CHAPTER V

THE WORKS OF EURIPIDES

Of nearly one hundred dramas composed by Euripides nineteen[411] have

survived. These are now discussed in the approximate chronological order;

the precise date of production is, however, known in but few cases.

The ALCESTIS[412] (Ἄλκηστις), acted in 438 B.C., when the poet was

already forty-two years old, is the earliest. It formed the fourth play

of a tetralogy which contained the lost works _Women of Crete_, _Alcmæon

at Psophis_, and _Telephus_. Euripides obtained the second prize, being

vanquished by Sophocles—with what play is not known. The scene is laid

at Pheræ and presents the palace of Admetus, King of Thessaly. The god

Apollo relates how he has induced the Fates to allow Admetus to escape

death on his destined day, if he can find some one to die in his stead.

All refused save his wife, Alcestis, whose death therefore is to happen

this very day. Thanatos (Death) enters and Apollo in vain asks him to

spare the queen; a quarrel follows, and Apollo departs with threats. The

chorus of Pheræan elders enter and hear, from a servant, of Alcestis’

courageous leave-takings. Next the queen is borne forth and dies amid

the lamentations of her husband and little son. All save the chorus

retire to prepare for the funeral, when Heracles enters. Admetus comes

forth and insists on making the hero his guest, pretending that it is a

stranger who has died. Heracles is taken to the guest-chamber and the

elders reproach Admetus for his unseasonable hospitality. The funeral

procession is moving forward when Pheres, father of Admetus, enters to

pay his respects to the dead. His son with cold fury repels him: why did

he, an aged man, not consent to die, and so save Alcestis? A vigorous

and coarse altercation follows. When all have gone the butler enters,

complaining of Heracles’ drunken feasting; the latter soon follows, and

is quickly sobered by learning the truth. He proclaims his intention

of rescuing Alcestis from Thanatos, and hurries away. Admetus returns

followed by the chorus, expressing his utter grief and desolation.

Heracles arrives with a veiled woman, whom he says he has won as a

prize at some athletic contest; he must now depart to fulfil his next

“labour”—the capture of Diomedes’ man-eating steeds—and requests Admetus

to take care of the woman till his return. The king reluctantly consents,

and Heracles unveils her, whereupon Admetus recognizes his wife. She does

not speak, being (as Heracles explains) for three days yet subject to

the infernal deities.[413] The play ends with the joy of Admetus, a dry

remark of Heracles on true hospitality, and a few lines[414] from the

chorus expressing wonder at the mysterious ways of Heaven.

The Greek introductions to this play contain interesting criticisms:

“the close of the drama is somewhat comic”; “the drama is more or less

satyric, because it ends in joy and pleasure”. These remarks, coupled

with the fact that the _Alcestis_ (as the last play of the tetralogy)

occupied the place of the customary satyric drama, have caused much

discussion. It is enough to say here: first, that the _Alcestis_ is in

no sense a satyric play;[415] second, that it undoubtedly presents comic

features; third, that none the less the work belongs to the sphere of

tragedy. It is sometimes difficult, and often undesirable, to label

dramatic poems too definitely; but we must certainly avoid the impression

that this play is a comedy. It deals poignantly with the most solemn

interests of humanity; the comic scenes merely show, what is almost as

obvious elsewhere, that Euripides imitates actual life more closely than

his two great rivals. Nothing is gained, however, by ignoring the comic

element. The altercation between Apollo and Thanatos contains much that

surprises us—the wit[416] and the eager, wrangling, bargaining tone of

the dispute. Again the quarrel between Pheres and his son, admirable in

its skilful revelation of character, jars terribly when enacted over the

body of Alcestis. Heracles’ half-tipsy lecture to the slave shocks us in

a demigod about to wrestle with Death himself. But the whole situation

as between Alcestis and Admetus, Admetus and Heracles, is handled with

dignity and extraordinary pathos. The death scene, especially Admetus’

despairing address to his wife; the even finer passage when the king

returns but shrinks from the cold aspect of his widowed house; the

magnificent and lovely odes, above all the song which describes the

wild beasts of Othrys’ side sporting to the music of Apollo—these are

thoroughly suited to tragedy.

The plot is apparently[417] quite simple, but one fact should be

mentioned. The rescue of Alcestis is due directly to the drunkenness of

Heracles. He is prevented from learning the facts in an ordinary way

by Admetus; had he behaved normally, he would have left Pheræ still

unenlightened, since Admetus has forbidden[418] his slave to speak. It is

his intoxication alone which goads the butler to explain.

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.

The minor characters are, in their degree, excellently drawn—Creon above

all. His short scene is unforgettable; it is that familiar sight—a weak

man encouraging himself to firmness by exaggerating his own severity.

His delicious little grumble, “my chivalrous instincts have got me into

trouble more often than I like to think of,”[436] stamps him as the peer

of Dogberry and Justice Shallow.

As a piece of Greek, the _Medea_ is perhaps the finest work of Euripides.

The iambics have a simple brilliance and flexible ease which had been

unknown hitherto, and which indeed were never rivalled afterwards. Such

things as

σὺ γὰρ τί μ’ ἠδίκηκας; ἐξέδου κόρην

ὅτῳ σε θυμὸς ἦγεν,[437]

in Medea’s appeal to Creon, or Jason’s rebuke to her:

πᾶν κέρδος ἡγοῦ ζημιουμένη φυγῇ,[438]

or the expression of her “melting mood”:

ἔτικτον αὐτούς· ζῆν δ’ ὅτ’ ἐξηύχου τέκνα,

εἰσῆλθέ μ’ οἶκτος εἰ γενήσεται τάδε,[439]

are in their unobtrusive way masterpieces of language. But it is in

vain to quote specimens; the whole work is as novel and as great in

linguistic skill as in dramatic art. In particular the speeches of the

nurse at the opening, of Medea when rebuking and again when conciliating

Jason—above all, her fearful soliloquy and address to her children, touch

the summit of dramatic eloquence. The lyric passages are on the whole

less remarkable, but the mystic loveliness of the ode[440] celebrating

the glories of Attica, and the anapæsts[441] which give so haunting an

expression to a parent’s yearning over his children, are among the most

precious things this tender as well as terrible poet has bequeathed to

us.

The HERACLEIDÆ[442] (Ἡρακλεῖδαι) or _Children of Heracles_, is a

short[443] play of uncertain date, usually referred to the early years of

the Peloponnesian War (431-404) and by some to the date 422 B.C. Nothing

is known as to the companion plays, or the success obtained by the

tetralogy.

The scene is laid before the temple of Zeus at Marathon in Attica.

The young sons of Heracles are discovered with the aged Iolaus, their

father’s comrade, who explains how, after Heracles departed to Heaven,

Eurystheus of Argos has hunted the hero’s family through Greece. They

have taken refuge in Attica; Alcmena, mother of Heracles, and the

daughters are now within the temple; Hyllus, the eldest son, has gone to

seek another refuge in case Athens fails them. Copreus,[444] a herald

from Argos, enters and is dragging the suppliants away when the chorus

of aged Athenians enter. Copreus disregards their remonstrances, but is

confronted by the king, Demophon, and his brother Acamas. He insists

that the Heracleidæ are Argive subjects: let not Demophon risk war with

Argos. Iolaus appeals for protection, and is granted it; Copreus retires

with threats of instant war. After an ode of defiance by the chorus,

Demophon returns with news that a noble virgin must be sacrificed to

Persephone, and he will not slay an Athenian girl. Iolaus is in despair,

when Macaria, one of Heracles’ daughters, comes forth and offers herself.

