EURIPIDES AND VASE PAINTING
§ 1. INTRODUCTION.
It has already been made clear that Euripides enjoyed an enormous
popularity among Greek and Italian artists, and that he was the chief
inspiration for works of art based on tragedy. This latter feature
assumes a new interest when studied with the Greek vases. The great
majority of these paintings, as has been pointed out, is to be placed
within the fourth cent. B.C., and through them one approaches very near
to the poet’s own time. They are to be valued, therefore, as most direct
and reliable testimony concerning Greek tragedy and the place it
occupied in the life of Lower Italy. Not a few of the paintings
published in the following pages may have been seen by people who had
known the Athenian society in which Euripides himself had moved. This
proximity of the vases to the poet’s own day is an important point, and
should be thoroughly comprehended in order to bring the true value of
the paintings before one. The text of a classical Greek author, exposed
to the emendatory zeal of the ancient grammarians and the ignorance and
carelessness of scribes, had a precarious sort of existence before it
was microscopically dissected and violently revised by modern
philologists. Our oldest manuscript hardly goes back more than one-third
of the way to the original. Between 1000 A.D. and 340 B.C., when the
archetype of the three tragedians was ordered by Lykurgos, how long was
the line of copies! It is vastly different with the edition of the
_Medeia_, for example, on the amphora, p. 145. The vase relates the
tragedy at first hand, and furnishes the student with an exhibition of
the play that is more than twenty-two hundred years old. The original
work and no copy carries one into the century succeeding the first
production of the play. Such facts impress one with the importance of
this class of monuments.
Before taking up the discussion of the vase paintings that are under the
influence of Euripides, it may be well to examine for a moment the
ancient testimony touching the poet. It is well known that he did not
follow the orthodox form of tragic composition established by Aischylos
and adhered to by Sophokles. He was less religious than either of the
other two and, in the same degree, more a man of the world. He was
interested in politics, rhetoric, and philosophy, and these elements
accordingly found room in his plays. For introducing the common,
ordinary affairs of daily life he was stoutly condemned by Aristophanes.
His policy continued the same in spite of the virulent attacks of his
enemies, and the individual appealed to him more strongly than the body
politic; where the former poets had preached ἦθος and directed their
messages to the world καθ’ ὅλον, Euripides disclosed for the first time
the power of πάθος, and that of itself was specific and applied to the
community καθ’ ἕκαστον. Herein lay Aristotle’s unfavourable criticism.
The philosopher admired Homer, Aischylos, and Sophokles more than
Euripides simply because he considered ἦθος to be a more potent factor
than πάθος, and so he complains that none of the younger poets have the
former[155]. By νέοι he evidently meant post-Euripidean writers, and yet
there is no trace of the Aristotelian conception of ἦθος in Euripides.
We may imagine that the great thinker looked for something more stable
than πάθος. But this was all cold, calculating criticism, and Aristotle
appears, for the most part, alone in placing Euripides below Aischylos
and Sophokles. The Alexandrian grammarians were his chief followers.
Plato found in Euripides an authority of great pre-eminence[156]. The
immediate success that he enjoyed in his own time is well illustrated by
the anecdote related in Plutarch’s _Life of Nikias_[157]. The fugitives
from the Athenian army in the Sicilian expedition are said to have
maintained themselves by reciting from Euripides’ works, and captives
were able to gain their freedom by teaching their masters new selections
from the Euripidean plays. The element of truth in this remarkable story
enables one to understand something of the place held by this poet in
the West. It is related of Alexander that he was particularly fond of
Euripides, and that he performed the feat of reciting a whole scene from
the _Andromeda_ at his fatal banquet[158]. A certain Axionikos wrote a
comedy called the ‘Lover of Euripides,’ in which he represented the
people as suffering from the Euripides-fad to such an extent that they
counted all other poetry worthless[159]. A fitting _finale_ to all this
is reached in the story told in the _vita_ of Euripides to the effect
that Philemon would have been willing to hang himself if thereby he
might have seen Euripides. That he was always in men’s mouths is
attested by the large number of fragments from the lost plays. It is
instructive to see that he was quoted in the Hellenistic period to the
exclusion of Aischylos and Sophokles. Wisdom and state-craft were found
in Homer, Hesiod, Pindar, and Euripides[160]. One is not surprised,
therefore, to learn that his tragedies were the only ones produced at
certain Dionysia[161]. This was the period in which most of the vase
paintings in the following pages belong, and it is only these numerous
traditions of the unparalleled popularity of this poet, east and west,
north and south, that makes it possible to appreciate his wide-spread
influence over art. The vases have to be studied in this light, and only
then does their importance as a Euripidean commentary become
sufficiently clear.
A glance at the conditions in Magna Graecia is necessary before leaving
this topic. The theatre-going propensities of the Tarentines has been
mentioned above, and one has now to ask himself who their favourite poet
was. There can be but one answer. Here, as in Africa, Asia Minor, and
Sicily, the public was sure to find the greatest satisfaction in a
Euripidean _répertoire_. The travelling troops of actors performed in
all the towns of Apulia, Campania, and Lucania, and the tragic forms of
the myths were widely published. Euripides was, in short, more than ever
the people’s poet, and he became later, with the rise of Latin tragedy,
the poet of the Republic. Roman tragedy was Greek in everything but the
language. The 166 years between the death of Euripides and the
production of Livius Andronicus’ first play in Rome were a seed-time for
the works of the Greek poet. The titles of Livius’ ten tragedies include
two from Euripides—the _Andromeda_ and the _Danaë_—and the father of
Latin poetry was a native of Tarentum. Ennius, born in Rudiae, which
Strabo calls a πόλις Ἑλληνίς[162], was educated at Tarentum, and became
the first national poet of the Romans. Among his twenty-two plays the
following are either translations of Euripides or adaptations from him:
_Alexandrus_, _Andromacha_, _Andromeda_, _Erechtheus_, _Medea_, _Medea
exul_, _Melanippa_, _Phoenix_, _Telephus_, and perhaps _Alcumena_.
Pacuvius, a nephew of Ennius, and the third one of the Latin tragedians,
also followed Euripides more than Aischylos or Sophokles. He was born in
Brundusium 268 B.C. and died in Tarentum 140 B.C. These three poets who
come first in the history of Latin literature are peculiarly indebted to
Euripides and likewise have a special relation to Magna Graecia and
Tarentum. More than half of the whole number of works produced by them
would appear to have been Euripidean. Whether it was the rhetorical or
pathetic element that appealed to the Romans more strongly, the fact
that Euripides was the primary force in Latin tragedy is very important.
In this attempt to indicate the wider influence of the Attic drama upon
the Latins I have been carried beyond the time of the vase industry, but
the Latin literature of the third and second century B.C. was the
legitimate product of the conditions that had prevailed in the preceding
period. The Greek literary and artistic genius blossomed into an Italian
flower and flourished in the soil that had been fertilized by centuries
of Hellenic influences. It is to a small section of this wonderful life
in Magna Graecia that the present work is devoted. The vase paintings
that follow can best tell their own story of the wide-spread
Hellenization of Lower Italy in the fourth century and of the place held
by Euripides in the onward march of Hellenism.
§ 2. ANDROMACHE.
It does not appear that in the pre-Euripidean literature Orestes played
any part in the death of Neoptolemos. Pindar at least did not know
anything of the Menelaos-Orestes conspiracy against the son of
Achilles[163] but Menelaos’ relation to Sparta afforded a rare
opportunity for a political polemic. The latter could be painted as a
much more despicable character, as could also the Lakedaimonians in
general, provided Orestes were involved in the unholy murder. The
anti-Spartan feeling in Athens was sufficient to guarantee a hearty
reception to any drama depicting the crookedness and treachery of the
Spartan character. Such a play was certain to meet the demands of a
campaign document.
The _Andromache_ has, however, little of the merit which one can usually
discover in Euripides; it was classed even by the ancients among his
second-rate works[164]. There is but one effective situation in the
whole tragedy, and that is the speech of the messenger, vs. 1085–1165,
which gives the account of Neoptolemos’ murder at Delphi. The beginning
is remarkably simple and unaffected, but when once the poet gets under
way the action increases rapidly in violence, becoming at every step
more and more intense until at last the whole temple of Apollo resounds
with the roar of the unholy tumult. Orestes’ party is, of course,
victorious over the single-handed descendant of Peleus. This manœuvring
inside the temple is unique, and intensely dramatic and picturesque. The
pictorial importance of the scene is attested by a painting on a large
amphora found in Ruvo[165].
[Illustration:
Fig. 10.
]
In the centre is the sanctuary of Apollo denoted by two tripods, the
laurel tree, the omphalos covered with a netting, and the altar. To the
latter, already dashed with blood, Neoptolemos, ΝΕΟΠΤΟΛΕΜΟΣ, has fled.
He holds a drawn sword in his right hand and whirls his chlamys about
his left. He wears a petasos and has a sword-cut in his left side from
which blood is oozing. His face is turned towards the omphalos behind
which Orestes, ΟΡΕΣΤΑΣ, appears to be dodging. He has a chlamys and a
pilos; in his left hand the sheath of a sword, the latter being in his
right. On the left, behind the altar, is another youth, nude except the
chlamys on the left arm. He holds a spear in the right hand as though
about to cast it at Neoptolemos. The centre of the upper section is
filled out with an Ionic temple, the doors of which are open. On the
left, the half-figure of a woman, recognizable by the key as the temple
priestess (κλῃδοῦχος)[166], appears in great alarm. Apollo, ΑΠΟΛΛΩΝ,
with his bow, occupies a seat on the right of the temple[167].
In order to understand the painting it is necessary to bear in mind what
preceded the speech of the messenger. Andromache, the wife of Hektor,
had fallen to the lot of Neoptolemos on the division of the Trojan
spoils and had been taken by him to Phthia. As his captive she had
raised him a son, Molossos, while his lawful wife Hermione, daughter of
Menelaos and cousin of Orestes, continued barren. Hermione, being
suspicious that it was through some drugs of Andromache that she had
been rendered thus unhappy, determined upon the latter’s death, and
while Neoptolemos was absent at Delphi to atone for certain family
wrongs the desperate Hermione proceeded to carry out her resolve to
destroy both the mother and the young Molossos. This spiteful work of
the injured wife occupies the first part of the tragedy. The two are
finally saved by the intervention of the aged Peleus, and Hermione
thereupon resolves to kill herself. At this point, Orestes, who is on
his way to consult the oracle at Dodona, enters. On learning of the
insults and injuries that had been heaped upon Hermione, once promised
him for a bride, he at once undertakes to relieve her of any reason for
dreading the return of Neoptolemos and the attendant disclosure of her
wicked plans.
He leaves accordingly for Delphi. The messenger comes in after a song by
the chorus and relates what has taken place. Orestes had gone round
putting the Delphians on their guard against this Neoptolemos whose plan
was to sack the temple. Credence was at once given to the fabrication,
and the inhabitants determined upon a bold step. When Neoptolemos was at
the altar addressing the god, the band of armed Delphians who were lying
in wait for him behind the sacred laurel tree sprang out and fell upon
him.
This furnishes the setting for our painting, and we may turn for a
little to a closer examination of the account given by the poet. It will
be noticed that the artist, while in some respects keeping close to the
latter, has in the main done his work rather independently. Common to
both are the δάφνη (v. 1115) and the βωμός (vs. 1123 and 1138). The
attacking party in the painting includes Orestes, thus emphasizing the
point which Euripides really had in mind. In this particular the artist
has gone ahead of the poet. It appears, indeed, as though Orestes had
just made the slash in Neoptolemos’ side. The moment represented is,
therefore, that when the fight was on. The Delphians appear to have but
one representative, who is certainly creating far less annoyance for
Neoptolemos than does the company in Euripides, where they hurl rocks
and fill the air with dust and din. The setting of the scene in the
painting is magnificent. Everything points to the great shrine; both the
exterior and interior of the temple are visible. As for the Ionic order
it should be remembered that this has nought to do with the historic
facts in the case. An examination of the buildings on the vases of Lower
Italy reveals a decided preference on the part of the artists for this
order of architecture[168]. The painting is an excellent example of the
influence of the poet over the artist. This is, however, no mere
illustration, a fact to be remembered in dealing with all the paintings
of this class; the spirit and not the letter is what one can trace most
readily in works of art based upon the tragedians. The agreement between
the literary source and the picture is more apparent here than in most
instances, and this is largely due to the fact that the _Andromache_ is
particularly Euripidean. This turn does not occur in any other author. A
parallel case will be observed in the chapter dealing with _Iphigeneia
among the Taurians_. It is this alteration and extension of old myths
which characterizes Euripides’ work. These new features were popular and
attracted the public, and here one gets the key to the unparalleled
influence which this poet exercised upon artists.
§ 3. BAKCHAI.
Euripides’ _Bakchai_ is our chief authority concerning the fate of
Pentheus[169], yet this writer did not by any means establish the
details of the story. This was done long before Thespis may have assayed
to dramatize the tragic episode[170] and before Aischylos wrote his
_Pentheus_[171]. It is not probable that Euripides materially altered
the accepted form of the myth, and there may be in his play a mixture of
the traditional and Aischylean versions. Pentheus’ death, like the
madness of the Thracian king Lykurgos, was inseparably connected with
the advent of the Dionysiac worship. The series of victories won by the
orgiastic god from the wild North was not bloodless; his coming was
attended with opposition. In the end, however, his foes were annihilated
or ruined, and the new joy brought in by the foreign god captivated a
nation and made it his devout worshipper. Euripides could say little or
nothing new touching the triumph of Dionysos over the king of Thebes,
yet this tragedy, one of the most brilliant pieces of Greek literature,
paints in glorious colours the history of the victory.
