
like of this in literature? To us it is heart-searching enough. What was
it to the Greeks who were familiar with the plot before they entered the
theatre? When they who knew the inevitable end watched the King trace
out his own ruin in utter ignorance, their feelings cannot have remained
silent; they must have found relief in sobbing or crying aloud.
The fault in Oedipus is his ungovernable temper. It is firmly drawn in
the play; he is equally unrestrained in anger, despair and hope. He is
the typical instance of the lack of good counsel which we have seen was
to Sophocles the prime source of a tragedy. Indeed, only a headlong
man would hastily marry a widowed queen after he had committed a murder
which fulfilled one half of a terrible oracle. He should have first
inquired into the history of the Theban royal house. Imagining that the
further he was fleeing from Corinth the more certain he was to make his
doom impossible of fulfilment, he inevitably drew nearer to it. This is
our human lot; we cannot see and we misinterpret warnings; how shall not
weaker men tremble for themselves when Oedipus' wisdom could not save
him from evil counsel?
In 405 Sophocles showed in his last play how Oedipus passed from earth
in the poet's own birthplace, Colonus. Oedipus enters with Antigone,
and on inquiry from a stranger finds that he is on the demesne of the
Eumenides. At once he sends to Theseus, King of Athens, and refuses to
move from the spot, for there he is fated to find his rest. A Chorus
from Colonus comes to find out who the suppliant is. When they hear the
name of Oedipus they are horror-struck and wish to thrust him out. After
much persuasion they consent to wait till Theseus arrives. Presently
Ismene comes with the news that Eteocles has dispossessed his elder
brother Polyneices; further, an oracle from Delphi declares that Oedipus
is all-important to Thebes in life and after death. His sons know this
oracle and Creon is coming to force him back. Declaring he will do
nothing for the sons who abandoned him, Oedipus obstinately refuses
his city any blessing. He sends Ismene to offer a sacrifice to the
Eumenides; in her absence Theseus enters, offers him protection and asks
why he has come. Oedipus replies that he has a secret to reveal which is
of great importance to Athens; at present there is peace between her and
Thebes:
"but in the gods alone is no age or death; all else Time confounds,
mastering everything. Strength of the Earth and of the body wastes,
trust dies, disloyalty grows, the same spirit never stands firm
among friends or allies. To some men early, to others late,
pleasures become bitter and then again sweet."
The secret Oedipus will impart at the proper time. The need for
protection soon comes. Creon attempts to persuade Oedipus to return to
Thebes but is met by a curse, whereupon the Theban guards lay hold of
Antigone--they had already seized Ismene--and menace Oedipus himself.
Theseus hearing the alarm rushes back, reproaches Creon for his
insolence and quickly returns with the two girls. He has strange news to
tell; another Theban is a suppliant at the altar of Poseidon close by,
craving speech with Oedipus. It is Polyneices, whom Antigone persuades
her father to interview. The youth enters, ashamed of his neglect of his
father, and begs a blessing on the army he has mustered against Thebes.
He is met by a terrible curse which Oedipus invokes on both his sons. In
despair Polyneices goes away to his doom.
"For me, my path shall be one of care, disaster and sorrows sent me
by my sire and his guardian angels; but, my sisters, be yours a
happy road, and when I am dead fulfil my heart's desire, for while
I live you may never perform it."
A thunderstorm is heard approaching; the Chorus are terrified at its
intensity, but Oedipus eagerly dispatches a messenger for Theseus.
When the King arrives he hears the secret; Oedipus' grave would be the
eternal protection of Attica, but no man must know its site save Theseus
who has to tell it to his heir alone, and he to his son, and so onwards
for ever. The proof of Oedipus' word would be a miracle which soon would
transform him back to his full strength. Presently he arises, endued
with a mysterious sight, beckoning the others to follow him. The play
concludes with a magnificent description of his translation. A voice
from Heaven called him, chiding him for tarrying; commending his
daughters to the care of Theseus, he greeted the earth and heaven in
prayer and then without pain or sorrow passed away. On reappearing
Theseus promised to convey the sisters back to Thebes and to stop the
threatened fratricidal strife.
The _Oedipus Coloneus_, like the _Philoctetes_, the other play of
Sophocles' old age, closes in peace. The old fiery passions still burn
fiercely in Oedipus, as they did in Lear; yet both were "every inch a
king" and "more sinned against than sinning". Oedipus' miraculous
return to strength before he departs is curiously like the famous end
of Colonel Newcome. There are subtle but unmistakable marks of the
Euripidean influence on this drama; such are the belief that Theban
worthies would protect Athens, the Theseus tradition, and the recovery
of worn-out strength. These features will meet us in the next chapter.
But it is again noteworthy that Sophocles has added those touches which
distinguish his own firm and delicate handiwork. There is nothing
of melodrama, nothing inconsequent, nothing exaggerated. It is the
dramatist's preparation for his own end. Shakespeare put his valediction
into the mouth of Prospero; Sophocles entrusted his to his greatest
creation Oedipus. Like him, he was fain to depart, for the gods called.
Our last sight of him is of one beckoning us to follow him to the place
where calm is to be found; to find it we must use not the eyes of the
body, but the inward illumination vouchsafed by Heaven.
To the Athenians of the Periclean age Sophocles was the incarnation
of their dramatic ideal. His language is a delight and a despair. It
tantalises; it suggests other meanings besides its plain and surface
significance. This riddling quality is the daemonic element which he
possessed in common with Plato; because of it these two are the masters
of a refined and subtle irony, a source of the keenest pleasure. His
plots reveal a vivid sense of the exact moment which will yield the
intensest tragic effects--only on one particular day could Ajax die or
Electra be saved. Accordingly, Sophocles very often begins his play
with early dawn, in order to fill the few all-important hours with the
greatest possible amount of action. He has put the maximum of movement
into his work, only the presence ofthe Chorus and the conventional
messengers (two features imposed on him by the law of the Attic theatre)
making the action halt.
