There is a remarkable harmony between these words and the picture upon the vase, where Kreusa lies a helpless mass across the arms of the θρόνος. Her attitude suggests to one’s mind exactly the idea in θρόνοισιν ἐμπεσοῦσα μὴ χαμαὶ πεσεῖν. Rarely has a vase painter come nearer to illustration than here. It had, indeed, been far easier to paint Kreusa in her fallen position upon the floor, πίτνει δ’ ἐς οὖδας (v. 1195), where the chair and the form of the body would have presented no such difficulties in drawing as they do in the present position[[276]]. Why was this not done? Simply, as I am convinced, because the painter chose to present the most tragic moments, and shape them into the greatest possible dramatic effect. He seized the crisis in Kreusa’s dread struggle, when, doomed by the poison and flames, she dropped across the chair. Here, as in the scene below, the vase painter has given evidence of dramatic power of a high degree, and I venture to think that had he not been an artist he would have been a tragedian.
Kreon, who, of course, could not be represented as falling upon the body of Kreusa as he entered the room, ἄφνω προσελθὼν δῶμα προσπίτνει νεκρῷ (v. 1205), while she was still resting on the chair[[277]], is painted in the first moment of reaching the unfortunate one. He places his left hand under her body, and, overcome by the horror of the sight, lets fall his sceptre from his right hand as he gazes for a moment in transfixed agony from his daughter’s situation. The position of the arms is exactly that of the same figure on the sarcophagi reliefs[[278]], and no doubt would be traceable through the five intervening centuries if the monuments were at hand. Our vase would appear to represent here a tradition that was always closely followed in representing Kreon in an upright position.
Merope, the mother, who is mentioned in Corinthian legends only as the wife of Sisyphos[[279]] and of Polybos[[280]], does not appear at all in Euripides. The painter’s principle was to name all the chief figures on the vase, and it is not necessary to point out here another source than the Medeia of Euripides. A name thus known as belonging to Corinthian royal families would be a natural invention for the wife of Kreon if there was no legend to provide further information about her. I hold this painting, however, as adequate evidence that there was a third Merope known in Corinth[[281]]. That the mother as well as the father should be represented here is further witness of the spirit which the poet breathed into his work. Medeia’s fixed determination to ruin all her enemies at one blow and to root out the whole royal house in a day (vs. 373 f.) is expressed in the extended scene here given, in a manner well calculated to inspire the beholder with much that lies between the lines in Euripides. There is absolutely no reason for claiming this scene as an extension of that given in the poet, and therefore based upon a post-Euripidean tragedy. One who denies the vase painter the right to introduce figures foreign to the poet fails utterly in comprehending the spirit of the fourth and third century vase painting. The artists followed the number of characters in the poetical version no more slavishly than they did the disposition and movement of the same. Starting with what the poet gave them and holding this in mind as a guide and inspiration in certain details, the painters proceeded to create, as independent artists, a similar scene, transfused, however, with their own alterations. It is to be expected that in the over-filled vase paintings of Apulia and Campania one will find figures that show a wide liberty on the part of the painters, and that illustrate well how much the severe methods of the Athenian vase painters had been altered in Magna Graecia.
Another instance of this same independence of the painter is seen in the introduction of Hippotes, to whom there is not the slightest reference in Euripides. In vs. 1168–1203, where Kreusa’s fate is described, no one is referred to as present except the female attendants, who were possessed with terror and lent no aid to their mistress. Kreon unexpectedly entered, ξυμφορᾶς ἀγνωσίᾳ, and soon succumbed, a victim together with his daughter. Why does Hippotes appear on the vase as the one who is trying to liberate Kreusa? With Vogel[[282]] again the answer liegt auf der Hand: weil Euripides nicht die Quelle der Darstellung ist. Because the painter enlarged the scene of the poet, and was more tragic and more dramatic than Euripides, a later or at least another version of the myth is claimed as his authority. This appears to me altogether improbable and unnecessary. It is improbable because, as we have abundant reason to believe, Euripides’ version of the myth was, both in Greek and Roman times, the most popular[[283]]. Other Medeias are mere names. Furthermore our vase cannot be dated later than the second half of the fourth century B.C., i. e. not much more than a century after the first appearance of the Medeia in 431 B.C. This is an important fact which seems to have been mostly overlooked. Euripides, it must be remembered, ruled the fourth century B.C. as the prophet of the time, and was hailed by the Greeks of the colonies and the motherland with universal admiration. It is safe to say that no Greek poet was more upon the lips of the people or more in their hearts. Tardy as was the recognition of his genius during his lifetime, the extent of his posthumous fame was unparalleled and his name rang through Alexandrian and Hellenistic times as that of one of the immortals. Are we to suppose then that a vase painter of Magna Graecia, who might have lived with those who had seen Euripides, was, in dealing with the Medeia myth, under the influence of some poet of a day? Was an artist who lived in this proximity to Euripides’ own time likely to follow the guidance of any other than the great master who created the Medeia character and started her down the centuries in that unexampled rage and fury? We dare, moreover, go further and claim with Robert that die Vasen stehen der Aufführungszeit der Medeia so nahe, dass sie den Werth directer Zeugnisse beanspruchen dürfen[[284]].