The events, as told by Euripides, are briefly as follows. Dionysos has
arrived in Thebes from Lydia and the East, where he had already
established his choirs of Bacchanals. Thebes was the first city to which
he came, and here, where he least expected opposition, scepticism met
him. The sisters of his mother Semele circulated the report that he was
no god but an impostor. He forthwith drove the Kadmeian women maddened
from their homes to wander in the mountains attired in the Dionysiac
dress; the Bacchic craze spread further, and seized even the seer
Teiresias and Kadmos, who with thyrsoi and fawn-skins joined the orgies.
Pentheus, on hearing of these strange doings, appears and chides them
both, and threatens to hunt the women from the mountains and punish the
stranger who has made his family drunk with frenzy. At v. 434 Dionysos,
bewitchingly beautiful, is led a prisoner before Pentheus, who orders
him to be bound and cast into the royal stable. Soon afterward the walls
are heard to crash in and flames burst forth in every direction (v. 593
ff.). The god, to be sure, is safe, and Pentheus is mocked and wild with
anger, while the former bids him be quiet and subdue his anger. At this
point a messenger arrives to recount the strange sights that had met his
eyes on the mountains. Three bands of women, led by Autonoë, Agave, and
Ino, had rushed upon his herd of cattle and torn them limb from limb,
and afterward they washed the blood from their hands in a fountain made
to flow by the god. In the face of these wonders he urges Pentheus to
honour the latter, but the king will not brook this Bacchic insolence
and threatens to sacrifice a hekatomb of women on Kithairon rather than
propitiate the unwelcome visitor. Dionysos advises him not to kick
against the pricks (v. 795); in a moment Pentheus’ attitude is seen to
change; the secret power of the god is working on him; he will see the
strange actions himself, and would rather forfeit a thousand-weight in
gold than forgo the opportunity (v. 812). The linen chiton is at once
provided, and Dionysos, who is to lead the way, directs the arrangement
of the dress so that Pentheus shall not be mistaken for a man. After
some scruples as to the figure he may make before his citizens he is
anxious to be off. Once in the mountains giddiness comes upon him. He
sees two suns, and a double Thebes, and twice seven gates; he declares
that the god himself has taken on a bull’s form with horns (v. 918 ff.).
Immediately thereafter he obtains the first glimpse of the women. There
are Ino and his mother Agave. Then he worries lest he may not hold his
thyrsos correctly. This shows his sad predicament too plainly. Dionysos
has done his work; his vengeance on the recalcitrant Pentheus is at
hand. At first the latter feels himself able to overturn the whole
mountain and asks the advice of the god as to the best means of
annihilating the troop. When violence is not recommended he suggests
that he had best hide in a pine-tree to view the sight (v. 954). Nothing
further is ever heard from the king’s own lips except in his death-cry
reported by the messenger who had accompanied him. When they had reached
the band in the glen, shadowed by pines (πεύκη, v. 1052), the thicket
was so dense that Pentheus requested that he might be allowed to ascend
the bank or climb a tree (v. 1061) in order to command the field.
Dionysos bent a tree to the ground, placed the king upon the boughs and
allowed it to rise again, and, turning to his devotees, pointed to their
prey. Stones and darts are directed at Pentheus, and finally the tree is
pulled up by main force and he falls an easy victim to the maddened
women. Agave, heeding none of his cries, tears out a shoulder; Ino,
Autonoë, and the rest help in dismembering the king. His mother fixed
his head upon a thyrsos and led the troop on a wild dance over
Kithairon, finally coming to the palace. Gradually freed from the
insanity, she realized the enormity of her crime. Dionysos’ godhead was,
however, established, and the house of Kadmos remained a terrible
witness of his power. These are the harrowing details of the murder, and
one cannot wonder that there are numerous vase paintings based on the
tragedy.
There is a long list of vases that can for the most part be passed over
with a mere reference. They are all, with perhaps one exception, later
than 500 B.C. This means that the impetus for the tragedy in art was
given largely by the tragic drama. The oldest painting is older than the
_Pentheus_ of Aischylos and cannot, therefore, be connected with his
play. There may have been an earlier dramatization, such as that
recorded of Thespis, which figured in this monument[172]. All the
remaining paintings belong to the latter part of the fifth century B.C.
and the fourth century B.C., and are, with one exception, of too general
a character to be used as evidence for one of the tragedies[173]. On the
Munich hydria it seems to me there are clear traces of the _Bakchai_,
and this widely-known work is given here in fig. 11[174].
[Illustration:
Fig. 11.
]
Pentheus, wearing chlamys, pilos, and boots, crouches, with a drawn
sword in his right hand, in a thicket denoted by two trees. A maenad who
appears to have just discovered him rushes into the hiding-place with a
torch in her right hand[175]; she is dressed in a plain, Doric peplos.
Another maenad, similarly dressed but having a fawn-skin over the left
hand and a sword in the right, does not seem to have sighted Pentheus. A
third, dressed like the first one, holding a tympanon in the left hand
and a thyrsos in the right, approaches wholly unconcerned with the
discovery of her companions. On the right is another group of three
maenads all dressed alike and all in rapid motion. The first holds in
either hand the quarters of a kid or roe. The second shoulders the
thyrsos with her left hand and makes an ecstatic gesture with her right.
The third one, in even more violent motion, swings her veil about her
and rushes on towards the left.
It should be noted, to begin with, that the vase is a Lower Italy fabric
of the fourth century B.C., and that there is therefore no chronological
difficulty in placing it under the influence of the _Bakchai_. The troop
of maenads is arranged symmetrically, an equal number being on each side
of the central scene, and this suggests the chorus in the play. The
striking feature is the introduction of the landscape; there is no doubt
as to where the catastrophe occurs. The artist did not allow himself the
licence of placing Pentheus in the tree, for this had been too grotesque
a sight for the fourth-century painter. The frequent references to the
thicket[176] and the protection it was or the inconvenience it caused,
is happily brought out in the picture, but the poet has not been
followed in details. Pentheus does not appear with the thyrsos, talaric
chiton, and dishevelled hair, for the simple reason that he would have
been indistinguishable from the maenads. As he appears in the painting
the contrast is striking and the eye at once grasps the situation. The
torch held by the foremost maenad lights the way to the retreat of
Pentheus, suggesting the words—
καὶ πρὸς οὐρανὸν
καὶ γαῖαν ἐστήριζε φῶς σεμνοῦ πυρός. v. 1082 f.
That one is armed with a sword while the others have no weapon finds
also a parallel in Euripides, who says one time that they used nought
but their hands—
χειρὸς ἀσιδήρου μέτα. v. 736.
and again that the sword shall do its work—
ἴτω ξιφηφόρος. vs. 992, 1012.
The wild revelry of the whole is instructive when studied with the poet.
The Bacchanal who flaunts the quarters of her victim reminds one at once
of the words—
ἀγρεύων | αἷμα τραγοκτόνον, ὠμοφάγον χάριν. v. 138 f.
In conclusion, reference should be made again to the newly discovered
wall painting in Pompeii. It is so remarkably preserved and so
thoroughly in the spirit of Euripides that there can be little doubt as
to the influence of the _Bakchai_[177]. The only Pentheus painting
recorded in classical literature was that in the Dionysos temple in
Athens, which may also have been inspired by Euripides[178]. Is the
Pompeian painting an echo of the celebrated one in Athens?
§ 4. HEKABE.
The _Hekabe_ is one of those plays which, like the _Andromache_,
embraces a series of events loosely associated. There are in fact two
distinct parts to this tragedy, having no other connexion than one would
observe between two separate works where the same heroine appeared. Two
heavy blows which the Fates dealt Hekabe after the fall of Troy
constitute the subject of the action.
The first of these new calamities was the death of Polyxena. The Greeks
are encamped on the Chersonesos side of the Hellespont. Among the
captives are the former queen of Troy and her daughter. Achilles, who is
among the shades, demands of the Greeks that Polyxena be sacrificed to
him. The request cannot be ignored, and Odysseus and others are
commissioned to secure her from her mother. The parting scene between
Hekabe and the daughter is heartrending, but the courage and
self-control exhibited by the latter are remarkable. Talthybios, the
faithful herald of Agamemnon, afterwards reports to Hekabe the details
of the sacrifice, and this description of the fair and innocent Polyxena
is one of the gems of Greek literature. The lines in particular which
describe her actions immediately before the fatal moment are famous for
their beauty.
Although the offering of Polyxena was known in Greek art and letters
before Euripides’ time[179], the subject must have been far more popular
after the production of this tragedy. It appears to me a mere accident
that no vase painting representing the scene has so far come to light.
There is, however, on a so-called ‘Megarian Bowl’ a relief decoration,
probably dating from the third century B.C., which doubtless owes its
existence to Euripides[180]. It has seemed to me desirable to include
this here, even though it carries us beyond the limits prescribed to the
present work. The cup, found in Thebes, is in the Berlin
Antiquarium[181]. The middle of the composition represents the tumulus
of Achilles, above which is raised a stele with akroteria and a fillet.
On the left, Polyxena, with exposed bosom and flowing hair, kneels with
extended arms. Approaching her is Neoptolemos wearing a chlamys and
holding his sword ready for the fatal stroke; behind the latter is a
figure in a short undergarment, mantle and pilos. The cap distinguishes
the person as Odysseus. Agamemnon sits with back to the beholder upon
the extreme left, and lifts his left hand (not his right hand as Robert
says), evidently astonished at the remarkable composure of the victim.
On the right of the tomb are three warriors, who are more or less
closely connected with the others. The first one appears to raise his
hand in wonder at the fortitude of Polyxena; the second, who does not
seem to be armed, has the appearance of one weeping; the third is
apparently little interested in the tragedy. It is not necessary to name
these three persons, evidently representatives of the Achaeans. The
first one may perhaps be Talthybios, since he says he was present (v.
524). The dolphins upon the vase are meant no doubt to characterize the
sea-shore where the sacrifice took place.
[Illustration:
Fig. 12.
]
The essential part of the composition is, however, the tumulus and the
figures on the left. Everything here illustrates Euripides. One reads in
v. 221 of
... ὀρθὸν χῶμ’ Ἀχιλλείου τάφου.
The attitude of Polyxena is based upon the beautiful verses in the
messenger’s speech:—
λαβοῦσα πέπλους ἐξ ἄκρας ἐπωμίδος
ἔρῥηξε λαγόνος ἐς μέσον παρ’ ὀμφαλόν,
μαστούς τ’ ἔδειξε στέρνα θ’ ὡς ἀγάλματος
κάλλιστα, καὶ καθεῖσα πρὸς γαῖαν γόνυ
ἔλεξε πάντων τλημονέστατον λόγον·
‘ἰδοὺ τόδ’, εἰ μὲν στέρνον, ὦ νεανία,
παίειν προθυμεῖ, παῖσον, εἰ δ’ ὑπ’ αὐχένα
χρῄζεις, πάρεστι λαιμὸς εὐτρεπὴς ὅδε.’
ὁ δ’ οὐ θέλων τε καὶ θέλων, οἴκτῳ κόρης,
τέμνει σιδήρῳ πνεύματος διαρῥοάς. vs. 558–567.
Even the hesitation of Neoptolemos, expressed in the last two verses,
finds its place in the relief. Odysseus, who was intimately identified
with the proceedings from first to last (vs. 218–437), could not be
wanting in an illustration of the final scene. Agamemnon too is
fittingly present, for, according to Euripides, he had given the order
to carry out the sacrifice,
Ἀγαμέμνων τ’ ἄναξ
εἶπεν μεθεῖναι παρθένον νεανίαις. vs. 553 f.
and had dismissed Talthybios to Hekabe (v. 504).
The second part of the play begins with v. 658, where the servant of
Hekabe enters with the body of the latter’s young son Polydoros. Priam
had intrusted the boy to Polymestor, king of Thrace, when the Greeks
attacked Ilion. A considerable sum of gold accompanied the child to
ensure his maintenance if the city should be captured. As long as the
Trojans held out, Polymestor was true to his charge, but no sooner had
the news of the downfall of Priam’s house reached the ears of the good
Thracian than he put the child to death for the money and cast his body
out unburied. This is related in the prologue by the ghost of Polydoros,
who also prophesies the death of Polyxena on that day. His body was
accordingly discovered by the attendant, who happened upon it by mere
chance, and immediately after receiving the terrible message from
Talthybios, Hekabe was made to bow beneath another sorrow. She at once
summons her courage and determines to have revenge upon the unrighteous
Polymestor. She first relates to Agamemnon the story of the boy’s death,
and the king, deeply incensed at the ἀξενία of the Thracian, agrees to
her plan for avenging herself on the latter. She sends for Polymestor
under the pretence of disclosing to him some weighty matter. He comes,
and at her request dismisses his bodyguard, not mistrusting in the least
that his crime had been discovered. To questions as to the welfare of
Polydoros and the safety of the gold he replies that all is well and
that the child would gladly have come to visit his mother. Hekabe then
proceeds to tell him of some treasures which she wishes to commit to his
keeping. These are in the tent, and he shall go inside and examine them
for himself. ‘No Achaean is within; we are quite alone,’ she says, and
with this assurance Polymestor leaves the light of day for ever. Once
inside, his cries of agony soon announce that Hekabe has done her work
with swift and certain hand.
