Greek tragedy

by Gilbert Norwood

Clytæmnestra is Æschylus’ masterpiece—not indeed a masterly picture of female character; such work was left to others—but a superb presentment of a woman dowered with an imperial soul, pressed into sin by the memory of her murdered child, the blind ambition of her husband, and the consciousness of an accursed ancestry. Here, as elsewhere in these three tragedies, the architectural skill with which Æschylus plans his trilogy invite the closest study. In this first part, all the justification which Clytæmnestra can claim is held steadily before the eyes. The slaughter of Iphigenia, which killed her love for Agamemnon, is dwelt upon early in the play and recalled by her once and again during her horrible conversation with the chorus after the king’s death. Another wrong to her is brought visibly upon the scene in the person of Cassandra. The sordid side of her vengeance, her amour with Ægisthus, remains hardly hinted at until the very end, where it springs into overwhelming prominence—but at the very moment when we are preparing to pass over to the Choephorœ, the second great stage of the action, in which the mission of Orestes is to be exalted. Clytæmnestra has been often compared to Lady Macbeth. But Shakespeare’s creation is more feminine than that of the Athenian. She evinces inhuman heartlessness and cynicism till the task is accomplished; before the play ends she is broken for ever. Clytæmnestra never falters in her resolution, hardly a quiver reveals the strain of danger and excitement upon her nerves while success is still unsure. When the deed is accomplished and the strain relaxed, then, instead of yielding to hysterical collapse, she is superbly collected.[233] Years after, she re-appears in the Choephorœ, but time, security, and power have, to all seeming, left little mark upon this soul of iron. At the last frightful moment when she realizes that vengeance is knocking at the gate, her courage blazes up more gloriously than ever: “Give me the axe, this instant, wherewith that man was slain”.[234] It is a superb defiance; for thrilling audacity this passage stands perhaps alone until we come to the splendid “Stand neuter, Gods, this once, I do invoke you,” with which Vanbrugh[235] rises, for his moment, into the heights where Æschylus abode. Yet next moment the knowledge that her lover is dead brings her to her knees.

Cassandra and Ægisthus have not yet been considered, for they belong also to the next topic—the method in which the unity of the play is so handled that it does not interfere with, but helps to effect, the unity of the whole trilogy. The indescribable power and thrill of Cassandra’s scene may easily blind us to the slightness of the character-drawing. Simply as a character, the princess is no more subtly or carefully studied than the herald; the extraordinary interest which surrounds her arises not from what she is or does but from what happens to her. She is the analogue of Io in the Prometheus. The mere structure of both plays allots to Io and Cassandra precisely the same functions. Passive victims of misfortune, they are the symbol and articulation of the background in the particular drama; further, they are vital to the economy of the whole series, in that they sum up in themselves the future happenings which the later portions of it are to expound. So far, they are the same; but when we go beyond theoretical structure and look to the finished composition, Cassandra far outshines Io. The Argive maiden suffers, shrinks, and laments in utter perplexity. The Trojan suffers, but she does not quail; her lamentations are hardly lamentations at all, so charged are they with lofty indignation, and the sense of pathos in human things. Io is broken by her calamity; Cassandra is purified and schooled. The poet who in this very play sings that suffering is the path to wisdom has not made us wait long for an example. There is, too, a definite technical advance in this, that Io merely hears the prophecy of justification and the possibility of revenge, while Cassandra in her own person foretells the return of Orestes.

Ægisthus also, but less obviously, is important to the progress of the trilogy. His appearance and his speeches are no anti-climax to the splendid scene of Clytæmnestra’s triumph. The queen and Cassandra have talked of the Pelopid curse; Ægisthus is the curse personified. It is through ancient wickedness that he has passed a half-savage life of brooding exile; the sins of his fathers have turned him into a man fit to better their instruction. Again, this last scene brings before us in full power that aspect of Clytæmnestra which has been almost ignored—her baser reason for the murder of her husband. This is done precisely at the right place. To dwell on the queen’s intrigue earlier would have deprived her of that measure of sympathy which throughout this first play she needs. Not to have depicted it at all would have left that sympathy unimpaired, and we should have entered upon the Choephorœ fatally unable to side with Orestes in his horrible mission.