This explanation is unnecessary, for, as we have already pointed out, the vase painters gave less heed to the subject-matter and the details of the traditional types than to the general effect and dramatic arrangement. It was possible to double the dramatic effect here through the introduction of the bride’s brother, and the painter did not hesitate to place him on the vase, although the poet did not refer to him. The onward rush of this finely drawn figure, with his chlamys fluttering in the wind, has altogether a dramatic air and brings one to feel that the theatrical element, so much in the background in the fifth century B.C., had taken possession of the fourth century work[[285]]. It is surprising to find with what persistency certain scholars refuse such additions as incompatible with the dependence of the work on a given literary source. If the artist has done more than illustrate, all relationship between him and the poet is denied. But let us turn to a famous work where illustration pure and simple is meant, and we shall discover that if one follows even there this mode of criticism, the poet and the drawing which is meant to illustrate him will have to be divorced. I refer to Botticelli’s drawings for Dante’s Divina Commedia[[286]]. Each drawing is intended to bring out the events of the canto to which it is devoted, and so one expects only the incidents of one canto to appear in one drawing. The illustration for the Inferno, canto ii, represents Beatrice swinging upward in the air, to whom Virgil is pointing and calling Dante’s attention. This is all a pure invention of the artist as Beatrice is simply mentioned in the text, and not at all thought of as present or appearing to the two pilgrims. Had Botticelli then some other story in mind, and was there another version of Dante than that which we have? Certainly not. The artist, although in this place engaged as a mere illustrator, read his own notions into Dante and put them into his drawing. Again, even on the same plate, the entrance to the Inferno is shown with the words per me over the door. This scene belongs to canto iii, where in fact Botticelli again introduces it. If, therefore, the third canto and the drawing that belongs to it had never reached us but we did possess canto ii and its illustration, how would the critics who read the Greek vases as we have indicated, dispose of Botticelli and his faithfulness to Dante? They would all declare that the famous painter must have had another text which he followed. And so one may go on multiplying instances in this one work to show that an artist, even when he set out to follow the poet, was not able to do so[[287]].
There are also among the Pompeian wall paintings[[288]] some that are mere illustrations and are in the spirit of this sort of work, and yet they show various peculiar changes and additions contrary to the epigrams on which they are based. One is to remember therefore that in the vase paintings, where a more independent form of art is found than in illustrations, a liberty in adding or omitting figures, that may often disturb the form of the myth, is to be allowed. To select one example from many: Euphronios[[289]] on the Eurystheus kylix represents Sthenelos and his wife as present when Herakles brings the boar and is about to drop it into the cistern where Eurystheus has taken refuge. That the latter was king and had imposed the labours on Herakles, was proof enough that Sthenelos was already dead. How then did Euphronios dare to place him on the vase? Evidently because he took little heed of the exactitude for which modern scholars would call him and others of his trade to account.
The old nurse who observed the first signs of her mistress’ precarious condition—καὶ τις γεραιὰ προσπόλων ... ἀνωλόλυξε (vs. 1171–73)—or one of the numerous attendants present (v. 1176) may be recognized in the figure to the right from Hippotes. Perhaps this is more correctly the one who broke away to convey the sad news to Jason—ἑ δὲ πρὸς τὸν ἀρτίως πόσιν, | φράσουσα νύμφης συμφοράς (vs. 1178 f.). This person with the matronly air always occurs on the sarcophagi, but in the scene where the two boys are handing over the gifts to Kreusa[[290]].
The position of the pedagogue on the opposite side is not so incongruous as many have thought. There is really no reason for considering him a sort of connecting link between the middle and lower sections, as Robert has done[[291]]. Let us follow the pedagogue and the boys through the play. At vs. 46 f. of the prologue the nurse reports the latter as returning from their sport—ἐκ τρόχων πεπαυμένοι—and in vs. 89 ff. she orders them inside the palace,
ἴτ’, εὖ γὰρ ἔσται, δωμάτων ἔσω, τέκνα,
and commands the pedagogue to keep them at a safe distance from their mother,