After a proud but melancholy farewell she goes. A serf of Hyllus arrives,

bringing, he says, good news. At this Iolaus joyfully summons Alcmena,

who imagines that another herald is assaulting him; but he announces

that Hyllus has returned with a large host of allies. Iolaus, despite

the serf’s rueful gibes, insists on going to the fray and, dressed

in ancient arms from the temple, totters off. The chorus proclaim the

justice of their cause, invoking Zeus and Athena. The attendant returns

with news of complete victory. Iolaus was taken into Hyllus’ chariot and

being (by favour of Heracles and Hebe) miraculously restored for a while

to his youthful vigour, captured Eurystheus. The chorus celebrate the

glory of Athens and acclaim Heracles, who is now proved (despite report)

to be dwelling in Heaven. Eurystheus is led in and Alcmena gloats over

him, promising him death. The messenger intervenes: Athenians do not kill

prisoners. She insists. Then Eurystheus breaks silence: it was Hera who

forced him to these persecutions, and if he is now slain in cold blood,

a curse will fall on the slayer. The chorus at length accept Alcmena’s

evasion that he be killed and his corpse be given to his friends.

Eurystheus presents Athens with an oracle which declares that his spirit

shall be hostile to the Heracleidæ, when, forgetting this kindness, they

invade Attica.[445] Alcmena bids her attendants convey Eurystheus within

and destroy him. The chorus[446] briefly express satisfaction at being

free from this guilt, and the play ends.

The _Heracleidæ_ is one of the least popular[447] among Euripides’ works.

It has indeed unmistakable beauties. The heroic daughter of Heracles and

her proud insistence on no rivalry in her sacrifice have always moved

admiration. The Greek style, moreover, though not equal to that of the

_Medea_, has all the Euripidean limpidity and ease. Such lines as

τίς δ’ εἶ σύ; ποῦ σοι συντυχὼν ἀμνημονῶ;[448]

in Iolaus’ conversations with Hyllus’ thrall, and the lyric phrase

ἁ δ’ ἀρετὰ βαίνει διὰ μόχθων[449]

haunt the ear. Moreover, the chivalry with which Demophon and his

citizens champion the helpless must have stirred Athenian hearts. But

our pleasure is repeatedly checked by incidents grotesque, horrible, or

inexplicable. To the first category belongs the absurd scene in which

Iolaus totters away amid badinage to do battle with Argos. There is a

comic note, again, in the scene where Alcmena for the first time appears

and supposes that Hyllus’ messenger is another hostile herald from Argos.

As we know who he is, her attack on him shows that painful mixture of the

pathetic and the ludicrous which so often marks Euripides’ work; here

the comic prevails over the touching. Secondly, the interview in which

Eurystheus is presented to Alcmena, who gloats at her ease over him,

is horrible, however natural. And finally the inexplicable or at least

puzzling features are perhaps the most striking of all.

The first difficulty concerns the personality which forms the background

of the whole; the apotheosis of Heracles is treated in equivocal fashion

throughout. Iolaus[450] alone seems entirely convinced. Alcmena, after

news of the victory to which her son has given miraculous aid, utters the

candid words:—[451]

After long years, O Zeus, my woes have touched thee,

Yet take my thanks for all that hath been wrought.

My son—though erstwhile I refused belief—

I know in truth doth dwell amid the gods.

And her faith is echoed in less prosaic language[452] by the chorus, who

proclaim the falsehood of the story that Heracles after his passing by

fire went down to the abode of Hades; in truth he dwells in Heaven and in

the golden court lives as the spouse of Hebe. But these confessions are

due to the marvels on the battle-field, marvels upon which the narrator

himself takes pains to throw grave doubt.[453] Macaria, though she has

every reason[454] to dilate on the glories of her father, speaks of

him but briefly and with only the normal filial respect.[455] Of the

others, Copreus ignores him; from the man’s character we expect sneers

and refutations of the miraculous stories such as are put by our poet

in the mouth of Lycus.[456] Eurystheus speaks of him generously, but

in terms which imply that he has never heard, much less accepted, the

marvellous accounts of his enemy: “I knew thy son was no mere cypher, but

in good sooth a man; for even though he was mine enemy, yet will I speak

well of him, that man of worth”.[457] Demophon himself, the champion

of Heracles’ children, even when he has been reminded (by Iolaus) how

the hero rescued Theseus, father of Demophon, from Hades itself, in his

reply treats this overwhelming claim ambiguously and with nothing more

than politeness.[458] All this seems to show the dramatist’s belief that

Heracles was simply a “noble man”—an ἐσθλὸς ἀνήρ—whose divine traits are

the offspring of minds like those of Iolaus and Alcmena, whose sagacity

throughout the drama is painfully low.

Macaria’s fate, also, at first sight causes perplexity. After she leaves

the scene, nothing[459] more is heard of her. When and where she dies

we are not told; the promise[460] of Iolaus that she shall be honoured

by him in death, as in life, above all women, produces no effect—for

we are told nothing about her burial; whether the advent of Hyllus’

reinforcements should or does make any difference to the necessity for

the sacrifice is not discussed. But there is good reason to suppose that

a whole episode, on Macaria’s death, has been lost.

The army of Hyllus is the most astonishing feature in the play. All the

action and all the pathos depend upon the helplessness which involves

the Heracleidæ. Every other city has rejected them; if Athens fails all

is lost—so we are told repeatedly.[461] Yet at the last moment Hyllus

returns with a positive army. Whence has it come? How can Iolaus have

been ignorant that such aid was possible? We are told nothing. The

Athenian leaders apparently, Iolaus and Alcmena[462] certainly, receive

these incredible tidings with no feeling save placid satisfaction.

Finally, if this drama is composed in order to extol the nobility of

Athens in espousing the cause of the weak, it is extraordinary that so

dubious an example should be selected. The suppliants are ancestors of

those very Spartans who, when the drama was produced, were the bitter and

dangerous enemies of Athens. Was not her ancient kindness in saving the

first generation of these foes a piece of folly? Eurystheus points this

moral at the close.[463] Alcmena herself, in her cold ferocity[464] and

her quibbling[465] over the dues of piety, is a clear prophecy of what

fifth-century Athenians most detested in the Spartan character. Moreover,

the plea of Copreus is perfectly just: Argos has a right to punish her

own people if condemned; whether they were wrongly so condemned is no

concern of Athens.

The upshot seems to be that Eurystheus has a bitter quarrel with a

powerful noble, so bitter that when his enemy dies the king dares not

leave his children at large. Through the sentimental weakness of her

ruler Athens is drawn into the dispute, and history shows that she made a

frightful mistake.

The HIPPOLYTUS[466] (Ἱππόλυτος Στεφανίας[467] or Στεφανηφόρος) was

produced in 428 B.C. and obtained the first prize. The scene is laid in

Trœzen before a house belonging to Theseus, King of Athens. Aphrodite,

the goddess of love, speaks the prologue, explaining how Hippolytus,

son of Theseus, scorns her and consorts always with Artemis, the virgin

huntress-deity. Aphrodite therefore has caused Phædra, the wife of

Theseus, to fall in love with her stepson. The king in his wrath shall

bring about the death of his son. The prince enters followed by his

huntsmen, and turning to the statue of Artemis with a beautiful prayer

places garlands upon it, but disregards the image of Aphrodite. After

the hunters have entered the palace, the chorus of Trœzenian women come

to inquire after the ailing Phædra. She is borne forth, attended by

her nurse, who seeks to calm the feverishness of her mistress and her

passionate longing for the wild regions of the chase. She gradually

learns that the queen is consumed by passion for Hippolytus. Phædra,

now quite calm, describes her fight with temptation; when she saw that

victory was impossible she chose death, and for this reason has refused

food. The nurse offers very different counsel. Why should Phædra strive

against her instincts? Even the gods have erred through love; she will

cure her mistress. The remedy, she soon hints, is nothing but surrender.