The story of the Choephorœ[236] (Χοηφόροι, “Libation-Bearers”) is as follows. The back-scene throughout probably represents the palace of Argos; in the orchestra[237] is the tomb of Agamemnon. Something like ten years have elapsed since the usurpation of Ægisthus. Orestes, son of the murdered king, accompanied by his friend Pylades, enters and greets his father’s grave, laying thereon a lock of his hair in sign of mourning; they withdraw. The chorus (led by Electra) enter—attendants of Electra carrying libations, to be poured in prayer upon Agamemnon’s tomb. Their song expresses their grief, hints at revenge, and explains that they have been sent by Clytæmnestra herself, who is terrified by a dream interpreted to signify the wrath of Agamemnon’s spirit. Electra discusses the situation with her friends, and pours the libations over the mound in her own name, not on behalf of her mother, calling upon the gods and Agamemnon’s spirit to bring Orestes home and punish the murderess. Electra discovers the tress of hair left by Orestes. That it has come from him she knows, as it resembles her own;[238] he must have sent it. In the midst of her excitement, she perceives footprints; these, too, she recognizes as like her own. Suddenly Orestes appears and reveals himself. She still doubts, but he exhibits a piece of embroidery which she herself worked long ago. Electra falls into his arms; Orestes explains to his friends that Apollo has sent him home as an avenger. In a long lyrical scene (κομμός), the chorus, Electra, and Orestes invoke Agamemnon to assume life and activity in aid of his avenger.[239] The chorus leader tells Orestes of Clytæmnestra’s vision. She dreamed that she gave birth to a snake, which drew blood from her breast. He expounds this as foretelling the death of the queen at his hands. Explaining that he and his followers will gain admission to the palace as travellers, he departs. The maidens raise a song of astonishment at the crimes of which mortals are capable, dwelling especially upon the treachery of an evil woman. Orestes comes back accompanied by his followers, and tells the porter that he brings news for the head of the house. Clytæmnestra appears, and receives the feigned message that Orestes is dead. The queen is apparently overwhelmed, but bids the visitors become her guests. While the chorus utter a brief prayer for success, the aged nurse of Orestes comes forth, in grief for the loss of her foster-son. She tells the chorus she has been despatched by Clytæmnestra to summon Ægisthus and his bodyguard, that he may question the strangers. They persuade her to alter the message; let Ægisthus come unattended. When she has gone, they raise another lyric in passionate encouragement of Orestes. Ægisthus enters and goes into the guest-wing of the house; in a moment his scream is heard; the chorus retire.[240] A servant of Ægisthus bursts forth, proclaiming the death of his master. He flings himself upon the main door, desperately shouting for Clytæmnestra, who in a moment appears. His message, “The dead are slaying them that live,” is clear to her: doom is at hand, but she calls for her murderous axe. Orestes rushes out upon her with drawn sword. His first words announce the death of Ægisthus, and she beseeches him piteously for mercy. Orestes, unnerved, asks the counsel of Pylades, who for the first and last time speaks, reminding the prince of his oath and the command of Heaven. Clytæmnestra is driven within to be slain beside her lover. After a song of triumph from the chorus, the two corpses are displayed to the people; beside them stands Orestes who brings forth the blood-stained robe wherein Agamemnon was entangled. The sight of it brings upon the speaker a perturbation strange even in such circumstances. It is the coming of madness. He sees in fancy the Furies sent by his mother’s spirit, and rushes away to seek at Delphi the protection which Apollo has promised. The play ends with a few lines from the chorus lamenting the sinful history of the house.

The Choephorœ is less popular with modern readers than either of its companions. This is owing partly to the difficulty of perusal, for the text of the lyrics is often corrupt; it is still more due to no accident, but to technique. The second play of a trilogy was usually more statuesque than the other two. There is, of course, a progress of events, not merely a Phrynichean treatment of a static theme; but the poet carefully retards his speed. Thus the Choephorœ should be compared rather with the Prometheus than with the Agamemnon. We then observe an improvement—if we wish to call it so—in construction. The great Commos keeps the play almost[241] at a standstill; but the rest of the work is full of dramatic vigour.

