The character-drawing is skilful, often subtle. Heracles, good-hearted but somewhat dense, sensual and coarse-fibred, is half-way between the demigod of the Heracles Furens and the boisterous glutton of comedy. Capable of splendid impulses, he is yet a masterpiece of breezy tactlessness, as when with hideous slyness he suggests to Admetus (in the presence of the restored wife) that the king may console himself by a new marriage. Pheres and Admetus are an admirable pair. Both are selfish, Admetus with pathetic unconsciousness, his father with cynical candour. Pheres is quite willing to give elaborate honour to the dead woman so long as it costs little; Admetus—is it true of him that he is ready to utter splendid heroic speeches so long as the sacrifice is made to save him? Not so; he feels terribly. But the comparison between father and son reminds us how easily sentiment can become aged into etiquette. At present, however, he is a man of generous instincts—“spoiled”. He needs a salutary upheaval of his home: from afar he prophesies of Thorvald Helmer in A Doll’s House. Alcestis herself is a curious study. Innumerable readers have extolled her as one of the noblest figures in Euripides’ great gallery of heroines; this in spite of the fact that she is frigid and unimaginative, ungenerous and basely narrow, in her spiritual and social outlook. One great and noble deed stands to her credit—she is voluntarily dying to preserve Admetus’ life. Our profound respect Alcestis can certainly claim, but the love and pity of which so much is said are scarcely due to her. They are extorted, if at all, by the elaborate exertions of the other characters, who vie with one another in painting a picture of the tenderness which has illumined the Pheræan palace like quiet sunshine. But a dramatist cannot build up a great character by a series of testimonies from friends. He has undoubtedly portrayed an interesting personality, as he always does, but to put her beside creations like Medea and Phædra is merely absurd. From the beginning of her first intolerable speech[419] we know her for that frightful figure, the thoroughly good woman with no imagination, no humour, no insight. One hears much of the failures of Euripides; this is perhaps a real failure. For we are not to suppose that the rigidity and coldness of Alcestis are a dexterous stroke of art; it is not his intention to give a novel, true, and unflattering portrait of a traditional stage favourite, as he so often delighted to do. Everything indicates that he wished to make Alcestis sublime and lovable. But there is a fatal difference between her and the later women. Euripides has realized her from the outside. He has given us in the mouths of the other characters warm descriptions of her charm, but he has not succeeded in drawing a charming woman. She has not “come alive” in his hands.
The plot of the Alcestis has been studied by the late Dr. Verrall in an essay[420] of extraordinary skill and interest. He lays special emphasis on certain peculiar features in the treatment. First, Heracles is represented as in no way the sublime demigod who ought to have been depicted, in view of the amazing exploit which awaits him; the only heroic language put into his mouth is uttered when he is intoxicated, and the account—if it can be called such—which he gives later of Alcestis’ deliverance shows a studied lack of impressiveness. Second, Alcestis is interred with unheard-of speed; Admetus, seeing her expire, instantly makes ready to convey her body to the tomb. From these facts in chief and from many details Dr. Verrall deduces his theory that Alcestis never dies at all. Her expectation of death (founded on the story about Apollo’s bargain) and the atmosphere of mourning which hangs over Admetus’ house and capital on the fatal day, have so wrought upon the queen that she finally swoons. Later Heracles visits the tomb, finds Alcestis recovering, and restores her to the king. His annoyance with Admetus, which leads him to allow his host to “think what he pleases,” coupled with his own rodomontade at the palace gate, gave rise to the legend that Heracles fought with Death for a woman who had actually quitted life. Finally, the quasi-theological prologue, in which Apollo and Thanatos appear and give warrant to the orthodox rendering of the story, is a mere figment, revealed as such to the discreet by its utterly ungodlike tone, and only tacked on to a quite human drama in order to save the poet from legal indictment as an enemy of current theology.