At this Phædra is so indignant that the other again takes refuge in

ambiguity; she retires to fetch certain charms. The ode which follows

proclaims the irresistible sway of love. The queen, in the meantime, has

been standing near the palace-door and now recoils in horror—she has

heard Hippolytus reviling the nurse; nothing, she cries, is now left to

her but speedy death. Hippolytus enters in fury, followed by the nurse.

After an altercation in which he threatens to break his oath of secrecy,

he breaks forth into a lengthy and bitter tirade against women, but

finally promises to keep his oath. When the prince has retired Phædra

proclaims her resolve to avoid shame for her family and herself by death,

obtaining from the chorus a promise not to divulge what has occurred; at

the same time she obscurely threatens Hippolytus. After she has gone,

the chorus voice their yearning to be free from this world of sin and

woe; surely this trouble is a curse brought by Phædra from her house

in Crete, a curse which is even now forcing her neck into the noose. A

messenger rushes forth crying out that the queen has hanged herself.

Theseus returns home and is speedily apprised of his loss. Suddenly

he sees a letter clutched in his dead wife’s hand; on reading it he

announces in fury that Hippolytus has violated his connubial rights. He

appeals to his father Poseidon, god of the sea, who has promised to grant

him any three prayers, to destroy Hippolytus. The prince returns, and

Theseus, after a stinging attack on his son’s pretensions, banishes him.

Hippolytus is prevented by his oath from defending himself effectually,

and sorrowfully turns away. The chorus ponder upon the mysterious ways

of Heaven and lament the downfall of the brilliant prince. One of

Hippolytus’ attendants returns and informs Theseus that his son is on

the point of death. A gigantic bull, sent by Poseidon out of the sea,

terrified Hippolytus’ horses, which bolted and mangled their master.

Theseus receives these tidings with grim satisfaction, but the goddess

Artemis appears and reveals all the facts. Theseus is utterly prostrated.

Hippolytus is carried in, lamenting his agony and unmerited fate. Artemis

converses with him affectionately and there follows between the two men a

few words lamenting the curse fulfilled by Poseidon. Artemis consoles her

favourite and disappears. Hippolytus gives his father full forgiveness,

and dies in his embrace.

The main impression left by a repeated study of this magnificent

drama is a sense of the loveliness and delight which the transfusing

genius of a poet can throw around the ruin worked by blind instinct

and hate, even around a whole world tortured by belief in gods whose

supreme intelligence, will, and power, are quick to punish, but never

pardon. No poem in the world conveys more pungently the aroma of

life’s inextinguishable beauty and preciousness. Life does not become

ugly because full of sin or pain. It can only become ugly by growing

unintelligible. So long as it can be understood, it remains to man, whose

joys are all founded upon perception, a thing that can be loved; this is

the one and sufficient reason why tragic drama is beautiful.

For the writer of the _Hippolytus_, then, life is something profoundly

sorrowful yet profoundly dear. Hippolytus’ address to Artemis on his

return from the chase is compact of that mystic loveliness which fills

remote glades with a visible presentment of the beauty of holiness:—

For thee, my Queen, this garland have I twined

Of blossoms from that meadow virginal,

Where neither shepherd dares to graze his flock,

Nor hath the scythe made entry: yet the bee

Doth haunt the mead, that voyager of spring,

’Mid Nature’s shyest charm of stream and verdure.

There may no base man enter; only he,

Who, taught by instinct, uninstructed else,

Hath taken Virtue for his star of life,

May pluck the flow’rets of that pleasance pure.

Come, Queen belovèd, for thy shining hair

Accept this wreath from hands of innocence!

To me alone of all mankind is given

Converse to hold and company with thee,

Hearing thy voice, although thy face be hid.

To the end of life, as now, may I be thine![468]

This passion for natural beauty as the background of emotional life

recurs throughout. The Trœzenian women as they enter tell of their

informant—not “some one talking near the place where men play draughts,”

as in the _Medea_, but a woman in a picture:—

Where waters leap,

Waters that flow (men say) from the far-off western sea,

Down the rock-face,

And gush from the steep

To a deep place

Where pitchers may dip far down—thence hath come a message to me.[469]

Phædra in her delirium sees visions of unfettered life “beneath the

poplars, amid the deep grass,” she fancies herself cheering on the

hunting hounds through the pine-glades, and yearns to feel in her grasp

“the iron-pointed shaft”—words to which we come back with deeper pain

when in almost the same language Hippolytus, now himself delirious, longs

to let out his tortured life with a “two-edged spear”.[470] When she

enters the house to seek death, the chorus pour forth their yearning for

escape from the sin and sorrow of this life to romantic regions where all

is grace and unstained peace:—[471]

In yon precipice-face might I hide me from sorrow,

And God, in his love, of the air make me free!

Ah, to speed with the sea-gulls—alight on the morrow

Where Eridanus mingles his waves with the sea!

There for ever the sisters of Phaethon languish,

For grief of his fate bowing hush’d o’er the stream;

Like eyes in the gloaming, the tears of their anguish

Up through the dark water as amber-drops gleam.

Or far let me wing to the fäery beaches

Where the Maids of the Sunset ’neath apple-boughs dance,

And the Lord of the Waters his last purple reaches

Hath closed to the mariner’s restless advance;

Where from Atlas the sky arches down to the streaming

Of the sea, and the spring of Eternity flows

Where the mansion of Zeus on earth’s bosom is dreaming

’Mid life like a lily and bliss like a rose.

Theseus himself expresses this sense of the fragile beauty of life in

lines[472] which recall the unearthly charm of Sophocles:—

ὄρνις γὰρ ὥς τις ἐκ χερῶν ἄφαντος εἶ,

πήδημ’ ἐς Αἵδου κραιπνὸν ὁρμήσασά μοι.

Even Artemis the unloving can tell of life’s charm surviving death itself

in some wise, an immortality of beautiful remembrance.[473] Throughout,

the poet has used all his power to invest the theme with loveliness of

phrasing. Elsewhere, skilful as his writing is, he often gives us what is

practically prose; the _Hippolytus_ is his nearest approach to the manner

of Sophocles.

Nor is the likeness confined to verbal expression. The theology is,

or claims to be, the theology of Sophocles. The traditional Olympians

are accepted as persons, with the powers and purposes which current

belief attributed to them. This is the view which Sophocles accepts and

expounds. Euripides who certainly did not accept it, here expounds it—in

his own way and with deadly results. Many times Euripides questions the

very existence of these deities, but now he sees fit to accept them for

a moment, and depicts life as lived under such rulers. Men and women can

feel and recreate the beauty of this world, but these gods time and again

dash all into pitiful fragments. “The world is ruled by stupid fiends,

who spend eternity thwarting one another. Do we dwell in a universe or a

grinning chaos?”