The scene representing the reappearance of the blinded Polymestor has
been recognized on a Lucanian vase[182]. In the middle stands the
helpless king, his arms extended in a distressed manner. He is dressed
in a short, embroidered chiton and a mantle, and wears a tall head-gear
that indicates his barbarian nationality. Agamemnon is on the left, with
sceptre and himation; he appears to be addressing the former. Following
is a doryphoros. On the right are Hekabe and an attendant, both dressed
in chiton and mantle. The latter places her arm over Hekabe’s shoulder
and seems to be comforting her, as she shrinks away from the figure in
the centre. The cane is suggestive of the queen’s age and of the
wandering life upon which she is entering. A sword rests upon the
ground, pointing probably to the weapon which was used to blind
Polymestor. It is not necessary to cite any particular verses from
Euripides which the artist may have had in mind. He simply told the
story as it recurred to him. Especially suggestive of the king’s
staggering step are the verses beginning
ὤμοι ἐγώ, πᾷ βῶ,
πᾷ στῶ, πᾷ κέλσω; vs. 1056 ff.,
spoken when Polymestor first appeared before the tent of Hekabe after
the latter had put out his eyes. The chorus, Agamemnon, and Hekabe are
then present, and with alternating parts fill out the rest of the play
(vs. 1109 ff.).
[Illustration:
Fig. 13.
]
§ 5. HIPPOLYTOS.
In the _Phaidra_ of Sophokles and the first _Hippolytos_ of Euripides it
was Phaidra herself who acknowledged to Hippolytos her love for him. The
votary of Artemis, at once enraged at this effrontery, cast her aside.
She then defamed the youth to Theseus, who, believing her statement,
prayed to Poseidon to destroy his son. The god accordingly sent a
sea-monster to frighten the horses of Hippolytos, and the latter was
soon dragged to his death. On receiving the news of this, Phaidra hung
herself[183]. Sophokles’ play does not appear to have ever made any
impression upon the world and must have been soon forgotten, and
Euripides’ tragedy met with great disapproval. Such a Phaidra was more
than the Greeks would tolerate. The poet grasped the situation and wrote
another _Hippolytos_, which set him right with his public. It was no
longer Phaidra in and of herself who became the instrument of the
youth’s death; Aphrodite, angered at Hippolytos’ serving Artemis instead
of herself, starts the gentle flame within Phaidra’s bosom and visits
her with a love-sickness that drives the unfortunate woman into a
confession of her illness to her attendant. On the latter’s placing the
matter before Hippolytos, all to no avail, Phaidra takes her own life,
not forgetting, however, to leave behind a letter containing delicate
charges against her step-son. Theseus returns, finds his wife a corpse,
and reads the letter. The curse and death of his son follow, as in the
earlier _Hippolytos_. This ruin was brought on him not so much by
Phaidra as by Aphrodite.
The tragedy was counted among the best of Euripides’, and has always
retained its popularity. The subject was dramatized again in Greek[184],
and there is extant the Latin version of Seneca[185]. The theme was one
which was sure to appeal to modern authors, and among the French alone
one hears of no less than seven tragedies on the love of Phaidra,
written between the years 1573 and 1786. Four of these, the most famous
of which is Racine’s _Phèdre_, belong to the seventeenth century. They
are, however, more directly indebted to Seneca and Ovid[186] than to
Euripides. Mention should be made also of the two operas by Pellegrin,
1733, and Lemoine, 1786. But after all has been said on versions of the
story either in classical or modern times, one turns to the masterpiece
of Euripides as the great work. According to the author of the
Hypothesis, the play is among the best of this poet and was given the
first prize. In reflecting that Hippolytos has stood forth since March,
428 B.C., as the _beau idéal_ of innocent, unsullied, young manhood, one
is inclined to credit the judges with possessing good sense.
There was hardly a more attractive legend than this which the artists
might have been tempted to make their own, yet one discovers a
surprising dearth of Greek monuments that can be referred to the myth.
From these I select two vase paintings that appear to be based upon
Euripides.
[Illustration:
Fig. 14 (_vid. p. 102 ff._).
]
Fig. 14 represents a painting on a krater in the British Museum[187].
The upper section alone concerns us here, and this shows the interior of
a gynaikonitis with _kline_. On the left is a group of two females. One
sits on a stool to the right, wears chiton and veil, diadem, bracelets,
and necklace, and leans forward, with head dropped to one side, clasping
her right knee thrown over the other. Her left foot rests on a
foot-stool. Behind her a white-haired servant in the usual costume holds
her right hand to her chin, and with troubled air gestures with the left
hand as she speaks to her mistress. A large Eros with immense wings
flies down towards the latter with a taenia in his hands. There are,
further, two other groups of two each. The one before the _kline_ is two
females again. An attendant, distinguished by her hood, who holds a fan
in her right hand, talks and gestures earnestly before the other, who
wears the simple Doric peplos, ungirdled, and stands with her back to
the _kline_ in a disturbed and troubled sort of mood. The remaining
group of two, a pedagogue in the customary dress and a female figure
similar to the one on the extreme left, is also concerned over some
important matter which the pedagogue is telling. Certain articles hang
on the wall.
The picture has been interpreted as representing Phaidra in the presence
of the chorus, and depending upon _Hippolytos_ vs. 267 ff. The
right-hand group would then be very loosely connected with the rest. In
so far as the love-sickness of Phaidra is concerned this appears to me a
correct interpretation, but that the chorus is in any way represented by
the other figures is entirely out of the question. The whole affair is
supposed to be in Phaidra’s apartments, to which at no time the
Troizenian women had access. What would they be doing by the
_kline_[188]? The pedagogue is added on one side, as though to indicate
how the news is spreading among the domestics[189].
But let me turn for a moment to another class of monuments that help to
a better understanding of the scene. There are no less than seventeen
reliefs on the long side of Roman sarcophagi which are practically
intact and furnish from two to three scenes of the tragedy. Less
frequently the ends contain one or two other groups supplementing the
front side[190]. There are four moments that are distinctly traceable.
(1) The love-sick Phaidra sits on a chair in her apartments surrounded
by the old nurse and other servants, who attempt to comfort her. She
wears a veil as on the vase painting, and on two reliefs one of the
attendants is removing this[191]. The diadem is also distinguishable.
(2) The nurse makes her declaration to Hippolytos, who turns away from
her. (3) Hippolytos with his followers is about to start upon, or is
already engaged in, the hunt. (4) The horses run away and bring him to
his death. All four scenes occur on the famous sarcophagus in
Girgenti[192], and on another in St. Petersburg[193]. It will be
observed that in three of the four groups Hippolytos himself is present,
and one naturally looks for him in scenes taken from the tragedy where
he is the main figure. The earliest scene in Euripides which develops
the hopeless state of affairs with Phaidra is, however, of prime
importance next to the death of Hippolytos.
But a brief comparison of the left-hand group of our painting and the
Phaidra scene on these reliefs is necessary, in order to reveal a
striking resemblance in the compositions. The one difference rests in
the size of the groups; the painter has confined himself to fewer
figures. This fact, however, is of little importance. A closer
examination of the two discloses much that points to a common source. On
nearly all the reliefs Phaidra’s chair has, as in the painting, no back
or arms; Eros, who flies towards Phaidra in fig. 14, invariably stands
beside her on the sarcophagi, looking up into her sad face, or, what is
still worse, aims an arrow at her[194]. The queen wears in all cases the
veil, and often on the reliefs the diadem likewise[195]. The nurse never
fails in her ministry.
It is time now to look more closely at the tragedy. After the prologue
by Aphrodite, Hippolytos and his followers enter and pay their homage to
Artemis. The hero lays a wreath upon her statue, which adorned one side
of the entrance to Pittheus’ palace. The attendants are ordered inside
and he then withdraws. His servant remains long enough to address a
prayer to Aphrodite’s image on the other side of the stage. Following is
the parodos in which the chorus relates what had been learned concerning
the illness of Phaidra. Among other things they hear that she sits
... λεπτὰ δὲ φάρη
ξανθὰν κεφαλὰν σκιάζειν. v. 133 f.
This, it will be observed, corresponds to her position in the painting
and in the reliefs. It is just this time of abstinence and mourning,
spent in the palace surrounded by the faithful old nurse and other
servants, which suggested the scene on the reliefs and on the vase. The
visitations of Eros serve well to bring into objectivity the real cause
of Phaidra’s illness, and to render the poet more plain. To be sure this
all took place in her apartments, ἐντὸς οἴκων (v. 132), and could
therefore be worked out according to the artist’s fancy. A long and
animated scene ensues, in which Phaidra utters strange expressions that
betray the sadness of her condition. The trophos finally coaxes the
secret from her, and the chorus dips in from time to time as a sort of
second to the nurse. The interview which the latter has with Hippolytos,
vs. 601–668, is overheard by Phaidra. Her unrequited love bears her down
and she leaves the stage determined to die (v. 731), and in a few
moments is announced as dead[196].
The scenes on the sarcophagi representing Hippolytos’ hunt, the
counterpart of Phaidra’s illness, and the trophos’ proposal[197] to the
hero do not appear on vases.
Hippolytos’ ride to death, the terrible _finale_ of the tragedy, appears
on an Apulian krater also in the British Museum[198]. The painting falls
into an upper and lower section. In the latter, Hippolytos dashes along
in his chariot; the four horses are not in any apparent disorder
although the next moment must be fatal, for just before them the
sea-monster rises into view, and a Fury with a flaming torch and
serpents wound about her arms runs into their course. A pedagogue
hurries along from the rear, extending his left hand, warning Hippolytos
of his danger. The scene is viewed by five divinities. Their positions
are the stereotyped ones of the Apulian vases, and their connexion with
the tragedy before them need not be intimate[199]. Athena in the middle,
a great favourite in these groups, leans on her shield and carries a
lance and in her right hand the helmet. Apollo, distinguished by bow,
laurel bough, and wreath in the hair, sits on her right, facing Pan who
stands half reversed to the beholder with the syrinx in the right hand,
and resting his left elbow on a rock. On Athena’s left sits Aphrodite,
attended by a large Eros, who extends a kylix to Poseidon sitting on the
right, holding the trident. There is certainly ample reason for the
presence of the last two gods at the death of Hippolytos; they are, in
fact, very instrumental in bringing about the catastrophe. I am not able
to assign any satisfactory reason for the appearance of Athena, Apollo,
and Pan. Mere speculation concerning the choice of these deities cannot
be of much value. Artemis is surely indispensable in a group of gods
concerned with Hippolytos’ death. Any one who knows these groups on the
vases of Lower Italy is aware that Athena is a great favourite and often
appears, as here, merely because she was so admired. Perhaps Apollo is
intended to represent Artemis, but it is not likely that the artist
thought so far[200].
[Illustration:
Fig. 15 (_vid. p. 108 ff._).
]
In regard to the lower section it may be observed first that the
district is not denoted in any way as being the sea-shore where
Euripides sends the youth for a drive[201]. There is no water indicated,
out of which the ταῦρος ἄγριον τέρας[202] is issuing. The mounted
companions of Hippolytos are represented only by the pedagogue. The time
is that just preceding the breaking away of the horses described by the
messenger, vs. 1218 ff. The Fury, a gratuitous addition of the artist,
serves to intensify the violence of the death awaiting Hippolytos.
The deplorable end of the hero has never failed to awaken one’s
sympathy. The innocent youth dragged to his death through the workings
of a hasty and unjust curse presents one of the most pathetic pictures
in Greek literature. It is well depicted by Philostratos in the
_Imagines_[203]. ‘You see,’ he says, ‘how the horses no longer obey the
reins but rush madly along the plain, covered with foam. This one makes
for the wild beast, the second rebounds, another rushes for the sea, and
the fourth glances fearfully at the ground.’ The breaking and crashing
of the chariot are pointed out. Then the companions gallop up and try to
manage the horses. The hills near by, sentinels of the disaster, in the
form of women, tear their cheeks for grief; the meadows, in the form of
boys, allow their flowers to wilt and the nymphs from the springs rend
their hair, while water spouts from their breasts. Hippolytos’ limbs are
torn and shattered, and his eyes are gouged from their sockets. Pliny
tells of a painting by Antiphilus of Alexandria which represented
_Hippolytus tauro emisso expavescens_[204], but nothing further is known
of Antiphilus or when he lived. The sarcophagi reliefs representing the
catastrophe are numerous, compared with those showing any other
moment[205]. Not less interesting is the list of Etruscan urns decorated
with reliefs showing the bull, the runaway horses, and the _expavescens_
youth[206]. In all of these a female figure, doubtless a Fury, is
frightening the horses[207]. In two cases she is winged, and every one
carries a torch likewise, as on the vase painting.
§ 6. IPHIGENEIA AT AULIS.
