Such then is the cause of Sophoclean frigidity and lack of colour. He is led to write so by his Attic frugality and economy of effect, by his knowledge that his audience can follow him into his rarefied atmosphere, and by another cause. In our own time men have looked to art for a “message” from more exciting or more lovely spheres. We talk of “the literature of escape”; for us art must be an expanding influence. The Athenian sought in it a concentrating influence. Each citizen who witnessed the Antigone was a member of a sovereign assembly; he understood foreign policy at first hand; war or peace depended upon his voice. Many came to watch the Ajax who had but a while ago fought at Œnophyta or in Egypt. Such men did not need “local colour” and exciting technicalities. Their own lives were full of great events. What they asked of art was serenity, profundity, to blend their own scattered experiences into one noble picture of life itself, life made beautiful because so wonderfully comprehended. This was the function of Sophocles and his brother-craftsmen.
Beyond the normal lucid beauty of lyrics and dialogue, and beyond the frequent outpourings of splendid eloquence in long speeches, there is a still higher level of poetry which should be noted. Now and again his pages are filled with an unearthly splendour. Reference has been made before to certain isolated lines which combine utter simplicity with bewildering charm.[407] But here and there the poet has given us whole speeches in this divine manner. They are always a comment on the matter in hand, but they are conceived in the spirit of one who “contemplates all time and all existence,” who stands apart from man and sees him in his place amid the workings of the universe. One of these ethereal utterances is the speech[408] of Œdipus to Theseus who has expressed his doubt whether Thebes will ever desert the friendship of Athens; it begins:—
Fair Aigeus’ son, only to gods in heaven
Comes no old age nor death of anything;
All else is turmoiled by our master Time.
The earth’s strength fades and manhood’s glory fades,
Faith dies, and unfaith blossoms like a flower.
And who shall find in the open streets of men
Or secret places of his own heart’s love
One wind blow true for ever?