Is this all? Very far from it. Almost all the action of the tragedy could

be accounted for—had we not this disconcerting divine explanation—on

purely “human” lines, though what “human” means is, as the poet plainly

perceives, no less difficult a question than that of theology. But

at least the sorrows of Trœzen scarcely need the baneful _persons_

of Olympus. For the three sufferers are, after all, not blameless.

They share that casual sinfulness—for we cannot avoid the use of

question-begging words—which is the lot of man. Hippolytus errs (in Greek

eyes) by his complete aversion from sexual passion; he errs in all eyes

by the arrogance with which he proclaims it. His famous speech[474] is

too long for a spontaneous burst of resentment; it becomes a frigid

piece of self-glorification. It is precisely this arrogance which stings

Phædra to the thought of revenge.[475] Theseus, in spite of the pathetic

blindness with which he imputes[476] his misery to some ancestor’s sin,

is the original cause of it. Hippolytus is the offspring of his youthful

incontinence.[477] Then, when he has “settled down,” it is precisely his

respectable marriage which brings the consequence of his early amour to

fruition; his son and his young wife are of nearly the same age. As for

Phædra herself, the passion which she feels need not be attributed to a

personal goddess. Lawlessness is in her veins; her mother and sister have

both sinned:[478] Crete, “the Isle of Awful Love,”[479] brands its name

upon line after line of the play. For this predisposition to unchastity

many of Euripides’ contemporaries, as of our own, would have blamed

her heartily. The poet himself does not, as his splendidly sympathetic

treatment of her shows; but neither does he feel any need to lay the

blame upon Aphrodite. Phædra’s offence, her contribution to disaster,

lies in her early toying with her passion, when she founded a shrine of

the love-goddess in Hippolytus’ name;[480] in her accompanying Theseus

(apparently without a struggle) to Trœzen and the society of the prince;

in her determination to punish Hippolytus for his bitter pride.

To banish “the gods” and attribute sin to “heredity,” is that not merely

to substitute one word for another? Yes, but the poet herein has his

eye fixed on formal theology. Well aware that the glib invocation of

“heredity” or “environment” is no more conclusive than “the will of the

gods,” he yet insists that sin is a matter of psychology. We must study

human nature if we mean to understand and conquer sin. If we regard

Aphrodite or Artemis as _persons_ external to ourselves and of superhuman

power we lose all hope of moral improvement in our own hearts. But if we

accept these devastating powers as forces in human nature, we may hope by

study and self-discipline in some degree to control them.

Thus the drama is full of subtly wise psychology: it is an interesting

comment on much that has been written about “realist” play-writing that

the _Hippolytus_, which contains some of the most romantic poetry in

Greek literature, is also as sincere and profound in characterization

as the work of Ibsen himself. Theseus and his son we have already

considered; Phædra and her nurse require deeper study. The latter is a

masterpiece among the “minor” characters of Euripides. Her tenderness

for the young queen and passionate desire at all costs to win her

peace; the dignity which life and its contemplation can give even to

coarse-fibred[481] natures; her feeling for the deepest pathos of

life—these things constitute a great dramatic figure. It is to her that

the poet gives his most poignant expression of that mingled pain and

beauty which we discussed a moment ago:—

But if any far-off state there be,

Dearer than life to mortality;

The hand of the Dark hath hold thereof,

And mist is under and mist above,

And so we are sick for life and cling

On earth to this nameless and shining thing.

For other life is a fountain sealed,

And the deeps below us are unrevealed,

And we drift on legends for ever![482]

She, too, it is who in words[483] of almost equal beauty urges Phædra to

yield to her passion:—

Thy love—why marvel thereat? ’Tis the tale

Of many. Wouldst thou lose thy life for love?

Good sooth! A guerdon strange, if lovers now

And evermore must meet such penalty!

Who shall withstand the Cyprian’s rising flood?

Yield to her spell: she comes in gentleness;

Make high thy pride and stand on niceties,

She flings thee pell-mell into ignominy.

Amid the sky she walks, amid the surge

Of the sea-billows. All things live from her.

The seed is hers and hers the yearning throe

Whence spring we all that tread the ways of earth

Ask them that con the half-forgotten seers

Of elder time, and serve the Muse themselves.

They knew how Zeus once pined for Semele,

How for love’s sake the Goddess of the Dawn

Stooped from her radiant sphere to Cephalus

And stole him to the sky. Yet these abide

In Heaven, nor shun the converse of the gods,

Bowing, belike, to conquering circumstance.

And wilt not _thou_? Nay, if this law thou spurnest,

Thy sire, when he begat thee, should have writ

Some compact countersigned by gods unknown!

The nurse makes moral weakness into a very religion,[484] and Phædra’s

heart, one would suppose, is finally broken when, to this appeal that

the gods themselves are against her, is added proof that man is utterly

unable to understand. “If thy life had not been in such danger,” says the

nurse, “and thou hadst _happened to be a chaste woman_, I should not thus

lead thee on,”[485] and again: “_Thy duty, to be sure, forbids sin; but,

as things are_, be advised by me”.[486] This hideous purring is perhaps

Phædra’s bitterest shame. No one can understand, except the prince who

seems so utterly remote. Hippolytus, after her death, can say[487]

Unchaste in passion, chaste in soul was she;

Me hath my passionless purity dishonoured.

What does Phædra herself say? Is there any reply to the dreadful

eloquence of her old attendant? There is only one reply conceivable,

and she offers it: “Whatever gods may do, or men think, I must so act

as to be able to respect myself”.[488] Euripides insists that the

centre of ethics lies in man himself. For Phædra there is no soul on

which she can rely but her own; the conflict must be fought out within

herself. The great speech[489] in which she tells her spiritual history

to the chorus without any reserve or faltering, is the kernel of the

tragedy. We realize how empty of all comfort life can be for those who

resolutely reject outworn creeds and turn to seek for a better. Here is

no thought, no hint, of a saviour; the puny soul must struggle alone with

an uncomprehended universe. Æschylus had found a saviour in Zeus;[490]

Euripides can see no comfort in gods who are less virtuous than men.

In this speech, too, we note for the first time a portrayal of moral

temptation and a clear conception of conscience. Sophocles understands

well how duty can brace the soul to heroic life or death, but for him

the sanction of duty lies in the will of external deities. For Euripides

conscience is sufficient as a rule of conduct.

Phædra is a masterpiece of characterization. Whatever we are to guess of

the earlier[491] picture, she is here a noble and spirited woman, who

cannot help her instincts but who can and will dispute their power over

her life. She is, of course, not perfect—if she were she would be no fit

subject for drama—and the manner in which Euripides has caused the action

to hinge precisely upon her weaknesses, without lessening our respect and

affection, is one of the most improving studies provided by dramatic art.