The story of Iphigeneia’s sacrifice appears to have been told first in
the _Kypria_, and yet only occasional references are made to it by
writers before the fifth century. It was the drama that infused new life
into the myth and launched it as one of the most popular ones in the
Trojan Cycle. Each of the three great tragedians tried his hand at the
catastrophe in Aulis. Euripides’ work, the only one surviving, is at
least two generations younger than the play of Aischylos, so that the
wide popularity of the tragedy in this period is well attested. Among
the Roman poets we know that Ennius, at least, wrote a version of the
tragedy. Although it is known that this poet had a special predilection
for Euripides, and for the most part translated or adapted the latter’s
plays, attempts have been made to show that in his _Iphigenia_ Ennius
was largely indebted to Sophokles[208]. The few fragments remaining from
these three _Iphigeneias_ are, however, inconsiderable, and a clear
notion of their relation to each other cannot be reached. The extant
work of Euripides is accordingly of great value to us.
In art, likewise, this subject was rarely treated. I know of no
Iphigeneia monument earlier than the fifth century. There is a reference
in the _Agamemnon_ to the sacrifice as though Aischylos may have seen
the scene represented in a painting[209], and granted that the poet
really had such a work in mind this becomes the earliest date for
Iphigeneia in art. The earliest monument of which we possess any
authentic record is the famous painting of Timanthes, who was a
contemporary of Zeuxis and Parrhasios[210]. This date, however, does not
carry one beyond the last years of the fifth century B.C.—an altogether
late date for an art representation of a myth, which, from Aischylos’
time at least, was widely known. We have reason to believe that
Timanthes’ work was suggested by Euripides’ tragedy. The latter was
first produced in Athens after the poet’s death, not earlier than 405
B.C., and this requires that the painting be placed near the end of the
century, which many are unwilling to admit; it is, however, more a
matter of opinion than proof. Traces of this celebrated picture are very
probably at hand in the well-known Pompeian wall painting[211], and the
Uffizi altar[212]. The composition of the latter has much in common with
such fifth-century products as the Orpheus and Peliades reliefs[213].
The Etruscan urns on the other hand furnish a wealth of reliefs
representing the sacrifice, rarely surpassed in this class of monuments.
Numbers have come to light in the neighbourhood of Perugia
especially[214]. Two groups are easily distinguishable, (1) Iphigeneia,
as a little girl, is held over the altar by Odysseus, while Agamemnon
goes through the ἀπαρχαί. (2) The first group is extended by (_a_)
Klytaimestra on the side of Agamemnon, and (_b_) Achilles on the side of
Odysseus, each begging for mercy and the life of Iphigeneia. This is all
non-Euripidean, and Schlie has attempted to point out that the reliefs
owe their origin to Ennius’ play which combined Sophoklean and
Euripidean elements[215].
There is no vase painting which can be claimed for this scene in its
Euripidean character, but the whole play is the basis of a relief on a
‘Megarian’ cup, and the illustration is so valuable for the proper
appreciation of the tragedy that I do not hesitate to include this
little monument. The cup furnishes inscriptional evidence not only for
the _dramatis personae_ but for the literary source as well, and is,
therefore, a _unicum_ among the monuments that are based upon Euripides.
The cut given in fig. 16 is of the vase in Berlin[216]. It should be
observed, however, that there are two other copies of this same work,
and that they tell exactly the same story from the _Iphigeneia_[217]. A
word is necessary in order to prepare us for the first scene given.
Agamemnon had sent a message to Argos summoning Iphigeneia, and, in
spite of his attempt to countermand this by a secret letter to
Klytaimestra, he was forced to face the results of his earlier resolve.
His daughter came, and accompanying her were her mother and her young
brother Orestes. The nuptials were to be celebrated with the son of
Peleus, and the Argive party in gayest, happiest mood halted before the
tent of Agamemnon. The Chalkian women, who through curiosity had crossed
the Euripos to see the gathered hosts of the Greeks, are ready at hand
to assist Iphigeneia in alighting from the chariot. The lad Orestes, who
appears to have gone to sleep during the journey, is awakened and lifted
down by one of the kindly strangers. With her mother’s permission,
Iphigeneia hastens inside to meet her father[218]—she, innocently happy
over the arrival of her wedding day—he, overcome with grief at her
impending death, and smitten with remorse at the enormity of his crime.
[Illustration:
Fig. 16.
]
This much renders plain the group on the right. Agamemnon, ΑΓΑΜΕΜΝΩΝ,
sits upon his θρόνος with one foot on a foot-rest; his right hand is
placed to his temple as though to shut out the gaze of Iphigeneia,
ΙΦΙΓΕΝΕΙΑ, who approaches him in a beseeching manner with extended arms.
The group is based upon vs. 644 ff.—
Iph. ἔα·
ὡς οὐ βλέπεις ἕκηλον, ἄσμενος μ’ ἰδών.
Aga. πόλλ’ ἀνδρὶ βασιλεῖ καὶ στρατηλάτῃ μέλει.
· · · · ·
Iph. μέθες νυν ὀφρὺν ὄμμα τ’ ἔκτεινον φίλον.
· · · · ·
κἄπειτα λείβεις δάκρυ’ ἀπ’ ὀμμάτων σέθεν;
Such is the situation described by the poet, and surely the artist has
succeeded to a considerable degree in grasping the meaning of the scene.
Klytaimestra, ΚΛΥΤΑΙΜΗΣΤΡΑ[219], appears on the left with Orestes,
ΟΡΕΣΤΗΣ, and would seem to have had the boy in charge after he was
helped from the chariot (vs. 621 f.). Following is the inscription,
ΕΥΡ[ΙΠΙΔΟΥ] ΙΦΙΓΕΝΕΙΑΣ. The genitive case in the last word may depend
upon some such word as τύποι. To avoid a possible misunderstanding of
the scenes, even with the characters named each time, the artist
considered it advisable to add the literary source. This is the
_Iphigeneia of Euripides_ and not of any other poet.
After Iphigeneia leaves her father he endeavours to persuade
Klytaimestra to return to Argos and leave the final arrangements for the
nuptials in his charge. Naturally enough she refuses, and retires to
appear at v. 819, where she meets Achilles and enthusiastically brings
up the subject of the marriage. Achilles, amazed at the disclosure,
assures the queen that he has neither wooed Iphigeneia nor heard aught
from the Atreidai concerning any such an alliance. This scene is
represented in the next group. Achilles, ΑΧΙΛΛΕΥΣ, bends toward
Klytaimestra and gestures emphatically. The latter holds her hand to her
chin and is evidently dumbfounded by the declarations. The last words
exchanged before the two separate are suggestive—
Ach. ἴσως ἐκερτόμησε κἀμὲ καὶ σέ τις,
ἀλλ’ ἀμελίᾳ δὸς αὐτὰ καὶ φαύλως φέρε.
Kly. χαῖρ’· οὐ γὰρ ὀρθοῖς ὄμμασίν ς’ ἔτ’ εἰσορῶ,
ψευδὴς γενομένη καὶ παθοῦς’ ἀνάξια.
Ach. καὶ σοὶ τόδ’ ἐστὶν ἐξ ἐμοῦ· πόσιν δὲ σὸν
στείχω ματεύσων τῶνδε δωμάτων ἔσω. vs. 849–854.
Immediately after these words the faithful old servant of Agamemnon
comes out and relates to Klytaimestra that Iphigeneia is to be slain by
her father; he goes further and tells the cause of it all, and how he
had failed to get away to Argos with the letter. This meeting of the
servant, ΠΡΕΣΣΒΥΣ, and the queen, is dramatically told in the third
group. The former wears the costume of a pedagogue, with
peculiar-looking boots. The latter has laid aside the veil which she
wears in all the other scenes.
The following groups on the relief reverse the order of the text, so it
is best to consider first that on the extreme left. Agamemnon,
Klytaimestra, and Iphigeneia are all named. The young Orestes pulls at
his father’s chiton; the latter has a mantle over his head, and shields
his face with his left hand. The mother has turned aside and is consumed
with her deep sorrow. She had won the sympathy of Achilles after the
talk with the old servant, vs. 896–1035, and following the choral song
appears again to seek Agamemnon whom neither she nor Iphigeneia had seen
since the terrible truth of the marriage was disclosed. She calls her
daughter from the house, v. 1117, and bids her
λαβοῦς’ Ὀρέστην σὸν κασίγνητον, τέκνον.
All of these figures occur on the cup, so that in a certain sense the
whole scene from v. 1122 to v. 1275 is illustrated. The position of
Klytaimestra and Iphigeneia would, however, lead one to think that the
latter’s long appeal was particularly in the mind of the artist. She
recounts in words, as eloquent as they are pathetic, the promises her
father had once made to her as a child, and goes over all the ambitions
that had filled her girlish heart in the happy Argive home.
βλέψον πρὸς ἡμᾶς, ὄμμα δὸς φίλημά τε,
ἵν’ ἀλλὰ τοῦτο κατθανοῦς’ ἔχω σέθεν
μνημεῖον, εἰ μὴ τοῖς ἐμοῖς πείθει λόγοις.
ἀδελφέ, μικρὸς μὲν σύ γ’ ἐπίκουρος φίλοις,
ὅμως δὲ συνδάκρυσον, ἱκέτευσον πατρὸς
τὴν σὴν ἀδελφὴν μὴ θανεῖν· αἴσθημά τοι
κἀν νηπίοις γε τῶν κακῶν ἐγγίγνεται.
ἰδοὺ σιωπῶν λίσσεταί ς’ ὅδ’, ὦ πάτερ.
ἀλλ’ αἴδεσαί με καὶ κατοίκτειρον βίον.
ναί, πρὸς γενείου ς’ ἀντόμεσθα δύο φίλω·
ὁ μὲν νεοσσός ἐστιν, ἡ δ’ ηὐξημένη. vs. 1238–1248.
There is certainly inspiration enough in these verses for a more
pretentious group than the simple terra cotta cup presents, but lacking
all other Greek monuments bearing upon this scene one may prize this
witness as a valuable inheritance from the Hellenistic period. Agamemnon
speaks; he loves his child and realizes full well the meaning of the
sacrifice, but he must obey the clamourings of the Greeks.
Iphigeneia and her mother remain alone with the chorus and bewail the
bitterness of their sorrow, vs. 1276–1345, when a company of men is
observed approaching. Among them is Achilles. His attempt to intercede
in behalf of the doomed Iphigeneia had been of no avail. The Achaeans
were inexorable; her blood must be spilt. Nevertheless he promises them
his assistance, and encourages Klytaimestra to resist Odysseus and the
others who come to drag her daughter away to the altar, vs. 1338–1433.
The early part of this scene is recognizable in the remaining group.
Iph. διαχαλᾶτέ μοι μέλαθρα, δμῶες, ὡς κρύψω δέμας.
Kly. τί δέ, τέκνον φεύγεις;
Iph. Ἀχιλλέα τόνδ’ ἰδεῖν αἰσχύνομαι.
Kly. ὁς τί δέ;
Iph. τὸ δυστυχές μοι τῶν γάμων αἰδῶ φέρει.
Kly. οὐκ ἐν ἁβρότητι κεῖσαι πρὸς τὰ νῦν πεπτωκότα.
ἀλλὰ μίμν’· οὐ σεμνότητος ἔργον, ἢν δυνώμεθα.
Ach. ὦ γύναι τάλαινα, Λήδας θύγατερ. vs. 1340–1345.
Achilles stands with staff in hand, either about to address the mother
or perhaps having uttered the last verse above. Iphigeneia turns with
bowed head to avoid his presence; her mother evidently tries to detain
her. Inscriptions again indicate who the persons are. We have then
precisely the situation in the lines quoted.
The sacrifice which followed, was attended by the marvellous wonder, and
it was to be expected that if any _one_ incident of the tragedy was told
in art it would be the scene at the altar. Our little monument curiously
enough stops where _all_ the others begin. We are taken step by step up
to the final act and there we are left. The works enumerated above[220]
are, without exception, confined to the moment of the sacrifice. The
famous wall painting and the Florence altar have much in common with the
renowned painting of Timanthes, and all three are conceived in the
spirit of Euripides as far as the actions of Agamemnon are concerned.
... ὡς δ’ ἐσεῖδεν Ἀγαμέμνων ἄναξ
ἐπὶ σφαγὰς στείχουσαν εὶς ἄλσος κόρην,
ἀνεστέναζε, κἄμπαλιν στρέψας κάρα
δάκρυα προῆγεν, ὀμμάτων πέπλον προθείς. vs. 1547 ff.
And so he stands completely wrapped in his mantle, exposing no part of
his face. In this invention lay the unsurpassed success which Timanthes
enjoyed with his painting. The dates for this artist allow us to place
the work subsequent to the production of the _Iphigeneia_ in 405 B.C.,
and credit Euripides with influencing Timanthes. This is at least
possible, but does not admit of proof. It appears to me very likely that
all three of these works are more or less closely connected with each
other and with Euripides. The Etruscan ash-urns on the other hand, as
well as the vase painting in the British Museum[221], follow a totally
different version of the story. In these cases Agamemnon himself takes
the part of the priest in the ceremony, and performs the ἀπαρχαί. So far
from being the tender-hearted father who cannot even stand and watch the
offering, he draws the fatal knife or pours the sacrificial liquid upon
the victim’s head. Traces of this turn are found early in tragedy[222],
but this is an Agamemnon with a far different heart from the one we
follow in the _Iphigeneia_ of Euripides. Even though the part from v.