It is true that none of the characters has the arresting quality of those in the Agamemnon. The nurse is a worthy companion to the watchman—her quaint and explicit references to the trouble caused her by Orestes when a baby are the most remarkable among the few comic touches found in our poet; and the part of the slave who gives the alarm, minute indeed, is yet the finest of its kind in Greek tragedy. But the persons of greater import—Electra, Ægisthus, and Pylades—would not have taxed the skill of a moderate playwright. Clytæmnestra is magnificent, but less through her present part than through the superb continuation of her rôle in the Agamemnon; her scenes are brief, like the glimpse of a fierce sunset after a lowering day. She is the only person characterized, except, indeed, Orestes, and even he through most of the drama is not a character, but a purpose and a few emotions speaking appropriate sentences. This is true even of the scene where he condemns his mother. The only touch of genuine drama is the instant where he quails before her entreaty; but though this is real enough, it is not great. The undoubted power of the scene is due not to dramatic skill, but to the intrinsic horror of the situation, Æschylus has given us almost as little as we could expect. But turn the page and study Orestes’ address to the Argive state—the increase in dramatic force is appalling. He begins by stately, vigorous, and impassioned eloquence equal to almost anything in the Agamemnon. The blood-stained robe is displayed, and the hideous sight seems to eat into his brain. His grip on what he means to say slips; he struggles to recapture it; one can see his failing mind stagger from the mother of whom he strives to speak to the garment of death before him. A word rises to the surface of his thoughts, he snatches at it, but it brings up with it the wrong phrase. The horror passes into us; this half-madness is not lunatic incoherence but the morbidly subtle coherence of a masterful mind struggling against insanity. The deadly net entangles his brain as it entangled his fathers body. By a final effort he collects himself and declares that he goes to Delphi to claim the protection and countenance of Heaven. Then his doom settles upon him; the Furies arise before him and he flees distraught.

That such immense force should be manifested only at the end of the play, that until and during the crisis Æschylus exerts only sufficient dramatic energy to present his situations intelligibly, is the most significant fact in the Choephorœ. This is deliberate in an artist who has composed the Agamemnon and the Eumenides. In the opening stage it is human sin and courage which provide the rising interest; in the third the righteousness and wisdom of the Most High unloose the knot and save mankind; at both periods personality is the basis of action. But in the middle stage the master is not personality, but the impersonal Fury demanding blood in vengeance for blood, a law of life and of the universe, named by a name but possessing no attributes. This law may be called by a feminine title Erinys; it is called also by a phrase: “Do and Suffer”;[242] it is the shade of Agamemnon, thirsting—is it for blood as a bodily drink or for death as expiation?—and sending the dark progeny of his soul up from Hades. This fact, then, and no person, it is which dominates the play, and that is why the persons concerned are for the time no magnificent figures of will or valour or wisdom, but the panting driven thralls of something unseen which directs their movements and decides their immediate destiny.