The little crevices of circumstance by which wrong-doing—the destruction

of Hippolytus—creeps into her soul are beautifully indicated. She is

wasted by fasting,[492] a state conducive to keener perception and weaker

will. She has been brought—without any attempt on her part, so surely

she may indulge in the disastrous joy[493]—from Athens to the little

town where the prince lives. Her husband, as it chances,[494] is from

home and her life is left empty for “long, long thoughts”.[495] When she

dwells upon her passion the recollection of her mother’s and her sister’s

fate half attracts while it half repels.[496] Her passionate nature

insists on revealing some part of her distress to the keen eyes of the

nurse, who forthwith joins the claims of old affection[497] to this new

secret pain. So it is that she is half-conquered by what she will not do:—

Nay, in God’s name, forbear! Thy words are vile

But wise withal. Love in my soul too well

Hath mined his way. Urge sin thus winningly

And passion sweeps my fears into the gulf.[498]

But the nurse will not forbear, and the comforting promise of a

charm which shall “still this disease,”[499] as Phædra perhaps

half-suspects,[500] is an undertaking to win Hippolytus. The dread strain

of illness, passion, and shame have turned the woman for a moment into a

nervous child.[501] Thus it comes about that without disgrace, without

forfeiture of her conscience, Phædra moves towards the dread moment[502]

at which she hears the outcry of Hippolytus. Then after all the anguish,

she listens to his intolerable endless speech! Such is the situation

in which murder is conceived. In this way Hippolytus’ σωφροσύνη has

certainly been his undoing.[503]

We are told[504] that this play is a second version of the theme,

and that it was called _The Crowned Hippolytus_ (from the lovely

address to Artemis) to distinguish it from the first, called _The

Veiled Hippolytus_. This version (now lost) is said to have contained

“improprieties” which the poet afterwards removed. This refers to the

attitude of Phædra, who showed less reserve in her passion than in the

later play. She invoked the moon-goddess, perhaps to aid her in winning

Hippolytus, and boldly pointed to the infidelities of Theseus as an

excuse for her own passion.[505] The reproaches[506] which Aristophanes

lays upon Phædra refer perhaps only to this earlier version, but his most

famous gibe[507] is upon a line[508] of our text,

ἡ γλῶσσ’ ὀμώμοχ’, ἡ δὲ φρὴν ἀνώμοτος,

“My tongue hath sworn; my soul abides unsworn.” This seems to give us

the measure of the comic poet’s criticism; he blames Euripides for this

sentiment, and yet Hippolytus even in his most desperate trouble will

not clear himself by breaking his oath. One cannot, however, refrain

from pointing out that even if he had broken it, Theseus would not have

believed him,[509] and that Hippolytus realizes this.[510]

The HECUBA (Ἑκάβη) is the next play in order of date; it was performed

about 425 B.C.[511] This tragedy was enormously popular throughout

antiquity, as the great volume of the scholia proves. It was one of

the three plays—the others were _Phœnissæ_ and _Orestes_—used as an

Euripidean reading-book in the Byzantine schools.

The scene is laid in Thrace, where the Greeks are encamped after the

fall of Troy; the background is a tent wherein captive Trojan women are

quartered. The ghost of Polydorus, Priam’s youngest son, tells how he

has been murdered by the Thracian king, Polymestor; he has appeared in

a dream to his mother Hecuba. On his departure, Hecuba enters, and soon

learns that her daughter Polyxena is to be sacrificed at the tomb of

Achilles. Odysseus comes to fetch the maiden, who welcomes death as a

relief from slavery. Soon Talthybius enters, summoning Hecuba to bury

Polyxena, whose noble death has filled the Greeks with admiration. Hecuba

sends a woman to fetch sea-water for the obsequies, and this messenger

returns with the body of Polydorus. Hecuba exclaims that the murderer is

Polymestor: her dream has told her. Agamemnon enters, and she induces

him to connive at her taking vengeance upon the Thracian, his ally. Next

she sends for Polymestor and his children, and (after a beautiful ode

on the last hours of Troy), they arrive. Polymestor is induced to go

with his little sons within the tent, where they are slaughtered and he

himself blinded. His cries bring back Agamemnon, who rejects the pleas of

Polymestor. The Thracian, in his despair, prophesies the strange end both

of Agamemnon and of Hecuba. He is dragged away, and the drama ends with

preparations for the voyage to Greece.

This tragedy, let it be said plainly, is on the whole poor and

uninteresting.[512] It has been frequently noted, for example, that

the plot is “episodic,” that it falls into two divisions, the story of

Polyxena and the vengeance upon Polymestor, which are really two small

dramas with no genuine connexion. To this it has been replied that the

spiritual history of Hecuba supplies unity to the whole; that these

episodes bring out her development from a victim into a fiend.[513]

But this is scarcely satisfactory. For the two parts are developed so

completely along their several lines, they have so little dependence upon

one another, that they could stand apart; and that is the real test.

Further, the poet himself is uneasy. He is anxious to make some sort of

connexion, but it is curiously adventitious. His device, that the corpse

of Polydorus is discovered by the woman sent for water wherewith to bathe

the body of Polyxena, has won too high praise. An attempt to strengthen

it, or rather to draw attention to its neatness, is supplied in the

conversation between Hecuba and Agamemnon:[514] “How did he die?” “By the

hands of his Thracian host.” ... “Who brought his body hither?” ... “This

woman. She found it upon the sea-shore.” “_Was she looking for it, or

busied with some other task?_” The last question is absurd; Agamemnon has

no reason to ask it. Other little hooks,[515] less obtrusive than this,

are provided here and there to connect the two parts. If the play were an

unity they would not be needed.

Again, the favourite charge against Euripides, that he delights in

quasi-judicial disputes, is brought in here also. The accusation is

generally unfair. Critics have been so eager to condemn this poet that

they forget the trial scene of the _Eumenides_, the altercation between

Œdipus and Creon in the _Œdipus at Colonus_ and various other passages in

the earlier tragedians. If a dispute occurs at all, it is in accordance

with the genius of Greek tragedy to set it out in formally opposed

speeches. One might as well complain of Hamlet’s soliloquies. But in the

_Hecuba_ there is more than this. The queen has a gusto not merely for

eloquent appeals or invective, but for self-conscious rhetoric, “Filled

with lament, not destitute of tears,”[516] is abominable. One is not

surprised to learn that the queen is interested in professional teachers

of rhetoric,[517] and one remembers that Gorgias, the greatest of them,

paid his first visit to Athens a year or two[518] before this play was

produced.

The whole piece in its tone and method is far below the best of

Euripides’ work. Certain things are undoubtedly excellent—the famous

chorus[519] already mentioned, and above all the speech[520] of

Polyxena and the narrative of her death.[521] The whole work has not

enough calibre. The pathos has no subtlety; the characterization is

machine-made; the style, though clear and even elegant—one must allow

that the first speech[522] of Polymestor, as a piece of conversational

Greek, is unobtrusively perfect—has remarkably few of those feats[523] of

idiom which delight us elsewhere.

Polyxena is charming, but a slight sketch only compared with the Medea

and the Phædra who have preceded her. Agamemnon the cautious prince,

Odysseus the opportunist, Polymestor the brutally wicked barbarian,

are characters whom dozens of Euripides’ contemporaries could have

produced with ease. Talthybius the herald, still more shadowy, claims

remembrance by his naïve conceit.[524] Hecuba herself is hardly better.

True, the poet has shown admirably how she progresses from weakness to

frightful strength under the pressure of injustice, but without any very

sympathetic psychology we fall short of genuine tragedy and touch only

melodrama. And she is more than a little grotesque. Her strange passion

for rhetorical studies we have already noted. She has, moreover, a taste

for inopportune theorizing,[525] even concerning theology.[526] Her

griefs themselves command our respect, and she can in one or two flashes

of inspiration speak of them in language[527] not unworthy of Shakespeare

himself; but there is too much repetition of merely melancholy

adjectives, and though there should be only one emotion in us towards a

woman who has lost all her children, we can hardly retain it when she

reminds us that they were fifty in number.[528]

The apparition of the murdered Polydorus is an interesting element in

the action. First, we view the early part of the drama with greater

sympathy for the queen, knowing as we do the new horror which awaits her.