1532 till the close of the play be thrown out as an interpolation, the
character of Agamemnon in the first 1500 verses could not have changed
so suddenly at the end that he would have taken the place of Kalchas at
the altar. This set of monuments does not, therefore, give us the
Euripidean spirit.
§ 7. IPHIGENEIA AMONG THE TAURIANS.
Euripides in all probability created in the life of Iphigeneia the
chapter concerning her return to Greece with Orestes. There is at any
rate no trace of this turn in preceding authors. Homer does not appear
to have known any such a daughter of Agamemnon, unless one is to seek to
identify Iphigeneia with Iphianassa. The ‘king of men’ speaks of
Χρυσόθεμις καὶ Λαοδίκη καὶ Ιφιάνασσα. _Il._ 9. 145.
as his three daughters. We know, however, from Sophokles[223] that
Iphianassa was distinguished from Iphigeneia. Since Homer has not even
her name there is no allusion to the catastrophe at Aulis. It is first
in the _Kypria_[224], a work usually accredited to Stasinos in the early
part of the eighth century B.C., that reference is made to the gathered
hosts at Aulis, the calm, the sacrifice. It was not Iphigeneia, however,
who was the victim, for Artemis had suddenly intervened and, having
taken her away to the Black Sea country, had blessed her with
immortality. From this date then the myth may have been widely spread
among the Greeks. Hesiod related in his Κατάλογος γυναικῶν that
Iphigeneia had received the gift of immortality from Artemis, thus
following closely the author of the _Kypria_[225]. Herodotos also
repeats the same story[226]. One looks in vain for any trace of her
delivery from this wild people, until the latter part of Euripides’
life. Then it is that new light breaks in upon the old orthodox form of
the myth: the mortal side of Iphigeneia is made to assume a new interest
for the world, and she, who had been long lost amidst a wild, barbarous
people, is suddenly restored to her only hope, Orestes. This is the work
of ‘Euripides, the human, with his droppings of warm tears.’ With this
tragedy the poet created at once a definite chapter in dramatic
literature and furnished another impetus for ancient art.
There are traces of two other Greek tragedies dealing with this same
subject; yet the play of Timestheos is a mere name[227], while that of
Polyeidos is but little more. Aristotle, however, has given a certain
prominence to the latter work by making two references to it in his
_Poetics_[228]. This differed from the play of Euripides particularly in
the recognition scene. The ἀναγνώρισις was brought about by Orestes
using the words ‘and shall I too be sacrificed?’ Who but Orestes was
likely to know aught of the attempt once made to sacrifice her at Aulis?
It is worthy of note that the _libretto_ of Glück’s opera also follows
this manner of the _dénouement_. Among the Latin dramatists we hear that
Naevius wrote a play called _Iphigenia_. One verse only is
preserved[229]. It goes without saying that the tragedy was taken from
the Greek, but from what author it is worthless to conjecture. The
_Dolorestes_ of Pacuvius was long thought to deal with the same subject,
but this has been shown to be of an entirely different character. It is
altogether improbable that these Latin versions worked any radical
change in the Euripidean form of the myth. It is true that the story was
remodelled in some particulars; Hyginus, e.g. in _fabula_ 261, relates
that the bones of Orestes had been brought from Aricia to Rome and had
been interred before the temple of Saturn! Such a violent contortion of
the myth may be laid to the credit of a poet[230], but I would prefer to
recognize in the words of Hyginus the influence of the mythological
handbooks which were written up in a manner well calculated to pamper
the national pride of the Romans.
In no work written subsequent to Euripides is it possible to detect the
sources for the representations of the myth in art; in all cases the
poet of the fifth century B.C. can be shown to have wielded his absolute
power. We shall see in the discussion of the vase paintings based upon
the play that this class of monuments is not the only one in which the
new Iphigeneia found her place. The Etruscan urns and mirrors, the wall
paintings of Pompeii and of Herculaneum, the Roman sarcophagi, as well
as pastes and gems, all furnish an extensive field in which parallel
scenes may be traced.
This introduces the consideration of the vases and their relation to the
tragedy. They fall readily into three classes corresponding to three
well-defined stages in the play: 1. Orestes and Pylades alone upon the
Taurian coast are surprised, and led by the shepherds to the king and
Iphigeneia (vs. 67–466). 2. The scene following, in which it is
determined that not both shall be killed, but that one, and he Pylades,
shall be allowed to return to Mykenai, bearing a message from Iphigeneia
(vs. 467–724). 3. The handing over of the letter and the accompanying
explanation, whereby Orestes and his sister recognize each other (vs.
725–1088). There follow two other well-defined scenes which are not
traceable on vases[231]. 4. The escape with the Artemis idol (vs.
1152–1233), and 5. the messenger’s speech which relates the manner of
the escape.
There is but one vase painting that can be assigned to the first step in
the play. The painting is a thoroughly ugly and, from an artistic
standpoint, worthless specimen that represents the very decadence of
ceramic art[232]. The vase is a slender amphora with three zones of
pictures; ours is the middle one. On the left a woman in chiton and
mantle sits with head turned to the right, her left hand resting on a
sceptre or staff and her right on her knee. She wears a necklace and on
one arm a bracelet. Standing before her with outstretched right hand is
a bearded male figure in short chiton and mantle, and a spear in his
left; he has just arrived, as one may conclude from the position of his
feet. Immediately following are two youths entirely naked, hands
pinioned behind their backs. The ends of the ropes seem to be held by
the group of three youths following, who are dressed as the first male
figure except that two of them wear boots. Their attention, like that of
all, is directed towards the female figure.
[Illustration:
Fig. 17.
]
The arrest of Orestes and Pylades is given here, and more definitely
their appearance before Iphigeneia. To be sure the manner is entirely
different from that on other monuments. One expects Iphigeneia to be in
or near the temple of Artemis and to be represented in a more concerned
and active attitude; and furthermore, one looks for the altar (v. 72),
and some indication of the fate which awaits the captives. All these
features are wanting. That the artist endeavoured to represent the
meeting of the priestess and the two Greeks can, however, admit of no
doubt; that the necessary setting of the scene was omitted need be no
more a matter of surprise to one than the helpless workmanship of the
whole. The monument is valuable as being the only vase painting showing
the first scene, which is never wanting on the sarcophagi[233]. This
moment occurs likewise on certain other monuments[234]. The shepherd
relates (vs. 260–339) how the discovery and capture were made; how they
learned that one of the two was named Pylades; and further that the
prisoners had been conducted first to the king, who after glancing at
them (ἐσιδών) sent them to Artemis and her priestess. Iphigeneia says to
the boukolos in v. 342, σὺ μὲν κόμιζε τοὺς ξένους μολών, and in v. 467,
after her soliloquy and the song of the chorus, she appears again on the
stage where she meets the captives. This is the moment, very largely
modified, which the painting represents. Iphigeneia’s first words are—
μέθετε τῶν ξένων χέρας,
ὡς ὄντες ἱεροὶ μηκέτ’ ὦσι δέσμιοι.
At this the guards are commanded to enter the temple and make ready for
the offering. Our picture follows in one respect the traditional manner
of representing the scene. Orestes and Pylades are invariably nude, or
so lightly clad with the chlamys that they are practically naked. There
is the closest analogy between them as they appear here and as they
occur on the sarcophagi.
[Illustration:
Fig. 18.
]
The second moment, as I have marked it out above, is also represented on
one vase only[235]. In the centre Orestes, ΟΡΕΣΤΑΣ, sits to the right
upon a large altar, chlamys about his hips, sword on his left side,
hands supported upon his stick towards which his head is sunk. The whole
attitude betokens sorrow. On the right is Iphigeneia wearing long,
sleeved chiton, and mantle, necklace, and bracelets. In her left hand
close by her side (incorrectly published as a knife) is the temple key
which is emblematic of her office as κλῃδοῦχος[236]. Her right is
extended towards Orestes, with whom she is speaking. She is accompanied
by a temple servant who, entirely wrapped in chiton and mantle, carries
in her right an oinochoë and upon her head a dish in which are articles
for the sacrifice, including the branches for sprinkling. Behind Orestes
is a laurel tree and on his right Pylades, ΠΥΛΑΔΗΣ, standing with one
foot thrown over the other, his right hand placed sorrowfully to his
head. The left rests upon his staff. On his left side is a sword. He is
deeply concerned in the conversation. Above on the right behind a
_terrain_ is the temple of Artemis, Ionic order, and akroteria. Beside
it on the left, Artemis, distinguished by her huntress-mantle, two
spears, and hair-dress, sits with face to the left towards Apollo who is
the remaining figure on the vase. He wears a garment around his waist,
and rests his right upon a cane and turns his face towards Artemis.
The vase is especially interesting as being the only one on which any of
the characters is accompanied by an inscription, and secondly, because
Orestes sits here upon the altar. He cannot be thought of as a victim,
and I do not believe he has fled to the altar for refuge, as has been
suggested. That would comport but poorly with the spirit which he
exhibits throughout the interview. Where does Orestes sit passively upon
an altar at the attack of the Furies? He invariably has his sword drawn
in a very emphatic manner, and while he crouches upon or clings to the
altar he never gives any appearance of being an easy victim to his
pursuers[237]. Just this point it is necessary to emphasize, for had the
artist felt that the meaning of Orestes’ position indicated his pursuit
either by seen or unseen Furies, he never would have committed the
egregious error of placing him in a calm attitude quite unconscious that
he has a _sword ready at his side_. Furthermore there is no trace in
Euripides or the painting to allow us to assume that Orestes is again
pursued at this point. He is not, therefore, in any sense a suppliant.
The vase painter has simply allowed himself a great liberty in seating
his figure where we should least expect to find him. An altar is not by
any means a usual seat, and much less for the victim[238]. This same
freedom in disposing of details led the decorator still further from the
established usage, for neither of the captives should be allowed their
swords. They are already ἱεροί (v. 469) and should be represented
accordingly. In these particulars we must acknowledge that the painter
idealized the scene (vs. 472 ff.).
If it were necessary to determine upon any one moment which the artist
had in mind, one would discover a close parallel between vs. 625 ff. and
the present scene. It has been agreed that Pylades shall be the
messenger; Orestes is to die in his stead. The latter proceeds to ask
who shall perform the sacrificial act, and whether a tomb shall receive
him when all is over. To this Iphigeneia replies—
πῦρ ἱερὸν ἔνδον χάσμα τ’ εὐρωπὸν πέτρας.
and Orestes—
φεῦ·
πῶς ἄν μ’ ἀδελφῆς χεὶρ περιστείλειεν ἄν;
to which Iphigeneia remarks,
μάταιον εὐχήν, ὦ τάλας, ὅστις ποτ’ εἶ,
ηὔξω.
I can conceive of no more pitiable and hopeless condition than that of
the unfortunate Orestes which the poet depicts. At this point his course
seemed all in vain; Apollo’s promise appeared to be a farce, and Heaven
and Earth seemed wrought into one violent confusion (cf. vs. 572 f. and
711). Perhaps it was at this juncture that he most impressed the
painter, and we may see the wretched Orestes prostrate upon the altar in
this moment of extreme despair.
Artemis and Apollo take no part in the action, but there is a greater
fitness in their position as spectators than is often the case with the
gods on the vases of Lower Italy. The former is a natural figure in her
own precinct, by her own temple, while Apollo, as her brother, properly
balances the scene. The latter, moreover, stands in so close a relation
to Orestes’ trial and delivery that he is a most appropriate beholder of
the progress of this his own enterprise (cf. v. 977).
Mention should be made here of the sarcophagi, on which essentially the
same scene is found. The agreement with our vase is striking[239].
Orestes sits with his head wrapped in his mantle and drooping on his
lap, while Pylades stands before him, always in the same attitude, one
leg thrown over the other, one hand clutching his hair and the other
resting on his stick. This is a striking coincidence, indeed, in these
two classes of monuments, separated by at least four hundred years.
In the third step of the tragedy we are more fortunate and possess among
vase paintings at least three that represent the transmission of the
letter to Pylades, and the accompanying recognition between Orestes and
his sister. It is not surprising that the supreme moment in the action
should have attracted the artists, and that on the sarcophagi[240] also
this unique point in Greek tragedy should have been represented[241].
[Illustration:
Fig. 19.
]
1. The best known of the vases is an amphora formerly in the possession
of the Duke of Buckingham[242]. In front of the temple of Artemis, Doric
order, stands Iphigeneia, _en face_, in richly embroidered chiton, and
high head-dress from which falls a sort of veil reaching to the knees.
She wears necklace, bracelets, earrings, and sandals; her costume
bespeaks in every respect that of the theatre. She carries again the
token of her office in the left, and hands the letter to Pylades with
the right, who stands ready for the journey, wearing chlamys, pilos,
boots, and carrying two spears. Further, on the left, leaning against
the περιρῥαντήριον is Orestes, _en face_, but with laurel-wreathed head
turned towards Pylades; his right leg is thrown over the left. He wears
a chlamys, and carries two spears and a sword. Beside Iphigeneia is her
servant, as in fig. 18, but with a simple girdled chiton, and in her
right the dish with articles for the altar which is represented in poor
perspective behind Iphigeneia. Above, on the right, before the temple
doors, is Artemis in short, huntress-costume and high Thracian boots;
two spears in her left, and a burning torch in her right. She wears the
Thracian cap. On the left of the temple behind a _terrain_ is a young
satyr, no doubt thrown in to fill up the space.