But it is in the sum-total of his art that his greatness lies; the sense
of a whole is its controlling factor; details are important, indeed,
he took the utmost pains to see that they were necessary and
convincing--yet they were details, subordinate, closely related, not
irrelevant nor disproportionate. This instinct for a definite plan
first is the essence of the classical spirit; exuberance is rigorously
repressed, symmetry and balance are the first, last and only aim. To
some judges Sophocles is like a Greek temple, splendid but a little
chilly; they miss the soaring ambition of Aeschylus or the more direct
emotional appeal of Euripides. Yet it is a cardinal error to imagine
that Sophocles is passionless; his life was not, neither are his
characters. Like the lava of a recent eruption, they may seem ashen on
the surface, but there is fire underneath; it betrays itself through the
cracks which appear when their substance is violently disturbed.
They, much enforced, show a hasty spark
And straight are cold again.
Repression, avoidance of extremes, dignity under provocation are the
marks of the gentle Sophoclean type and it is a very high type indeed.
For we have in him the very fountain of the whole classical tradition in
drama. Sophocles is something far more important than a mere influence;
he is an ideal, and as such is indestructible. To ask the names of
writers who came most under his "influence" is as sensible as to ask the
names of the sculptors who most faithfully followed the Greek tradition
of statuary. He is Classical tragedy. The main body of Spanish and
English drama is romantic, the Sophoclean ideal is that of the small
but powerful body of University men in Elizabeth's time headed by
Ben Jonson, of the typically French school of dramatists, of
Moratin, Lessing, Goethe, of the exponents of the Greek creed in
nineteenth-century England, notably Matthew Arnold and Walter Pater,
and of Robert Bridges. To this school the cultivation of emotional
expression is suspicious, if not dangerous; it leads to eccentricity, to
the revelation of feelings which frequently are not worth experiencing,
to sentimental flabbiness, to riot and extravagance. Perhaps in dread of
the ridiculous the Classical school represses itself too far, creating
characters of marble instead of flesh. These creations are at least
worth looking at and bring no shame; they are better than the spectral
psychological studies which many dramatists, now dead or dying, have
bidden us believe are real men and women.
TRANSLATIONS:
Jebb (Cambridge). This is by far the best; it renders with success the
delicacy of the original.
Storr (Loeb Series).
Verse translations by Whitelaw and Campbell.
See Symonds' _Greek Poets_, and Norwood _Greek Tragedy_, as above.
EURIPIDES
No-Man's Land was the scene of many tragedies during the Great War.
There has come down to us a remarkable tragedy, called the _Rhesus_,
about a similar region. It treats first of the Dolon incident of the
Iliad. Hector sent out Dolon to reconnoitre, and soon afterwards some
Phrygian shepherds bring news that Rhesus has arrived that very night
with a Thracian army. Reviled by Hector for postponing his arrival
till the tenth year of the war, Rhesus answers that continual wars
with Scythia have occupied him, but now that he is come he will end the
strife in a day. He is assigned his quarters and departs to take up his
position.
Having learned the password from Dolon, Diomedes and Odysseus enter and
reach the tents of Hector who has just left with Rhesus. Diomedes is
eager to kill Aeneas or Paris or some other leader, but Odysseus
warns him to be content with the spoils they have won. Athena appears,
counselling them to slay Rhesus; if he survives that night, neither
Achilles nor Ajax can save the Greeks. Paris approaches, having heard
that spies are abroad in the night; he is beguiled by Athena who
pretends to be Aphrodite. When he is safely got away, the two slay
Rhesus.
The King's charioteer bursts on to the stage with news of his death. He
accuses Hector of murder out of desire for the matchless steeds. Hector
recognises in the story all the marks of Odysseus' handiwork. The
Thracian Muse descends to mourn her son's death, declaring that she
had saved him for many years, but Hector prevailed upon him and Athena
caused his end.
This play is not only about No-man's land; it is a No-man's land, for
its author is unknown; it is sometimes ascribed to Euripides, though it
contains many words he did not use, on the ground that it reflects his
art. For it shows in brief the change which came over Tragedy under
Euripides' guidance. It is exciting, it seizes the tragic moment, the
one important night, it has some lovely lyrics, the characters are
realistic, the gods descend to untie the knot of the play or to explain
the mysterious, some detail is unrelated to the main plot--Paris
exercises no influence on the real action--it is pathetic.
Sophocles said that he painted men as they ought to be, Euripides as
they are. This realistic tendency, added to the romanticism whence
realism always springs, is the last stage of tragedy before it declines.
A Euripides is inevitable in literary history.
Born at Salamis on the very day of the great victory of 480, Euripides
entered into the spirit of revolution in all human activities which
was stirring in contemporary Athens. He won the first prize on five
occasions, was pilloried by the Conservatives though he was a favourite
with the masses. Towards the end of his life he migrated to Macedonia,
where he wrote not the least splendid of his plays, the _Bacchae_. On
the news of his death in 406 Sophocles clothed his Chorus in mourning as
a mark of his esteem.
The famous _Alcestis_ won the second prize in 438. Apollo had been the
guest of Admetus and had persuaded Death to spare him if a substitute
could be found. Admetus' parents and friends failed him, but his wife
Alcestis for his sake was content to leave the light. After a series
of speeches of great beauty and pathos she dies, leaving her husband
desolate. Heracles arrives at the palace on the day of her death; he
notices that some sorrow is come upon his host, but being assured that
only a relation has died he remains. Meanwhile Admetus' parents arrive
to console him; h
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