The plot of the third play, the Eumenides[243] (Εὐμενίδες, “the Kindly Ones,” an euphemistic name of the Furies) is as follows. Outside the shrine at Delphi, the Pythian priestess utters a prayer to all the deities connected with the spot, after which she enters the sanctuary. Almost instantly she returns in horror, and tells how she has seen a blood-stained man seated upon the Omphalos and round him a band of sleeping females, loathly to the sight. She departs. From the temple the god appears[244] with his suppliant Orestes, whom he encourages and sends forth (led by the god Hermes) on his wanderings, which are to end in peace at Athens. When the two have disappeared, the ghost of Clytæmnestra rises and awakens the sleeping Furies. They burst forth from the temple in frenzy at the escape of their victim. In the midst of the clamour Apollo, with words of contemptuous hatred, bids them begone. The scene now changes to Athens, where Orestes throws himself upon the protection of the goddess Athena, whose statue he clasps. In a moment the chorus of Furies enter in pursuit; they discover Orestes and describe the horrible doom which he must suffer. He defies them and calls upon the absent Athena. But they circle about him chanting their fearful “binding-song”—the proclamation of their office and rights as the implacable avengers of bloodshed and every other sin. As their strains die away Athena enters. She hears the dispute in outline, the Furies insisting that for matricide there can be no pardon, Orestes declaring that he has been purified ritually by Apollo who urged him to his deed. The goddess determines that the suit shall be tried by a court of her own citizens. Meanwhile the Furies sing of the danger to righteousness which must result if their prerogatives are withdrawn: “terror has a rightful place and must sit for ever watching over the soul”.[245] The court of justice is now assembled on the Areopagus. Athena presides; with her are the jurymen (generally supposed to number twelve); before her are the Furies and Orestes; behind is a great crowd of Athenian citizens. A trumpet blast announces the opening of the session, and Apollo enters to aid Orestes. The trial begins with a cross-examination of Orestes by the Furies, in which he is by no means triumphant. Apollo takes his place and gives justification for the matricide, under three heads: (i) it was the command of Zeus; (ii) Agamemnon was a great king; (iii) the real parent of a child is the father, the mother being only the nurse. To prove this last point Apollo instances the president herself, Athena, born of no mother but from the head of Zeus. He ends by promising that Orestes, if acquitted, will be a firm and useful ally to Athens. The goddess now declares the pleading at an end, but before the vote is taken she delivers a speech to the jury, proclaiming that she now and hereby founds the Areopagite Court which shall for ever keep watch over the welfare of Athens by the repression of crime. The judges advance one by one and vote secretly; but before the votes are counted Athena gives her ruling that if an equal number are cast on either side Orestes shall be acquitted, for she gives her casting vote in his favour.[246] The votes are counted and found equal, and the goddess proclaims that Orestes is free. Apollo departs, and Orestes breaks forth into thanksgiving and promises that Argos shall ever be the friend of Athens. He leaves Athena and her citizens confronted by the Furies, who raise cries of frantic indignation, turning their rage upon Athens and threatening to blight the soil, the flocks, and the people. Athena seeks to placate them by offering a habitation and worship in Attica. For a time they refuse to listen, but after their fourth song of vengeance they relent. Athena promises that they are to become kindly earth-deities[247] domiciled in Attica, blessing the increase of crops, of herds, and of the family. The citizens, with torches in their hands, form a procession led by Athena, and conduct the new divinities to their dwelling in a cave beneath the Acropolis.

It remains to deal with the literary and religious aspects of the play. The poet sketches Orestes in but a rudimentary style. There is, indeed, hardly any character-drawing in him; he is simply any brave, sensitive, religious man. The “human interest” is almost confined to the gods, without our forgetting that they are surrounded by human auditors. Athena and the Furies are made to live by a few noble sweeping strokes; Athena, the majestic presentment of Olympian wisdom and the visible head of her favoured city; the Furies majestic in their rage, unanswerable in their claim that punishment of crime cannot be done away if the world is to endure. Apollo is a curious study, less sublime than we expected. His manner under cross-examination by the Furies is a little too human; indeed he loses his temper. The fact is that, though Æschylus has no desire to treat Apollo irreverently, he is by no means concerned to depict a perfect being; and for two reasons. Firstly, he insists on reminding us that Apollo is but the minister of Zeus; it is Zeus only whom he is bent on exalting. Secondly, he knows well that his audience, as between the Furies and Apollo, have a strong bias in favour of the latter. The poet does acquit Orestes, but it is of the deepest importance in his eyes that we should not complacently regard the Furies as mere malicious fiends, routed by a gloriously contemptuous Olympian; the Furies may be wrong, perhaps, but prima facie they have a terribly strong case. Therefore in the scene of the pleadings they at least hold their own. Apollo may be more right than they; he is emphatically not their superior, his personal fiat is not a spiritual sanction profounder than theirs. Neither party has got to the root of things. The Furies say: “This man shed the blood of a kinswoman; he must be for ever damned”. Apollo says: “He has not sinned, for Zeus bade him act thus”. The acquittal of Orestes is not the solution of this disagreement, it is but the beginning; we can hardly understand the dispute as yet.