2. The largest painting representing this scene is that on an amphora in
St. Petersburg[243]. The centre of the picture is taken up by the
temple, four Ionic columns. Inside on the right is the Artemis statue,
costumed like Artemis in fig. 19; a burning torch in the right, around
which is bound a sort of decoration. It is on a large pedestal, and has
in the left a spear. On the left, about to leave the temple, is
Iphigeneia with an elegant chiton, mantle, a diadem in hair, and the
peculiar key in her left; beside her, and leaning against the wall, is a
kylix with long handle. She makes a gesture towards Pylades with her
right in which there is no letter. He stands on the left by the temple,
leaning against his knotty stick; has petasos on the back of the neck,
and wears high boots and an escaping chlamys. On the left, lower down,
Orestes leans on the περιρῥαντήριον, as in fig. 19, but he is evidently
more dejected here. The rest of the painting, which consists of five
groups of two figures each, has so little to do with the central scene
that we may omit any description of it. In the upper zone on the right
are Hermes and Artemis, on the left Athena and Nike. Athena will observe
the final part of the affair in which she was so deeply interested in
Athens. The two groups, a female and an armed Thracian, represent the
common ‘love-scenes’ on this class of vases. For the third group on the
right, the artist preferred to draw a young deer instead of the female
figure. Stephani[244] is correct in calling these ‘love-scenes,’ and so
separating them permanently from any part in the action. Countless such
groups are thrown upon vases of this style as meaningless, decorative
figures. The parasol, wreaths, and vessels serve to enrich the setting
and add charm to the coquetry.
[Illustration:
Fig. 20 (_vid. p. 133 ff._).
]
[Illustration:
Fig. 21.
]
3. A vase, formerly in the possession of the art dealer Barone in
Naples, shows an abridgement of the scene[245]. In an Ionic temple, four
columns, and akroteria, Iphigeneia, _en face_, long chiton, mantle, hair
done in a knot behind, leans with her left elbow upon the βρέτας. In her
left is the temple attribute, and in the right the letter which she
extends to Pylades, in chlamys and petasos. He leans against his stick,
and has a sword in the left, while he points with the right towards the
letter. On the right are Apollo and Artemis. The former, nude except for
a mantle and high boots, grasps the laurel tree with his left, and rests
his right upon Artemis’ shoulder, who sits to the left upon the altar
and looks up to Apollo. She is dressed as usual with short chiton and
high boots. She has two spears in the left.
In setting these three paintings over against each other and comparing
the elements in them, the uniformity is very striking. Perhaps the
details may be clearer if placed in a sort of scheme.
_a._ Elements common to all three vases.
1. Temple of Artemis. 2. Iphigeneia in elaborate dress, indicated as the
κλῃδοῦχος. 3. A youth in travelling costume, with whom she is talking.
4. Artemis on the _right_ of the temple.
_b._ Elements common to two of the three vases.
1. In figs. 19 and 20 a youth leans against the περιρῥαντήριον, resting
on one leg over which the other is thrown. 2. In figs. 19 and 21
Iphigeneia hands the letter to the youth. 3. The Artemis ἄγαλμα is in
the temple in figs. 20 and 21; so also is Iphigeneia.
We thus observe that the remarkable agreement, even in the details,
shows that they must all be copies more or less exact of one and the
same original. That Iphigeneia in fig. 20 does not hold the letter in
her hand may be accredited to the carelessness of the artist who merely
forgot to paint it. The same may be said with regard to the abridged
form of the scene in fig. 21, where Orestes has been left out. The two
central figures appeared to the artist to be the important part of the
original, and accordingly he omitted all else.
Immediately following the scene represented in fig. 18, Iphigeneia
entered the temple to get the letter—
ἀλλ’ εἶμι, δέλτον τ’ ἐκ θεᾶς ανακτόρων
οἴσω. v. 636 f.
and ordered the guards to watch the two without binding them. Thereafter
ensues the touching scene between Orestes and Pylades (vs. 657–724). The
priestess then reappears, and commanding the attendants to go inside,
continues—
δέλτου μὲν αἵδε πολύθυροι διαπτυχαί,
ξένοι, πάρεισιν· ἃ δ’ ἐπὶ τοῖσδε βούλομαι,
ἀκούσατ’.
Orestes speaks first after these lines and asks her what she wishes. It
shall be an oath for the safe delivery of the letter. At this he demands
a counter-oath from her for the safe withdrawal of Pylades from the
country. We may imagine that during the delivery of these verses, which
were probably spoken while Iphigeneia was still in the temple doorway,
Pylades had approached her to receive the letter, while Orestes stepped
to one side as he appears in figs. 19 and 20. In vs. 769–787 the
contents of the letter are related to ensure safe transfer of the
message, even though the written words be lost in a shipwreck. This is
the time represented on our vases. The hopelessness of Orestes requires,
moreover, the earlier part of the scene, since from v. 772 he begins to
be aroused and to prove his brotherhood to Iphigeneia. The αναγνώρισις
is complete at the close of v. 826, and there follow the fourth and
fifth stages which were noticed above[246]. Neither of these movements
is, so far as I am aware, shown on any vase painting, although they are
an important part of the reliefs on the Roman sarcophagi[247].
In conclusion, mention should be made of the wall paintings which
represent the departure of the three with the statue to purify it in the
sea. The first and most important of these is the fine _casa del
citarista_ painting[248]. Robert first correctly recognized the right
meaning of this beautiful monument and based it upon the poet[249],
thereby bringing it into harmony with the sarcophagi. That he was
happily correct in reading the time in the painting _after the
recognition_, contrary to Helbig’s interpretation[250], is nicely borne
out by the painting recently discovered in the _casa dei Vettii_[251],
which is another copy of the same original[252]. The variations are,
however, enough to render any misunderstanding of it impossible. Here
there is no temple, and Iphigeneia occupies the centre between Orestes
and Pylades on the left, and Thoas on the right. She carries plainly the
temple βρέτας on the left shoulder. Furthermore, the unconcerned
attitude of the two prisoners in their _tête-à-tête_ points clearly to
the proper significance of the scene. Curiously enough Orestes appears
to sit on the altar here as on the vase painting, fig. 18.
§ 8. KYKLOPS.
The satyr dance, the earliest form of the Greek drama and the simple
beginning from which the immense superstructure of tragedy took its
start, continued, in the satyr composition which followed the regular
trilogy, to remind the public of the original plan and tendency of the
performances in honour of Dionysos[253]. Till late in the fourth century
B.C., at least, this echo of the original Dionysiac festival remained in
vogue. The _Kyklops_ of Euripides is the only example of this sort of
composition which has reached us, and although the present work is
concerned with tragedy and vase paintings I cannot refrain from
including here a painting that is under the influence of this unique
relic of Greek literature. The connexion between the satyr-play and
tragedy is certainly intimate enough to warrant the introduction of the
present chapter.
Every one is acquainted with the story of Odysseus’ adventure with the
Kyklops Polyphemos. Since the author of the _Odyssey_ threw a charm
around the story, this event in the wanderings of the hero has remained
one of the most popular. In early Greek art there are numerous monuments
based upon the myth. The black figured vases represent two critical
moments. 1. The blinding of Polyphemos. 2. The escape of Odysseus and
his companion from the cave. A long list of paintings tells this story
over and over again, with little variation[254]. The artists evidently
became tired of the monotony of the subject, for it is practically dead
at the beginning of the fifth century. There was nothing new in the
tale; it was distinctly epic, and for this very reason had its day and
gave way to new motives in the dramatic literature. At the end of the
century there was a revival of the myth. It gained a new lease of life
through the _Kyklops_ of Euripides, and once again all eyes were turned
towards the old Homeric fiction. When the poet introduces Seilenos and
his company of satyrs as slaves to Polyphemos, and turns the fortunes of
Odysseus, on his arrival at the cave, by the intervention of this new
element, the artist had certainly a new incentive. The rollicking, lusty
antics of the tribe of satyrs had ever been the red figured vase
painter’s delight, and when Euripides connected them with the adventures
of Odysseus and the Kyklops the old story was ingrafted with a vigorous
shoot[255]. Timanthes, whom we have already met[256], very likely owed
it to Euripides that he associated Polyphemos with satyrs[257]. An
interesting vase painting, which may be dated _cir._ 410 B.C., bears
strong testimony to the influence of the _Kyklops_ in Lower Italy[258].
[Illustration:
Fig. 22.
]
The picture appears in fig. 22. In the foreground Polyphemos lies
stretched out in his drunken stupour[259]; beside him is a stump on
which hangs an empty wineskin, and on the ground a bowl. In the centre
three youths, the middle one wearing a pilos, are busy tugging at a log.
Two others on the left bring fire-wood to kindle the large stick[260];
another youth, probably Odysseus, in pilos and chlamys, directs the work
from the opposite side. Two bearded satyrs, with the usual horse-tails,
caper around on the right[261].
The whole painting breathes with the spirit running through the
_Kyklops_. The impression gained by reading the play is remarkably well
supported by a study of the former. There is no detailed agreement
between the two which strikes one, for the situations in Euripides are
not closely followed. There is, however, the same stamp of originality
and newness characterizing both. The painting is a revelation to one who
has seen only the earlier Homeric monuments.
It may first be noticed that Polyphemos is represented outside of his
cave, and that the attack upon his big eye is about to take place. This
is quite opposed to Homer and Euripides, yet more than half the charm of
the scene lies in the _naïveté_ with which the artist disposes of the
giant. A glance at the words of the poet will make this clearer.
Odysseus and his chorus of satyrs have fixed upon the means for
overcoming the Kyklops. They beg Odysseus for permission to take a hand
in preparing the fatal pole;
δεῖ γοῦν· μέγας γὰρ δαλός, ὃν ξυλληπτέον. v. 472.
says the son of Laertes, but when he came to the point where he really
needed their help they made every manner of excuse; some were suddenly
seized with lameness; others had dust in their eyes. But he knew that it
would turn out so, and he relies on his own companions,
... τοῖσι δ’ οἰκείοις φίλοις
χρῆσθαί μ’ ἀνάγκη. vs. 650 f.
This is well brought out, whether intentionally or not I do not say, for
it is Greeks who are lifting the δαλός, and as for its size every one
will agree that it is μέγας. The two satyrs, representing the chorus,
dance around lustily the while, having smelt the contents of the
wineskin (v. 153 f.). As soon as the plan has been decided upon,
Polyphemos appears again, having already sated his appetite on two of
the Greeks, and having had at least a taste of the wine. What could
prepare one better for the appreciation of the figure on the vase than
his own words?
παπαπαῖ, πλέως μὲν οἴνου,
γάνυμαι δὲ δαιτὸς ἥβῃ
σκάφος ὁλκὰς ὡς γεμισθεὶς
ποτὶ σέλμα γαστρὸς ἄκρας.
ὑπάγει μ’ ὁ χόρτος εὔφρων
ἐπὶ κῶμον ἦρος ὥραις,
ἐπὶ Κύκλωπας ἀδελφούς.
φέρε μοι, ξεῖνε, φέρ’ ἀσκὸν ἔνδος μοι. vs. 503 ff.
His proposal to go and share his good fortune with the brother Kyklopes
does not meet the approval of Odysseus, who bids him keep his good
things to himself and enjoy them. Seilenos goes even further and says—
κλίθητί νύν μοι πλεῦρα θεὶς ἐπὶ χθονός. v. 543.
and Polyphemos takes up the suggestion at once, for we hear him ask
τί δῆτα τὸν κρατῆρ’ ὄπισθε μου τίθης; v. 545.
There can be little doubt that these verses particularly interested the
artist. Well satisfied with the newly discovered drink, the Kyklops has
dropped down upon his side as Seilenos recommended. The ἀσκός, which he
ordered extra, hangs beside him and upon the ground is a bowl[262]. Both
of these have evidently been drained. The inhuman monster sleeps on,
quite in the manner of Euripides, in the presence of the active
preparations for his own ruin.
§ 9. MEDEIA.
The heroine of this tragedy of Euripides is one of the most imposing and
terrible figures that has come down to us from ancient Greek literature.
It is not, however, the magician of strange power, who assisted Jason in
winning the Golden Fleece and in performing his other Kolchian
adventures, that overawes one; neither is it the sorceress who worked
her wonders on Pelias, but rather the Medeia who avenged her slighted
honour through the destruction of Jason’s newly won bride and his two
sons; it is the Medeia _at Corinth_ that we know best, the Medeia of
Euripides. This chapter in the barbarian’s career assumed under his hand
a prominence which far exceeded anything that had gone before.
Euripides’ Medeia has remained ever since _the_ Medeia of art and
letters.
In early Greek art Medeia is not a common figure, and when she does
occur it is invariably as the sorceress[263]. In this rôle one meets her
on both black and red figured vases[264], and on the famous relief in
the Lateran[265]. After the beginning of the fourth century B.C. the
Corinthian Medeia predominates. As such one finds her on vases from
Lower Italy, Apulia and Campania especially, on Pompeian wall
paintings[266], on terra cottas[267], gems[268], and the Roman
sarcophagi[269].