Secondly, it is necessary that Hecuba should know how Polydorus died.

Though but vaguely affected by the vision at first,[529] when parts of

it are fulfilled, she remembers and believes definitely in the rest, and

knows that Polymestor is the murderer.[530]

The ANDROMACHE (Ἀνδρομάχη) is perhaps the next[531] extant play in the

order of time. It was not originally brought out at Athens.[532]

The action takes place before the house of Neoptolemus, prince of Phthia

in Thessaly; at one side of the orchestra is the shrine of Thetis.

Andromache delivers the prologue. After the fall of Troy she became

the prize of Neoptolemus to whom she has borne a son, Molottus. Later

the prince married Hermione, daughter of the Spartan king Menelaus.

Andromache has hidden the child and herself taken sanctuary in the shrine

of Thetis; the boy’s father is from home, having gone to Delphi to ask

Apollo’s pardon for demanding reparation for Achilles’ death. Andromache

now sends a fellow-slave to ask the aid of Peleus, king of Phthia and

her master’s grandfather. Soon she is joined by the chorus, a company

of Phthian women who sympathize but urge submission. Hermione enters,

and after a spiteful altercation, in which she tries in vain to make

the captive leave her sanctuary, departs with threats. Menelaus enters,

leading Molottus; he offers Andromache her choice: will she submit to

death, or see the boy slain? Andromache gives herself up, whereupon

Menelaus announces that, while she must die, Molottus lies at the mercy

of Hermione. By this treachery Andromache is goaded into the most bitter

invective to be found in Euripides. The chorus dwell upon the folly of

domestic irregularities such as those of Neoptolemus. Next Menelaus leads

forth Andromache and Molottus for death, when Peleus hurries in and

releases them. After a violent quarrel Menelaus throws up his daughter’s

cause and departs. Peleus leads the captives away while the chorus

sing his youthful exploits. From the palace comes Hermione’s nurse:

deserted by her father and dreading her husband’s vengeance the princess

is seeking to destroy herself. Next moment Hermione rushes out in

distraction and the nurse is attempting to calm her when Orestes enters,

explaining that he has called to inquire after his cousin Hermione. She

begs him to take her away to Menelaus before her husband returns. Orestes

agrees, reminding her that she has in the past been betrothed to him; now

Neoptolemus shall pay for his insults by death at Delphi. After their

departure the chorus sing of the gods who built but abandoned Troy, and

of Orestes’ vengeance upon Clytæmnestra. Peleus returns, having heard

of Hermione’s flight. In a moment arrives a messenger who tells how

Neoptolemus has been murdered by Delphians at the instigation of Orestes.

The body is borne in, and Peleus laments over it until interrupted by the

goddess Thetis, his bride of long ago. She comforts him with a promise of

immortality. Andromache is to marry Helenus, king of Molossia,[533] and

her son is to be ancestor of a dynasty in that land.

Certain remarkable difficulties in the plot must be faced.

First is the breakdown of Menelaus in the presence of Peleus. The

first half of the play has exhibited his unswerving resolve to destroy

Andromache and her child. Every conceivable argument save one has been

addressed to him in vain. That one argument is physical compulsion, and

Peleus certainly does not offer it.[534] After a storm of mutual abuse

the Spartan withdraws from the whole situation, muttering an excuse which

is scarcely meant to be taken seriously: he is in a hurry to chastise an

unfriendly state.[535] He goes just far enough to embitter his enemies

to the utmost and not far enough to redeem his threats; and he retires

without a word to his daughter after committing her to a deeply dangerous

project. Menelaus has faults, but crass stupidity is not one of them;

on the contrary he is reviled as the type of base cunning. Why, then,

does he act with such utter futility at a crisis which anyone could have

foreseen?

In the second place, when was Neoptolemus murdered? Orestes declares that

the prince will be slain at Delphi, and at once departs with Hermione.

After a choric song Peleus comes back, and almost at once receives the

news of his grandson’s death. When Orestes utters his prophecy the

messenger from Delphi can hardly be more than a mile from the house.

Has he already committed the murder as a prelude to an innocent and

irrelevant pilgrimage to Dodona? And, if so, why does he reveal, or

rather not reveal, the fact? And why has he risked himself in Phthia

when the news of his crime may at any moment be revealed?[536]

Thirdly, there is a grave difficulty in the structure, independent of

Menelaus’ conduct and the dating of Orestes’ crime. The play seems to

fall into two halves with but a slight connexion—the plight of Andromache

and the woes of Neoptolemus’ house.

The late Dr. Verrall’s theory[537] of the play explains all these things

together. Menelaus has come to see that it is to his interest that his

daughter should be the wife of the Argive rather than of the Phthiote

prince. He and Orestes therefore concoct a plan to this end. Two things

must be achieved: Neoptolemus must be removed, and Hermione, passionately

as she loves her lord, must be induced to accept his assassin. The

cunning of Menelaus fastens upon the failings of his son-in-law as the

path to success. First, he has offended the Delphians, and thus Orestes

finds it easy to compass his death. Second, he has caused bitterness in

his own house by his connexion with Andromache. Menelaus, while Orestes

is at Delphi, urges Hermione into action which her jealousy approves

but which her intellect (when it is allowed to speak) must and does

condemn. The Spartan has no intention of killing the captives, but he

sees to it that Hermione is, in the eyes of Peleus and his subjects,

irretrievably committed to such an intention, which will beyond doubt

incense Neoptolemus most bitterly—or would, were he still alive as

Hermione supposes. Then, when she has committed herself, he calmly bows

to the outburst of Peleus and leaves her ready to snatch at any hope

in her hysterical despair. At this moment, carefully awaited by the

plotters, Orestes appears. He has already murdered Neoptolemus, and is

now ready to take Hermione away. But this is not enough. She must appear

to come by her own suggestion, and it must appear that she has known at

the moment of her elopement what has happened at Delphi. As she hurries

from the scene he utters, apparently in consolation of her (though really

she is out of hearing), so that it may lodge in the minds of the chorus,

a prophecy of Neoptolemus’ fate. Later, she is to be reminded by her

father and her new suitor how completely she is involved in suspicion

of complicity. Thus she will be thrown into the arms of Orestes, and

whatever blame there is will be laid upon Delphi.[538]

This view should in its essentials be adopted. Every dramatist commits

faults; but these apparent faults in the _Andromache_ prove too much.

They tend to show not that Euripides is here inferior in construction

and psychology to Sophocles, but that he is insane. Few readers could

compose a speech like that of Andromache beginning ὦ πᾶσιν ἀνθρώποισιν

ἔχθιστοι βροτῶν, or like the messenger’s narrative. But we could all

manage the exit of Menelaus better. There is one great general objection

to Verrall’s theory. Is it not much too subtle? If readers have always

missed the point, would not spectators do so even more certainly?

Verrall, in answer, points to a passage in the Greek _Argument_: τὸ δὲ

δρᾶμα τῶν δευτέρων, which he takes to mean “this play is one of the

sequels”.[539] He believes that the audience had a sufficient knowledge

of the earlier part of the story to follow the _Andromache_ with no

perplexity. Whether this knowledge was given by an earlier play of

Euripides is not of course certain, but may be regarded as likely.