This superb essay has met with wide-spread admiration, some adhesion, much opposition, but no refutation. If we are to judge of the existing plays as one mass, the examination of outstanding specimens of rationalism such as the Ion will convince us that the Alcestis is what Dr. Verrall thought it. But this play does stand apart from the rest, as do the Rhesus and the Cyclops. However close it may lie to the Medea in date, it is very early in manner; a capital instance of this, the character of Alcestis, has already been mentioned. The best view is, perhaps, that curious features which in other works might appear so bad as to be evidently intended for some other than the ostensible purpose, are in this case due to inexpertness.[421] For example, the extraordinary fact that Alcestis’ rescue is due to nothing but the drunkenness of Heracles, is perhaps a mere oversight on the poet’s part. Similarly the poorness of the last scene may be no cunning device, but comparative poverty of inspiration. It is a tenable view that Euripides intended to write a quite orthodox treatment of the story, but has only partially succeeded in reaching the sureness and brilliance of his later compositions.[422]
The Medea (Μήδεια) was produced in 431 B.C. as the first play of a tetralogy containing also Philoctetes, Dictys, and the satyric play The Harvesters (Θερισταί). Euripides obtained only the third prize, and even Sophocles was second to Euphorion, son of Æschylus. The scene represents the house of Medea at Corinth. She has come there with her two young sons, and her husband Jason, whom she helped to gain the Golden Fleece in Colchis. Jason has become estranged from Medea, owing to his projected marriage with Glauce, the daughter of King Creon. At this point the play opens. The aged nurse of Medea comes forth and, in one of the most celebrated speeches in Euripides, laments her mistress’ flight from Colchis and her subsequent troubles; she fears that Medea will seek revenge. The two boys return from play, attended by their old “pædagogus,” who informs his fellow-servant that King Creon intends to banish Medea and her children. The nurse sends them within. The chorus of Corinthian women enter and inquire after Medea, who comes from the house in the deepest distress. She speaks with deep feeling about the sorrows and restraints which society puts upon women,[423] and after a pathetic description of her own forlorn state, begs her visitors to aid by silence if she finds any means of revenge. They have just consented, when Creon appears and orders her to leave the land on the instant, with her children. When she expostulates, he explains that he fears her: she is well known as a magician; moreover, she has uttered threats against himself, his daughter, and Jason. Medea in vain seeks to escape her reputation for “wisdom”; in spite of her offer to live quietly in Corinth, Creon repeats his behest. By urgent pleading, she obtains from him one day’s grace. When the king has departed, Medea addresses the chorus with fierce triumph: she now has opportunity for revenge. After considering possible methods, she decides on poison. But first, what refuge is she to find when her plot has succeeded? she will wait a little, and if no chance of safe retirement shows itself, she will attack her foes sword in hand. The chorus, impressed by her spirit, declare that after all the centuries during which poets have covered women with infamy, now at last honour is coming to their sex. They lament the decay of truth and honour, as shown in Jason’s desertion. Jason enters, reproaching Medea for her folly in alienating the king, but offering help to lighten her banishment. Medea falls upon him in a terrible speech, relating all the benefits she has conferred and the crime she has committed in his cause. Jason replies that it was the Love-God which constrained her to help him, nor is he ungrateful. But she has her reward—a reputation among the Greeks for wisdom. He is contracting this new marriage to provide for his children; Medea’s complaints are due to short-sighted jealousy. After a bitter debate, in which Medea scornfully refuses his aid, he retires. The chorus sing the dread power of Love, and lament the wreck which it has made of Medea’s life. A stranger enters—Ægeus, King of Athens, who has been to Delphi for an oracle which shall remove his childlessness. Medea begs him to give her shelter in Athens whenever she comes thither from Corinth; in return for this, she will by her art remove his childlessness. He consents, and withdraws. Sure of her future, Medea now triumphantly expounds her plan. She will make a pretended reconciliation with Jason and beg that her children be allowed to remain. They are to seek Jason’s bride, bearing presents in order to win this favour. These gifts will be poisoned; the princess and all who touch her will perish. Then she will slay her children to complete the misery of Jason. The chorus in vain protest; she turns from them and despatches a slave to summon Jason. The choric ode which follows extols, in lines of amazing loveliness, the glory of Attica—its atmosphere of wisdom, poetry, and love. But how shall such a land harbour a murderess? Jason returns, and is greeted by Medea with a speech of contrition by which he is entirely deceived. She calls her children forth, and there is a pathetic scene which affects her, for all her guilty purpose, with genuine emotion. She puts her pretended plan before Jason, and watches the father depart with the two boys and their pædagogus carrying the presents. The ode which follows laments the fatal step that has now been taken. The pædagogus brings the boys back with news that their sentence of exile has been remitted, and that the princess has accepted the gifts. Medea addresses herself to the next task. Now that her plot against Glauce is in train, the children must die. The famous soliloquy which follows exhibits the sway alternately exerted over her by maternal love and the thirst for revenge; after a dreadful struggle she determines to obey her “passion” and embrace vengeance. The children are sent within. The next ode is a most painfully real and intimate revelation of a parent’s anxiety and sorrows. A messenger hurries up, crying to Medea that she must flee; Creon and his daughter are both dead. Medea greets his news with cool delight, braces herself for her last deed, and enters the house. The chorus utter a desperate prayer to the Sun-god to save his descendants; but at once the children’s cries are heard. Scarcely have they died away when Jason furiously enters, followed by henchmen. His chief thought is to save his children from the vengeance of Creon’s kinsmen. The chorus at once tell him they are dead, and how. In frenzy he flings himself upon the door. But he suddenly recoils as the voice of Medea, clear and contemptuous, descends from the air. She is seen on high, driving a magic chariot given to her by the Sun-god. There breaks out a frightful wounding altercation, Jason begging wildly to be allowed to see and to bury his children’s bodies, Medea sternly refusing; she will herself bury them beyond the borders of Corinth. She departs through the air, leaving Jason utterly broken.