[Illustration:
Fig. 23 (_vid. p. 145 ff._)
]
The most famous vase upon which we find Medeia is the great amphora in
Munich[270], found in Canosa, the ancient Canusium, in Apulia, Oct. 16,
1813. The painting consists of three sections of figures parallel with
the perimeter of the vase. The two upper ones are divided in the middle
by a building with six Ionic columns. On the inside hang two round
shields—a common decoration in this sort of picture. On the right,
inside of the house, is a chair or θρόνος, over the arm-rest of which a
richly dressed female figure has fallen; above on the frieze the
inscription ΚΡΕΟΝΤΕΙΑ (sc. ΠΑΙΣ) shows the person to be Kreusa, or
Glauke[271], the daughter of Kreon. Rushing rapidly towards her from the
right is a youth in petasos and chlamys. He has already reached the
upper step of the palace and is attempting to remove Kreusa’s
head-dress. Incised in the vase is the name ΙΠΠΟΤΗΣ[272]. On the left an
elderly male figure, bearded, wearing long, richly embroidered chiton,
hurries to Kreusa. One hand is placed behind her as though to support
the body; the other, from which the sceptre has just fallen, clutches
his hair. He gazes to one side in a dazed sort of manner. On the frieze
above is ΩΝ, evidently the last letters of ΚΡΕΩΝ[273]. To the left
outside of the palace, and somewhat lower, an elderly woman in long
chiton and mantle runs toward the scene of the tragedy, extending her
left hand and holding her right to her head in the usual attitude of
fright. She is designated by the inscription, incised, as
ΜΕΡΟΠΗ[274]—most likely the wife of Kreon. Further on the left is a
group of two, a pedagogue in the usual costume, and a female attendant.
The former is hurrying towards the palace, while the latter attempts to
divert him from his onward rush.
To the right from Hippotes is another female figure, _en face_, who
appears to be leaving the palace. Her dress, especially the veil, and
her bearing point her out as a nurse or servant of Kreusa. Just in front
of the latter upon the ground is the open box in which the baneful
presents were brought.
The lower section is divided into two parts by Medeia’s dragon-chariot,
held in readiness by the charioteer with a burning torch in either hand.
The upper part of the latter’s body is nude. There can be little doubt
that the figure is female. The inscription ΟΙΣΤΡΟΣ shows it to be
Οἴστρος, the personification of Medeia’s rage. On the left, Medeia,
ΜΗΔΕΙΑ[275], with richly decorated oriental costume and Phrygian cap,
advances to the right with drawn sword to kill one son whom she grasps
by the hair with the left hand. It is not easy to say whether the boy
has taken refuge on the altar, or whether his mother has lifted him upon
it. More probably the latter is true. The lad is nude, with the
exception of a garment over his left shoulder. He wears bracelets and on
the left leg an anklet. Immediately behind Medeia a doryphoros, dressed
as Hippotes, but with two spears instead of a sword, hurries to the left
with the second boy, dressed as is the other. On the right of the
chariot and hastening impetuously to rescue his son is Jason, ΙΑΣΩΝ. He
is bearded and has a sword and long spear. His chlamys is thrown over
his left arm. Beside him, but moving at slackened speed, another
doryphoros extends the right hand towards the chariot as though to warn
Jason of the futility of his intervention. Above this group on the right
is a bearded male figure, pointing towards the events transpiring below.
He wears a long royal dress and Phrygian cap, and carries a sceptre in
his left. ΕΙΔΩΛΟΝ ΑΗΤΟΥ, incised, indicates him as the ghost of Aetes,
Medeia’s father.
The upper section is bounded on either side by a Corinthian column
surmounted by a tripod. Herakles, with club, bow and quiver, and lion’s
skin, stands on the left facing Athene, who sits upon a _terrain_. She
has her helmet in her right hand and leans against her shield. The spear
is not wanting. On the right are two male figures, one sitting, the
other standing. The oil-cruses and strigils, as well as the two stars
and the pilos, near the one who sits, designate them as the Dioskouroi.
We turn now to a closer consideration of our vase to see if it is under
the influence of Euripides. Starting with the scene which the vase
painter has given us in Kreon’s palace, one cannot but be struck with
the agreement between the picture and the scene described by the poet
through the mouth of the messenger in the celebrated speech, vs.
1136–1230. This wonderful passage is the triumph of Euripidean rhetoric
in the _Medeia_. The two boys, together with their father, had entered
Kreusa’s apartment conveying the box with the rich vestment and golden
crown, and she, who had refused to listen to words and be softened, was,
woman-like, melted by these unexpected gifts. She accepts them, and
father and sons retire. She then arrays herself before the mirror,
admires her beauty, retreats across the room with proud, exulting step,
all too captivated by her gracious figure, when the terrible moment
comes—
χροιὰν γὰρ ἀλλάξασα λεχρία πάλιν
χωρεῖ τρέμουσα κῶλα καὶ μόλις φθάνει
θρόνοισιν ἐμπεσοῦσα μὴ χαμαὶ πεσεῖν. vs. 1168–1170.
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,
σὺ δ’ ὡς μάλιστα τούσδ’ ἐρημώσας ἔχε,
καὶ μὴ πέλαζε μητρὶ δυσθυμουμένῃ.
At v. 105 the three disappear and nothing more is heard of them till
Medeia, who is addressing Jason and the chorus, cries out in v. 894—
ὦ τέκνα, τέκνα, δεῦτε, λείπετε στέγας,
ἐξέλθετ’.
Hereupon the boys appear in the orchestra, _unaccompanied_ by their
pedagogue, and remain with Medeia and Jason till vs. 969 ff., where
their mother hands them the gifts and bids them go, ὁς τάχιστα (v. 974),
to Kreusa and place the same in her hands. They then depart with their
father and deliver the presents in the manner afterwards described by
the messenger (vs. 1136–1155), and in company with Jason leave Kreusa’s
apartments. Just outside somewhere the pedagogue joins them and appears
with the children in the orchestra to inform Medeia that her sons have
been pardoned (vs. 1002 ff.). Immediately thereafter she orders the
pedagogue to go inside,
... ἀλλὰ βαῖνε δωμάτων ἔσω
καὶ παισὶ πόρσυν’ οἶα χρὴ καθ’ ἡμέραν. vs. 1019 f.
As he re-enters the palace the terrible news reaches him, through, one
of the female attendants, that Kreusa is possessed with some strange
malady. It is at this juncture, dramatic in the extreme, that, as it
seems to me, the vase painter thought of the pedagogue. The latter has
forgotten Medeia’s command to arrange the boys’ program for the day and
is determined to go to the apartments whence comes the great alarm. The
attendant, however, endeavours to dissuade him, and the artist has even
represented her in the attempt to deter the sturdy old pedagogue from
carrying out his resolution. While all this is happening within the
palace, Medeia gives expression to the great battle that is going on in
her bosom. The speech is one of the finest in Euripides. Shall she now
go ahead and kill her children, or is the courage lacking? She finally
bids them enter the house χωρεῖτε, παῖδες, ἐς δόμους (vs. 1053 and
1076), and soon follows them. The death-cries of vs. 1271 ff. are heard
not long afterwards. We have therefore no reason to infer from anything
in Euripides that the pedagogue ever met the boys again. The fact that
he is so often represented in the death-scene[292] is simply due to the
fancy of the artists. It is natural to think of him in company with the
boys. The vase painter has in the present instance shown us the
whereabouts of the pedagogue when the poet had passed him by.
The lower section, which represents the events directly succeeding those
in the one just considered, completes the dread vengeance work of
Medeia. The artist had an opportunity here to follow largely his own
notions in disposing of the details, for in the last moments when horror
followed close upon horror, and the royal house of Corinth was shaking
to its foundations, Euripides hurries us on with great rapidity and
omits many of the particulars. Medeia moves with resistless fury through
the last part of the bloody drama, till she at last disappears upon her
chariot. What was the vase painter to do with all this? It is plain that
he felt himself compelled to combine, for greater effect, different
moments. Medeia enters the palace after the triumphant address in vs.
1236–1250, and a moment later the cries of the boys are heard within.
Jason, aroused by the ruin wrought upon Kreusa, suddenly appears and
asks where Medeia is, and remarks that he must save his sons from the
fury of the populace (vs. 1293–1305). He at once learns the whole truth,
and orders that the palace doors be thrown open that he may behold the
scene of murder. Medeia appears then on her chariot, rolled out upon the
ekkyklema. She stands thus during the final dialogue with Jason (vs.
1317–1404) till she disappears by the aid of the _Flugmaschine_[293].
From these elements the vase painter selected the murder scene, which,
not being described by Euripides, could be represented in any manner
that struck his fancy. He made this the centre about which all else was
grouped; all eyes are turned upon Medeia and the altar. In this
disposition of the matter other details had to be sacrificed. The
chariot, which could not be wanting, had to have a charioteer, and as
Medeia was not ready to mount it herself, the personification of the
Medeia-spirit is the natural figure that the artist would select. Jason,
again, to omit whom would have been unpardonable, had to be painted in
the act of rescuing or attempting the rescue of his sons. So we see that
the three moments discernible in the poet, (_a_) the murder, (_b_)
Jason’s appearance to save the boys, (_c_) the chariot and the escape of
Medeia, are all worked together by the artist into a strong complex. One
feels no incongruity in the picture, and is forced to agree to a large
amount of success that the artist has enjoyed here. Since the pedagogue
appears in the scene above, the artist uses one of the ever convenient
doryphoroi as a companion to the boys or rather as rescuer of one of
them[294]. It is immaterial whether the painter intended to represent
the one boy as actually out of danger or not. A great many useless words
have been spent in trying to show that the vase painter has here
followed a tradition referred to by Diodorus Siculus[295], who relates
that one child escaped—πλὴν γὰρ ἑνὸς τοῦ διαφυγόντος τοὺς ἄλλους υἱοὺς
ἀποσφάξαι. This is not only highly improbable[296], but, more than that,
speaks for a superficial reading of Diodorus on the part of those who
use this quotation. It appears that nothing more of the chapter had been
read than it was necessary to quote. In the first place, what can τοὺς
ἄλλους above refer to if not to _more than one_, and therefore to at
least _two_? But where upon our vase or upon any other monument does
Medeia appear with _three_ children[297]? It would seem, therefore,
that, because the vase painter drew the scene as he did, this very inapt
quotation is brought out to bolster up an unnecessary theory.
Is it necessary to conclude with numerous scholars that Oistros upon the
chariot represents one of Pollux’s ἔκσκευα πρόσωπα (iv. 141)? Does our
painting necessarily go back to some tragedy in which the
personification, Oistros, appears before the audience as Medeia’s
charioteer? It has already been pointed out that the moment which the
vase painter chose to represent never was visible in the theatre of
Euripides. What happened before the palace doors were unbarred, in v.
1314, could be painted in a hundred different ways, and still be
inspired by the poet from v. 1271 to v. 1316. It is true that Euripides
does not mention Οἶστρος, much less as Medeia’s charioteer. What need
had he to introduce any personification of her rage and fury to guide
the chariot, when, at the first glimpse of it in v. 1317, Medeia manages
it herself? Any one who thoroughly works himself into the situation that
the painter has shown upon the vase cannot help seeing that Medeia’s
double, her burning and infuriated barbarian wildness, the spirit shown
in vs. 1236–1250, was a natural and easy subject for embodiment under
the name Οἶστρος. This personification is not met with in Euripides, and
has naturally caused much stumbling. It should, however, be compared
with Λύσσα, with which it has much in common. Orestes says to Pylades,
μὴ θεαί (i. e. the Furies) μ’ οἴστρω κατασχῶς’[298], and two verses
further on, εὐλαβοῦ Λύσσης μετασχεῖν τῆς ἐμῆς. Thus the use of the
οἶστρος caused Λύσσα. The step to the personification of a figure
Oistros would easily follow from some such development as this, and I
hold both words to cover the _cause_ and _effect_ in the case mentioned.
As Lyssa was a favourite figure with Euripides, we may examine still
another place where the rôle that she plays is much the same as that
which Oistros takes in the painting.
In _Her. Fur._ vs. 880 ff., the chorus describes Lyssa as _travelling
upon a chariot_[299].
βέβακεν ἐν δίφροισιν ἁ πολύστονος,
ἅρμασι δ’ ἐνδίδωσι κέντρον ὡς ἐπὶ λώβᾳ
Νυκτὸς Γοργὼν ἑκατογκεφάλοις
ὄφεων ἰαχήμασι,[300] Λύσσα[301] μαρμαρωπός.
Here at least one has adequate evidence that the vase painter did not
paint an unknown scene, even though he did prefer to call his figure
Οἶστρος[302].
The shade of Aetes[303], a pure invention of the artist, has been held
to refer to a post-Euripidean tragedy. One finds such pedantic ingenuity
used in explaining this figure that the would-be-learnedness borders
upon the ridiculous. It is affirmed, for example, that somewhere it
_must have been stated for the vase painter that Aetes had died since
Medeia left him_[304]. How far, pray, did vase painters concern
themselves about such points of chronology or sequence of events? We
have already pointed out in regard to these artists that they introduced
and omitted characters just as they chose; and especially is this true
in regard to such side-figures as Aetes is here. Then again, why is any
literary source necessary to prove the old man’s death? It was but the
natural course of events that the painter followed when he concluded
that Aetes was among the shades. It is absurd to require some proof that
the unlucky king had, within the long period of Medeia’s absence, passed
into the world of spirits. It seems to me that there are two views that
can adequately explain this addition to the picture, and with either one
in mind the vase painter would have needed no post-Euripidean work or
painting but simply the _Medeia_ tragedy to inspire him.