We next note a feature of equal importance—the atmosphere. Every reader

observes strange anachronisms of sentiment and allusion—Hermione’s

outburst[540] against women who destroy the confidence between husband

and wife, Peleus’ comments on Lacedæmonian society,[541] and the like,

which have no relevance to the “Homeric age” of the Trojan war. But

the whole tone of the play is unheroic; even if these special features

were removed it would remain quite unlike a Sophoclean drama. Euripides

has, in fact, written a play about his own generation with a definite

purpose. He takes stories from myths as the foundation of his plays,

but his interest is in his own time. In spite of “thy mother Helen”

and “the hapless town of the Phrygians,” his work concerns essentially

fifth-century Athenians. Hence the almost complete absence of poetic

colour, which is only found in the conventional lyrics and the goddess of

the epilogue, who is no more in tune with the rest of the piece than a

fairy-queen would be at the close of _A Doll’s House_. His chief concern

is the danger to family life involved in the practice of slave-holding.

Neoptolemus loses his life, and Hermione consents to the wreck of her own

happiness, simply because of Andromache’s position in the home. She is

the fulcrum which the astute villains employ; without her Hermione would

never have been manageable.

In harmony with this realistic spirit is the character-drawing. None

of the personages is of heroic stature, but all are amazingly real,

however disagreeable. The two conspirators, Menelaus and Orestes, of

course, do not reveal their natures plainly. The latter, as far as this

incident alone is concerned, might strike one as almost featureless;

but there cling to him significant little fragments from the earlier

history of Hermione. A sinister faithfulness actuates him. In spite of

his repulse he has not forgotten his affection for Hermione, not even

her last words of renunciation.[542] Nor has he ceased to brood on the

insults of Neoptolemus—perhaps nothing in the play is more effective

than the gloomy triumph with which he flings back the hated word: “and

the matricide shall teach thee”.... Menelaus, as a study in successful

villainy combined with the domestic virtues, is quite perfect in his

kind; _ces pères de famille sont capables de tout_. But it is upon the

three victims, Hermione, Andromache, and Peleus, that the poet has

lavished his skill most notably. Each has precisely the virtues and

the failings which are fit to make them answer with the precision of

machinery to each string pulled by the Spartan diplomatist. Peleus may

be relied upon to provide Menelaus with an excuse for retiring when he

wishes, and to utter wild language which can be used to prove that he is

responsible for Hermione’s flight.[543] Andromache, earning and receiving

our pity for her past woes and her present anguish, yet alienates us by

her arrogance and a certain metallic brutality in repartee and invective

which again are invaluable to the men whose puppet she is. That she

should not cower before Hermione or her father is natural, but that is

not the point; her trampling tactlessness[544] is a positive disease. She

is indeed (except in her love for Molottus) as callous as Menelaus. This

is a point of absolutely fundamental import. That interview early in the

play, which might have been priceless to both women, ends only in the

hopeless embitterment of Hermione. The latter is the best-drawn character

of all. Swayed by strong primitive impulses, jealousy and fear, without

any balance of mind or emotion, curiously liable to accept the domination

of a stronger personality, she is fatally suited to the machinations of

her father. When she first appears, it is fairly plain that she has come

to suggest a compromise to Andromache.[545] What she wishes is not blood,

but servility. Spiteful and vulgar, she cannot forgive the captive for

the effortless dignity which she has inherited from Trojan kings. Hers

is no vision of a murdered rival: how petty yet how horribly natural it

is—she wishes to see Andromache scrubbing the floor![546] But vulgar and

spiteful as she is, the princess can be wrought upon, as the later part

of the action shows, and if only to self-respect Andromache had added

tact and sympathy Hermione would have been her passionate friend before

thirty lines had been spoken. The pathos of the scene lies above all in

the misunderstanding which pits the two women against one another, where

they should have combined against the callous craft which was using them

both for the ends of politics.

The deities whom we find in this play need detain us only a moment.

Thetis is no more than sweetening for the popular taste. Soothing and

beautiful as are her consolations to the aged sufferer, such a personage

has no real concern with a drama so utterly secular. As for Apollo, it

is here plainer than usual that his name is nothing but a convenient

short term for the great priestly organization at Delphi. That there is

a genuine divine person who has aided Orestes and punished Neoptolemus

we cannot believe. The only touch of religious awe to be found lies in

the messenger’s report. When the assassins are fleeing before their

courageous victim, “from the midst of the shrine some one raised an

awful voice whereat the hair stood up, and rallied the host again to

fight”.[547] It is this same speaker, however, who thus sums up his

account of the whole event: “And thus hath he that gives oracles to

others, he who for all mankind is the judge of righteousness, thus hath

he entreated the son of Achilles who offered him amends. Like a man that

is base hath he remembered an ancient grudge. How, then, can he be wise?”

To the simple Thessalian confronted for the first time with doubts of

Olympian justice, such phrasing is natural. For Euripides the conclusion

is that Apollo does not exist at all. “Apollo” does not take vengeance

upon the blasphemer at the time of his offence, but waits unaccountably

till his second visit, when he comes to make amends and when by an

accident, fortunate for the god, a conspiracy of villainous men happens

to make his enemy their victim.[548]

In keeping with all this is the literary tone of the work. The lyrics

are of little interest to a reader, though one[549] of them markedly

sums up the situation and forces home the moral. For the rest, the

dialogue is utterly unheroic and unpoetical but splendidly vigorous,

terse, and idiomatic; in this respect the _Andromache_ is equal to the

best work of Euripides. Could anything of its kind be more perfect than

the first speech of Hermione[550]—this mixture of pathetic heart-hunger,

of childish snobbery and petulance, this terribly familiar instinct to

cast in the teeth of the unfortunate precisely those things for which

one formerly envied them, these scraps of ludicrously inaccurate slander

against “barbarians” picked up from the tattle of gossiping slaves, and

the heavy preachments about “the marriage-question” which cry aloud their

origin from the lips of Menelaus? In

δεῖ σ’ ἀντὶ τῶν πρὶν ὀλβίων φρονημάτων

πτῆξαι ταπεινήν, προσπεσεῖν τ’ ἐμὸν γόνυ,

σαίρειν τε δῶμα τοὐμόν, ἐκ χρυσηλάτων

τεύχεων χερὶ σπείρουσαν Ἀχελῴου δρόσον,

γνῶναι θ’ ἵν’ εἶ γῆς,[551]

the last phrase is marvellous. The very sound and fall of the words, with

the two long monosyllables, can only be described as a verbal box on the

ears. Observe too the great speech[552] of Andromache. In the lines

νῦν δ’ ἐς γυναῖκα γοργὸς ὁπλίτης φανείς

κτείνεις μ’· ἀπόκτειν’, ὡς ἀθώπευτόν γέ σε

γλώσσης ἀφήσω τῆς ἐμῆς καὶ παῖδα σήν,

one can hear the words gurgling in her throat before they issue in

speech; at the end she is positively hissing. Peleus, too, ineffectual as

he may be in argument, is a master of pungent rhetoric.[553]

For readers who admire exclusively the Sophoclean type of play, the

_Andromache_ is a painful experience to be forgotten as soon as possible.

For any who find interest in the behaviour of ordinary beings at a great

testing moment, this work is an endless delight.

The HERCULES FURENS[554] or _Mad Heracles_ (Ἡρακλῆς Μαινόμενος) is

perhaps the next play in order of time. Most critics place it about the

year 420 B.C. or a little earlier; the chief reason for this is the

celebrated chorus about old age—it is natural supposition that the poet

had recently passed beyond the military age, and so would now be just

over sixty.