The literary history of this play is extremely interesting, though obscure. First, is it later, or earlier, than the Trachiniæ? One general idea is common to the two tragedies; but the treatment is utterly dissimilar, and one may not unreasonably believe that Sophocles has sought to reprove Euripides, to paint his own conception of a noble wronged wife, and to show how a woman so placed should demean herself. Secondly, there is some reason[424] to believe that two editions of the Medea where for a time in existence. Euripides almost certainly himself remodelled the work, presumably for a second “production,” but to what extent it is hard to say. Thirdly, and above all, there is the question of his originality. The longer Greek “argument” asserts that he appears to have borrowed the drama from Neophron and to have introduced alterations. This interesting problem has been discussed elsewhere.[425] Neophron’s play, if one is to judge by the style and versification of his brief fragments, should be regarded as written early in the second half of the fifth century.
The dramatic structure of the Medea calls for the closest attention. In Sophocles we have observed how that collision of wills and emotions, which is always the soul of drama, arises from the confrontation of two persons. In the present drama that collision takes place in the bosom of a single person. Sophocles would probably have given us a Jason whose claim upon our sympathy was hardly less than that of Medea. Complication, with him, is to be found in his plots, not in his characters. But here we have a subject which has since proved so rich a mine of tragic and romantic interest—the study of a soul divided against itself. Medea’s wrongs, her passionate resentment, and her plans of revenge do not merely dominate the play, they are the play from the first line to the close. Certain real or alleged structural defects should be noted. First, we observe the incredible part taken by the chorus; they raise not a finger to stay the designs of Medea upon the king and his daughter; and we are given no reason to suppose that they are unfriendly to the royal house. The episode of Ægeus, moreover, is puzzling. Though quite necessary in view of Medea’s helpless condition and prepared for by her remarks as to a “tower of refuge,”[426] it is quite unneeded by one who can command a magic flying chariot. Moreover, this chariot itself has been often censured, notably by Aristotle,[427] who regards it as to all intents and purposes a deus ex machina, and on this ground very properly objects to it.
Dr. Verrall’s[428] theory meets all these difficulties. He supposes that several of Euripides’ plays were originally written for private performance. The Medea, so acted, had no obtrusive chorus, and no miraculous escape of the murderess. To the episode of Ægeus corresponded a finale in which Medea, by allowing her husband to bury the bodies of his children, and by instituting the religious rites referred to in our present text,[429] induced both Jason and the Corinthians to allow her safe passage to Athens. This view, or a view essentially resembling it, must be accepted, not so much because of the absurdity involved (as it appears to us) by the presence of the chorus, as the utter futility of the Ægeus-scene in the present state of the text.
The characterization shows Euripides at his best. In the heroine he gives us the first and possibly the finest of his marvellous studies in feminine human nature. Alcestis he viewed and described from without; Medea he has imagined from within. Her passionate love, which is so easily perverted by brutality into murderous hate, her pride, will-power, ferocity, and dæmonic energy, are all depicted with flawless mastery and sympathy. Desperate and cruel as this woman shows herself, she is no cold-blooded plotter. Creon has heard of her unguarded threats, and his knowledge wellnigh ruins her project. Her first words to Jason, “thou utter villain,” followed by a complete and appalling indictment of his cynicism[430] and ingratitude, are not calculated to lull suspicion. But however passionate, she owns a splendid intellect. She faces facts[431] and understands her weaknesses. When seeking an advantage, she can hold herself magnificently in hand. The pretended reconciliation with Jason is a scene of weird thrill for the spectators. Her archness in discussing his influence over the young princess is almost hideous; and while she weeps in his arms we remember with sick horror her scornful words after practising successfully the same arts on the king. Above all, there is here no petulant railing at “unjust gods,” or “blind fate”. Her undoing in the past has come from “trust in the words of a man that is a Greek”;[432] her present murderous rage springs from no Até but from her own passion (θυμός). The dramatist has set himself to express human life in terms of humanity.
Jason is a superb study—a compound of brilliant manner, stupidity, and cynicism. If only his own desires, interests, and comforts are safe, he is prepared to confer all kinds of benefits. The kindly, breezy words which he addresses to his little sons must have made hundreds of excellent fathers in the audience feel for a moment a touch of personal baseness—“am I not something like this?” That is the moral of Jason and countless personages of Euripides: they are so detestable and yet so like ourselves. Jason indeed dupes himself as well as others. He really thinks he is kind and gentle, when he is only surrendering to an emotional atmosphere. His great weakness is the mere perfection of his own egotism; he has no power at all to realize another’s point of view. Throughout the play he simply refuses to believe that Medea feels his desertion as she asserts. For him her complaints are “empty words”.[433] To the very end his self-centred stupidity is almost pathetic: “didst thou in truth determine on their death for the sake of wifely honour?”[434] One of the most deadly things in the play hangs on this blindness. Medea has just asked him, with whatever smile she can summon up, to induce “your wife” to procure pardon for the children. Jason, instead of destroying himself on the spot in self-contempt, replies courteously: “By all means; and I imagine that I shall persuade her, if she is like the rest of women”.[435] Considering all the circumstances, this is perhaps unsurpassed for shameless brutality. Medea, however, with a gleam in her eye which one may imagine, answers with equal urbanity, even with quiet raillery. She has perhaps no reason to complain; it is precisely this portentous insensibility which will secure her success.