AESCHYLUS

Towards the end of the sixth century before Christ, one of the most

momentous advances in literature was made by the genius of Aeschylus.

European drama was created and a means of utterance was given to the

rapidly growing democratic spirit of Greece. Before Aeschylus wrote,

rude public exhibitions had been given of the life and adventures of

Dionysus, the god of wine. Choruses had sung odes to the deity and

variety was obtained by a series of short dialogues between one of the

Chorus and the remainder. Aeschylus added a second actor to converse

with the first; he thus started a movement which eventually ousted

the Chorus from its place of importance, for the interest now began to

concentrate on the two actors; it was their performance which gave drama

its name. In time more characters were added; the Chorus became less

necessary and in the long run was felt to be a hindrance to the movement

of the story. This process is plainly visible in the extant works of the

Attic tragedians.

Aeschylus was born at Eleusis in 525; before the end of the century he

was writing tragedies. In 490 he fought in the great battle of Marathon

and took part in the victory of Salamis in 480. This experience of the

struggle for freedom against Persian despotism added a vigour and

a self-reliance to his writing which is characteristic of a growing

national spirit. He is said to have visited Sicily in 468 and again in

458, various motives being given for his leaving Athens. His death

at Gela in 456 is said to have been due to an eagle, which dropped a

tortoise upon his head which he mistook for a stone. He has left to

the world seven plays in which the rapid development of drama is

conspicuous.

One of the earliest of his plays is the _Suppliants_, little read

owing to the uncertainty of the text and the meagreness of the dramatic

interest. The plot is simple enough. Danaus, sprung from Io of Argos,

flees from Egypt with his fifty daughters who avoid wedlock with the

fifty sons of Aegyptus. He sails to Argos and lays suppliant boughs on

the altars of the gods, imploring protection. The King of Argos after

consultation with his people decides to admit the fugitives and to

secure them from Aegyptus' violence. A herald from the latter threatens

to take the Danaids back with him, but the King intervenes and saves

them. There is little in this play but long choral odes; yet one or two

Aeschylean features are evident. The King dreads offending the god of

suppliants

"lest he should make him to haunt his house, a dread visitor who

quits not sinners even in the world to come."

The Egyptian herald reverences no gods of Greece "who reared him not

nor brought him to old age". The Chorus declare that "what is fated will

come to pass, for Zeus' mighty boundless will cannot be thwarted". Here

we have the three leading ideas in the system of Aeschylus--the doctrine

of the inherited curse, of human pride and impiety, and the might of

Destiny.

The _Persians_ is unique as being the only surviving historical play in

Greek literature. It is a poem rather than a drama, as there is little

truly dramatic action. The piece is a succession of very vivid sketches

of the incidents in the great struggle which freed Europe from the

threat of Eastern despotism. A Chorus of Persian elders is waiting for

news of the advance of the great array which Xerxes led against Greece

in 480. They tell how Persia extended her sway over Asia. Yet they are

uneasy, for

"what mortal can avoid the crafty deception of Heaven? In seeming

kindness it entices men into a trap whence they cannot escape."

The Queen-mother Atossa enters, resplendent with jewels; she too is

anxious, for in a dream she had seen Xerxes yoke two women together who

were at feud, one clad in Persian garb, the other in Greek. The former

was obedient to the yoke, but the latter tore the car to pieces and

broke the curb. The Chorus advises her to propitiate the gods with

sacrifice, and to pray to Darius her dead husband to send his son

prosperity. At that moment a herald enters with the news of the Greek

victory at Salamis. Xerxes, beguiled by some fiend or evil spirit, drew

up his fleet at night to intercept the Greeks, supposed to be preparing

for flight. But at early dawn they sailed out to attack, singing

mightily

"Ye sons of Greece, onward! Free your country, your children and

wives, the shrines of your fathers' gods, and your ancestral tombs.

Now must ye fight for all."

Winning a glorious victory, they landed on the little island

(Psyttaleia) where the choicest Persian troops had been placed to cut

off the retreat of the Greek navy, and slew them all. Later, they drove

back the Persians by land; through Boeotia, Thessaly and Macedonia the

broken host retreated, finally recrossing to Asia over the Hellespont.

On hearing the news Atossa disappears and the Persian Chorus sing a

dirge. The Queen returns without her finery, attired as a suppliant; she

bids the Chorus call up Darius, while she offers libations to the

dead. The ghost of the great Empire-builder rises before the astonished

spectators, enquiring what trouble has overtaken his land. His release

from Death is not easy, "for the gods of the lower world are readier to

take men's spirits than to let them go". On learning that his son has

been totally defeated, he delivers his judgment. The oracles had long

ago prophesied this disaster; it was hurried on by Xerxes' rashness,

for when a man is himself hurrying on to ruin Heaven abets him. He had

listened to evil counsellors, who bade him rival his father's glory by

making wider conquests. The ruin of Persia is not yet complete, for when

insolence is fully ripe it bears a crop of ruin and reaps a harvest of

tears. This evil came upon Xerxes through the sacrilegious demolition of

altars and temples. Zeus punishes overweening pride, and his correcting

hand is heavy. Darius counsels Atossa to comfort their son and to

prevent him from attacking Greece again; he further advises the Chorus

to take life's pleasures while they can, for after death there is

no profit in wealth. A distinctly grotesque touch is added by the

appearance of Xerxes himself, broken and defeated, filling the scene

with lamentations for lost friends and departed glory, unable to answer

the Chorus when they demand the whereabouts of some of the most famous

Persian warriors.