Robert[305] pointed to vs. 31 ff. of the prologue as furnishing perhaps
the suggestion for this figure, but that is but a small part of the
whole suggestion, and it is well to follow this note which recurs in
many places, and is, to my mind, a very important part of the Euripidean
conception of Medeia. I give herewith the various places where this
element may be discovered.
αὐτὴ πρὸς αὑτὴν πατέρ’ ἀποιμώζη φίλον
καὶ γαῖαν οἴκους θ’, οὒς προδοῦς’ ἀφίκετο. vs. 31 f.
ὤ πάτερ, ὤ πόλις, ὧν ἀπενάσθην
αἰσχρῶς τὸν ἐμὸν κτείνασα κάσιν. vs. 166 f.
αὐτὴ δὲ πατέρα καὶ δόμους προδοῦς’ ἐμούς. v. 483.
πότερα πρὸς πατρὸς δόμους,
οὓς σοὶ προδοῦσα καὶ πάτραν ἀφικόμην; vs. 502 f.
ἡμάρτανον τόθ’ ἡνίκ’ ἐξελίμπανον
δόμους πατρῴους. vs. 800 f.
These repeated allusions to her father and her former home seem to me to
express in a strong manner what the painter chose to develop into the
ghost-figure. Aetes appears here to behold the retribution that is
overtaking Jason; and his participation in the fearful tragedy
emphasizes the secret power in Medeia, her sorcery, and her chariot. The
artist read between the lines and discovered the spirit of the poet, and
this he has successfully reproduced. A similar instance was noted in the
liberty assumed by Botticelli in including Beatrice in the second plate
to the _Inferno_[306].
In the second place the εἴδωλον emphasizes the barbaric element in the
Medeia-Jason history, and impresses the beholder with the workings of
barbarism _versus_ Hellenism. This chord is, moreover, continuously
struck by Euripides[307]. The poet endeavours from first to last to keep
up the keenest distinction between Greece and Kolchis, between Jason’s
family and that of Aetes.
There was, moreover, an opportunity, in introducing this oriental king,
to add features strikingly characteristic of the Apulian vase
paintings[308]. The elegance and display of costume peculiar to the
Persian and Asia Minor kings were attractive for an artist, and the
introduction of Aetes’ shade was a happy invention that went far towards
making the deeper meaning of the poet plain.
The deities, who, as spectators, are an important part of the paintings
on so many Lower Italy vases, are arranged in the upper section. They
need not have any particular connexion with the incidents before them.
The Olympian sympathy with earthly affairs was a favourite theme with
the artists of the time, and a satisfactory number of participating
divinities is usually added where important events occur. Herakles and
Athena seem to be but indifferently interested in what is happening
below them, although the former was intimately associated with the
Argonautic expedition[309], and the latter was the promoter of the
enterprise[310]. The Dioskouroi, who likewise took a large part in the
adventures of the voyage, are fitly represented here[311]. They are,
however, giving no heed to the tragedy. It is enough if the painter has
recalled for us the famous voyage and shown us the prelude, as it were,
to the drama played in the two lower sections. The panorama of Jason and
Medeia’s life together passes before us in distinct scenes. By painting
the participants in the expedition and also the shade of Aetes the
artist has heightened the effect of the double tragedy which the poet
made famous.
Such is the painting on this celebrated amphora, which I do not hesitate
to call Euripidean.
Another monument which also shows Kreusa’s death is a vase from
Pomarico, now in Naples[312].
[Illustration:
Fig. 24.
]
Kreusa has fallen from the θρόνος that occupies the middle of the scene,
and in a half-sitting posture upon the floor endeavours to remove the
head-dress. Before her is the open box in which the presents were
brought. A mirror hangs on the wall. She is dressed in the Ionic chiton
with mantle; has earrings and one bracelet. She stares at Kreon, who
hurries toward her with outstretched right hand. He has the sceptre in
the left hand, is bearded, bald, and wears a chiton which has slipped
down to his waist. To the left a female figure rushes away _en face_,
and, watching Kreusa, makes the gestures of one terror-stricken. She is
dressed like the latter except the earrings and necklace. Jahn called
her a companion of Kreusa, considering that if she were Merope of the
Munich vase she would be approaching her daughter and not leaving her. I
prefer to see in this figure one of the attendants who in vs. 1177 ff.
spread the news. It is true that the appearance of the figure is that of
a more important personage than a servant. The latter are not usually
represented wearing jewellery and fine costumes, and yet the attendant
on the Munich vase, who is endeavouring to divert the pedagogue, is
quite as richly dressed. In the present instance, however, the drawing
is very careless and the workmanship is of an inferior sort. I believe,
therefore, that the artist either did not know the fitness of things, or
else took no pains to indicate that this figure was a servant or
attendant. When he had once drawn such a miserable king as Kreon is,
hobbling along in a ridiculous manner, he might well have slipped into
the other extreme of painting a nurse in a lady’s garb. The scene is
based upon the messenger’s speech, vs. 1176 ff.
The pedagogue on the right, who is hurrying away the two boys wrapped in
cloaks, is a reminiscence of vs. 1157 ff. where the father, Jason, goes
away with them.
καὶ πρὶν ὲκ δόμων
μακρὰν ἀπεῖνει πατέρα καὶ παῖδας σέθεν.
The winged Fury sitting in the upper right-hand corner observing the
scene might well be expected as a spectator. The suggestion for her may
be found in
ἔξελ’ οἴκων φονίαν
τάλαινάν τ’ Ἐρινὺν ὑπ’ ἀλαστόρων. vs. 1259 f.
The murder of the boys inside of the palace is painted on a Nolan
amphora in the _Cabinet des Médailles_ in Paris[313]. Medeia in Greek
dress and Phrygian cap has slain one boy, who lies over the altar,
either extremity touching the floor. She stands, _en face_, with the
other child grasped fast by the hair. This hand also holds the sword. In
her left, stretched out behind the altar, is the sheath. The artist
doubtless had in mind the words which the chorus heard in vs. 1271 ff.—
οἴμοι, τί δράσω; ποῖ φύγω μητρὸς χέρας;
οὐκ οἶδ’, ἀδελφὲ φίλτατ’· ὀλλύμεσθα γάρ.
In the upper right-hand corner the pedagogue appears, carrying an
oil-cruse in his left hand. His right is raised to his head. A wreath
and two fillets point to the sanctuary.
[Illustration:
Fig. 25.
]
Another Canosa vase in Naples[314], although furnishing a free handling
of Medeia’s escape, is still an important witness for the chariot and
its actual appearance in the production of the tragedy. In this
particular the painting is Euripidean.
Medeia in rapid flight upon her dragon-chariot holds the reins in her
left hand and the corner of her mantle in the right. Her dress is the
customary one for charioteers. On the ground by the wheels one boy lies
dead; the other is said to be visible on the original, inside of the
chariot as on the sarcophagi. The sword is also on the ground. She is
pursued by three youths, one on horseback, Jason (?), and two on foot.
They all carry spears, and each has a chlamys. The middle one also wears
a pilos and has a shield. In front of the chariot is Lyssa (?) with a
sword in the right hand, and staff or κέντρον (?) in the left. She has
an Artemis costume with a mantle. Galloping ahead to lead the way is
Selene, seated as usual on her horse.
The painting is poorly preserved, but the main part is sufficiently
plain. The artist followed the traditional manner of Medeia’s flight.
§ 10. PHOINISSAI.
The _Phoinissai_ in common with the _Septem_ of Aischylos deals with the
well-known story of the attack of Polyneikes and his supporters on
Thebes. The events connected with this war can be traced all through
Greek and Roman literature and art[315]. We have here to do with a
relief cup, which illustrates Euripides’ version of the combat. It
possesses, like the other ‘Megarian Bowls’ discussed in the present
work, a value so unique for the study of our poet that it may stand
beside any vase painting in assisting us in the study of the drama’s
influence upon art.
[Illustration:
Fig. 26 (_vid. p. 170 f._).
]
The cup shown in fig. 27 is of red, unglazed ware, and is said to have
been found in Thebes[316]. The following figures may be discerned. On
the left Teiresias, ΤΕΙΡΕΣΙΑΣ, carrying a bough and led by his daughter
Manto, ΜΑΝΤΩ, approaches Kreon, ΚΡΕΩΝ, who kneels before the aged seer.
They are both bearded, and the latter wears a long chiton. Next follows
Polyneikes, ΠΟΛΥΝΕΙΚΗΣ, and Eteokles, ΕΤΕΟΚΛΗΣ, in full armour, engaged
in their fatal fight. Thebe, ΘΗΒΗ, holding in her hand a sceptre, sits
upon a rock watching the sight. The messenger, ΑΓΓΕΛΟΣ, wearing a short
chiton and chlamys, stands by Iokaste, ΙΟΚ ... ΣΤΗ, before the palace
from which Antigone, ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ, has come. The latter raises her hand in
astonishment. The women both wear long chitons. Lastly, on the right,
Antigone appears before Kreon, inscriptions in each case, in a
supplicating attitude.
That Kreon might know definitely how matters were to terminate, he had
sent for Teiresias. The latter makes his appearance in v. 834—
ἡγοῦ πάροιθε, θύγατερ, ὡς τυφλῷ ποδὶ
ὀφθαλμὸς εἶ σύ, ναυτίλοισιν ἄστρον ὤς·
[Illustration:
Fig. 27 (_vid. p. 173 ff._).
]
and so one sees him here before Kreon. His daughter has brought him as
he wished, and now stands behind him, while the seer discloses the
terrible misfortune which must visit Kreon before success can crown the
Theban arms. The son Menoikeus, who is present in Euripides, has been
left out of the group. The messenger soon appears and calls for Iokaste.
ἔξελθ’, ἄκουσον, Οἰδίπου κλεινὴ δάμαρ. v. 1070.
She does hear, and comes from the palace and learns everything about the
attack thus far, and how the different heroes on each side were armed.
To her special inquiry regarding her two sons the messenger replies in
detail (vs. 1217 ff.).
ἤδη δ’ ἔκρυπτον σῶμα παγχάλκοις ὅπλοις
δισσοὶ γέροντος Οἰδίπου νεανίαι. vs. 1242 f.
στήτην δὲ λαμπρώ, χρῶμά τ’ οὐκ ἠλλαξάτην,
μαργῶντ’ ἐπ’ ἀλλήλοισιν ἱέναι δόρυ. vs. 1246 f.
But this is before the battle. They were waiting for the word from the
priests who examined the entrails of the victims. The second messenger
brings the account of the engagement proper, and this is what the artist
seized upon[317].
ᾖξαν δρόμημα δεινὸν ἀλλήλοις ἔπι·
κάπροι δ’ ὅπως θήγοντες ἀγρίαν γένυν
ξυνῆψαν, ἀφρῷ διάβροχοι γενειάδας·
ᾖσσον δὲ λόγχαις· ἀλλ’ ὑφίζανον κύκλοις,
ὅπως σίδηρος ἐξολισθάνοι μάτην. vs. 1379 ff.
This is the moment which the relief represents. Their spears have
clashed, and each is still safe behind the good circumference of his
shield.
Iokaste, much disturbed at the critical situation described by the
messenger, determines to call Antigone and rush to the battle-field to
reconcile the brothers,—
ὦ τέκνον, ἔξελθ’, Ἀντιγόνη, δόμων πάρος. v. 1264.
she cries, and Antigone at once appears and asks—
τίν’, ὦ τεκοῦσα μῆτερ, ἔκπληξιν νέαν
φίλοις ἀϋτεῖς τῶνδε δωμάτων πάρος; vs. 1270 f.
The situation is dramatically told on the vase. The palace doors are
still open, and Antigone stands astonished before her mother.
No sooner has Kreon learned the result of the battle than he passes an
edict banishing the blind Oedipus from the land. The faithful daughter
comes to intercede for her father and the scene is described in vs.
1539–1682. The artist has seized upon this situation, but has omitted
Oedipus. Antigone bows before the new king, who stands with his arms
folded listening placidly to the supplications.
ἀτὰρ ς’ ἐρωτῶ τὸν νεωστὶ κοίρανον·
τί θεσμοποιεῖς ἐπὶ ταλαιπώρῳ νεκρῷ; vs. 1644 f.
This is the moment which the last group represents.
The personification of Thebes occupying the central field and presiding,
as it were, over the destinies of the capital, extends the setting of
the poet and adds not a little to the interest of the picture.
[Illustration:
Fig. 28
]
There exists, remarkable enough, a small fragment of another cup, which
must have been much like the one just discussed. It is shown in fig. 28,
and joins on well to the last scene in fig. 27, filling out the gap made
by the omission of Oedipus[318]. We see the stooping and aged figure of
the former king, in long chiton, feeling his way along or being led by
some one. The inscription renders everything plain. Οἰδίπ]ους κελεύει
[ἄγειν πρὸς τὸ π]τῶμα τῆς αὑτοῦ μητρ[ός τε καὶ] γυναικὸς καὶ τῶν υίῶ[ν.
The unfortunate Oedipus’ doom is sealed, and he enters with Antigone
upon his permanent banishment, but he will be led to Iokaste that he may
embrace her once more, even though she is now a corpse;