The scene is laid before the house of Heracles at Thebes. Amphitryon,

reputed father of the hero, explains the situation. Heracles, leaving his

wife Megara and his three sons with Amphitryon, has departed to Hades in

quest of Cerberus. In his absence one Lycus has seized the throne and

intends to murder Heracles’ family. Megara would submit, but Amphitryon

still hopes for Heracles’ return. Certain aged Thebans, who form the

chorus, arrive, followed by Lycus who, after sneers at Heracles, orders

his henchmen to burn his victims in their house. Megara begs of Lycus

that they be given time to array themselves for death. He consents, and

the sufferers retire. Lycus departs, and soon the sad procession returns.

Suddenly Heracles himself enters. He tells that he has brought back

Cerberus and released Theseus, King of Athens, from the lower world; he

promises to destroy Lycus and goes within. A splendid ode laments the

weakness of old age but glorifies the Muses. Lycus returns, enters the

house, and is slain; the chorus greet his yells with delight and hail

Heracles as now proved the son of Zeus. Suddenly Iris and Frenzy sweep

down from the sky, sent by Hera to drive Heracles mad. Frenzy herself is

reluctant, but enters the house, and the chorus raise cries of horror,

amid which the house totters in ruin. A messenger relates how Heracles,

after slaying Lycus, has been seized with madness and destroyed his wife

and children. The eccyclema shows the hero sunk in stupor. He awakes and,

realizing his situation, meditates suicide, but Theseus arrives and wins

him back to courage; after terrible outbursts against Heaven he departs

to live with Theseus in Athens.

After a cursory reading of this play one’s impressions are doubtful. Many

features excite warm admiration, such as the superb lyric[555] on old

age, the speeches[556] of Megara about her fatherless boys, Heracles’

replies[557] to Theseus; even the wrangle between Lycus and Amphitryon is

full of idiomatic vigour.[558] But to be blunt, what is the play about?

It works up to a climax in the deliverance of Amphitryon and his kin,

and then begins again. Long before the close we have forgotten Lycus. We

feel that the play is structureless, or (which is worse) that it falls

so clearly into two dramas that we cannot view it as a single piece of

art. But if we seriously seek for unity, we naturally look for it in

the fortunes of Heracles himself. This granted, we shall expect to find

that the incident which in a bare summary seems to disjoint the whole

is specially treated. Looking then at the incursion of Lycus, we find

that at every moment the events are considered from the point of view

of Heracles, in terms of his actions, and the sentiments which cling to

his personality. We are only prevented from seeing this at first by the

modern supposition that the culmination of a tragedy is the death of a

leading person, not a spiritual crisis. The discussion between Amphitryon

and Megara about instant submission is dominated by despair of the hero’s

return in the latter’s mind and by hope of it in the former’s. As soon as

Lycus arrives, he asks: “What hope, what defence find ye against death?

Believe ye that the father of these lads, he who lies in Hades, will

return?” Whereupon he proceeds to a long tirade in abuse of the hero,

and Amphitryon’s even more garrulous response deals almost solely with

his son’s achievements and the gratitude which he merits from Thebes

and Greece. As the doomed party go indoors the old man reminds Heaven

itself of the help it owes to Heracles, and the following lyrics are an

elaborate chronicle of his marvellous exploits. Finally, when at point

to die, Megara in a beautifully natural manner turns her farewell to her

sons into a painful memory of the plans which their father used to make

for them. In this way the danger of his family is considered as a test of

Heracles’ powers and greatness. Will he make good the promise of his past

glories? Will he return and free them from Lycus?

Dr. Verrall[559] follows this line of thought, giving to it far greater

precision and colour. He believes that the subject of this play is

the miraculous tone investing the traditional stories about Heracles.

According to popular belief in the poet’s day, Heracles was a son of

Zeus; he performed many exploits which were definitely superhuman,

culminating in a descent to Hades and return therefrom. These stories are

untrue. The play indicates this simply and directly, giving, however,

most attention to the method by which they won credence. In a primitive

civilization, when men had not yet attained to clear thinking, remarkable

but human feats like those of Heracles were extolled as miraculous by

the uncritical. Such are Amphitryon and the chorus, who when challenged

by Lycus are capable only of violent reiteration of their belief, but

offer, and can offer, no proof that the miracles happened. It is a

curious symptom of the former’s vague credulity that while loving and

defending Heracles as his own son, he yet claims[560] the help of Zeus on

the ground that the god is himself Heracles’ father. The Theban elders

join[561] in this irrational belief—as soon as it appears that the divine

parentage is established by the return from Hades, which even if true

would of course have nothing to do with the question. It is in such minds

as this that belief in the miraculous life of Heracles first sprang up.

But this belief rests largely upon the accounts of his adventures given

by Heracles himself; thus we come to the heart of the tragedy, the mental

condition of the hero.

Near the end he exclaims against the consolations of Theseus: “Alas!

such words as thine are too trivial for my sorrows. I think not that the

gods love unlawful unions, and that they put chains upon one another is

a belief I never held nor will I ever. God, if he be God, in truth needs

naught. These are but poets’ wretched tales.”[562] Plainly, the sober

and reasonable speech which begins thus repudiates the highly-coloured

but pernicious stories of tradition to which Theseus has just appealed.

Heracles believes in one God utterly above human weaknesses. Then what

of Zeus’ love of Alcmena, the jealousy of Hera, the whole basis of his

suffering as conceived by the orthodox? And what of his own semi-divine

nature, the foundation again of his superhuman deeds? They are delusions.

Heracles is no demi-god; his exploits, however great and valuable, are

in no sense miraculous. This view, moreover, is precisely that which

we ought to gain from the early part of the drama. Lycus is no doubt

an insolent bully, but would certainly not brave annihilation (whether

at the hands of Zeus or of his son) by slaughtering a demi-god’s

family. That he acts so proves that he does not believe in the divine

parentage of Heracles; and the support so readily given by Thebes to his

policy shows as plainly that to the mass of citizens no real proofs of

superhuman nature have been offered. In brief, the actions and language

of every one in the play except Heracles himself, Amphitryon, and the

chorus—of every one, including Theseus and even Megara, imply that in

this play Heracles is indeed a person of note, but an “eminent man” of no

very startling eminence.

But the hero himself long before this repudiation of “poets’ wretched

tales” has himself given them authority. He tells his father that in

truth he has visited Hades, dragged Cerberus thence, and rescued Theseus.

At many places[563] in the drama he refers without misgiving or query

to legendary monsters which he has quelled, and to his safe return from

Hades. This inconsistency, according to Dr. Verrall, is the root of

the drama. Heracles suffers from a growing tendency to madness; in his

sane moods he knows that all his story is human, all the nobler for

its humanity, but in his dark hours he accepts the vulgar splendours

which rumour throws round his adventures, at such times lending nascent

myth the support of his own false witness. The tragedy of his life has

been this mental distemper, which has finally caused him to destroy

his wife and children. It appears in dreadful paroxysms throughout the

first speech which he addresses to Theseus—first an attempt to account

for his murderous outbreak by an account of purely human events; then

inconsistently a reference to Zeus’ fatherhood and the attempt of Hera

upon his infant life, followed by a splendidly vigorous catalogue of

legendary deeds, Typhos, the giants, and the rest, culminating with

despairing comments on his hopeless guilt and on the complete victory of

Hera; then he suddenly rends the goddess with his scorn: “to such a deity

who would pray?—for a jealous quarrel she has destroyed the guiltless

benefactor of Greece”.