The play is valuable as the result of a personal experience of the poet.

As a piece of literature it is important, for it is a poetic description

of the first armed conflict between East and West. It directly inspired

Shelley when he wrote his _Hellas_ at a time when Greece was rousing

herself from many centuries of Eastern oppression. As a historical

drama it is of great value, for it is substantially accurate in its main

facts, though Aeschylus has been compelled to take some liberties

with time and human motives in order to satisfy dramatic needs. From

Herodotus it seems probable that Darius himself hankered after the

subjugation of Greece, while Xerxes at the outset was inclined to leave

her in peace.

One or two characteristic features are worth note. The genius of

Aeschylus was very bold; it was a daring thing to bring up a ghost from

the dead, for the supernatural appeal does not succeed except when it

is treated with proper insight; yet even Aeschylus' genius has not quite

succeeded in filling his canvas, the last scenes being distinctly poor

in comparison with the splendour of the main theme. On the other hand

a notable advance in dramatic power has been made. The main actors are

becoming human; their wills are beginning to operate. Tragedy is based

on a conflict of some sort; here the wilful spirit of youth is portrayed

as defying the forces of justice and righteousness; it is insolence

which brings Xerxes to ruin. The substantial creed of Aeschylus is

contained in Darius' speech; as the poet progresses in dramatic cunning

we shall find that he constantly finds his sources of tragic inspiration

in the acts of the sinners who defy the will of the gods.

_The Seven against Thebes_ was performed in 472. It was one of a

trilogy, a series of three plays dealing with the misfortunes of

Oedipus' race. After the death of Oedipus his sons Polyneices and

Eteocles quarrelled for the sovereignty of Thebes. Polyneices, expelled

and banished by his younger brother, assembled an army of chosen

warriors to attack his native land. Eteocles opens the play with a

speech which encourages the citizens to defend their town. A messenger

hurries in telling how he left the besiegers casting lots to decide

which of the seven gates of Thebes each should attack. Eteocles prays

that the curse of his father may not destroy the town and leaves to

arrange the defences. In his absence the Chorus of virgins sing a wild

prayer to the gods to save them. Hearing this, the King returns

to administer a vigorous reproof; he declares that their frenzied

supplications fill the city with terrors, discouraging the fighting men.

He demands from them obedience, the mother of salvation; if at last they

are to perish, they cannot escape the inevitable. His masterful spirit

at last cows them into a better frame of mind; this scene presents to us

one of the most manly characters in Aeschylus' work.

After a choral ode a piece of intense tragic horror follows. The

messenger tells the names of the champions who are to assault the gates.

As he names them and the boastful or impious mottoes on their shields,

the King names the Theban champions who are to quell their pride in the

fear of the gods. Five of the insolent attackers are mentioned, then the

only righteous one of the invading force, Amphiaraus the seer; he it was

who rebuked the violence of Tydeus, the evil genius among the besiegers,

and openly reviled Polyneices for attacking his own native land. He had

prophesied his own death before the city, yet resolved to meet his fate

nobly; on his shield alone was no device, for he wished to be, not to

seem, a good man. The pathos of the impending ruin of a great character

through evil associations is heightened by the terror of what follows.

Only one gate remains without an assailant, the gate Eteocles is to

defend; it is to be attacked by the King's own brother, Polyneices.

Filled with horror, the Chorus begs him send another to that gate,

for "there can be no old age to the pollution of kindred bloodshed".

Recognising that his father's curse is working itself out, he departs to

kill and be killed by his own brother, for "when the gods send evil none

can avoid it".

In an interval the Chorus reflect on their King's impending doom. His

father's curse strikes them with dread; Oedipus himself was born of a

father Laius who, though warned thrice by Apollo that if he died without

issue he would save his land, listened to the counsels of friends and

in imprudence begat his own destroyer. Their song is interrupted by a

messenger who announces that they have prospered at six gates, but at

the seventh the two brothers have slain each other. This news inspires

another song in which the joy of deliverance gradually yields to pity

for an unhappy house, cursed and blighted, the glory of Oedipus serving

but to make more acute the shame of his latter end and the triumph of

the ruin he invoked on his sons. The agony of this scene is intensified

by the entry of Ismene and Antigone, Oedipus' daughters, the latter

mourning for Polyneices, the former for Eteocles. The climax is

reached when a herald announces a decree made by the senate and people.

Eteocles, their King who defended the land, was to be buried with all

honours, but Polyneices was to lie unburied. Calmly and with great

dignity Antigone informs the herald that if nobody else buries her

brother, she will. A warning threat fails to move her. The play closes

with a double note of terror at the doom of Polyneices and pity for the

death of a brave King.

Further progress in dramatic art has been made in this play. One of the

main sources of the pathos of human life is the operation of what

seems to us to be mere blind chance. Just as the casual dropping of

Desdemona's handkerchief gave Iago his opportunity, so the casual

allotting of the seven gates brings the two brothers into conflict.

But behind it was the working of an inherited curse; yet Aeschylus is

careful to point out that the curse need never have existed at all but

for the wilfulness of Laius; he was the origin of all the mischief,

obstinately refusing to listen to a warning thrice given him by Apollo.

Another secret of dramatic excellence has been discovered by the poet,

that of contrast. Two brothers and two sisters are balanced in pairs

against one another. The weaker sister Ismene laments the stronger

brother, while the more unfortunate Polyneices is championed by the

more firmly drawn sister. Equally admirable is the contrast between the

righteous Amphiaraus and his godless companions. The character of

each of these is a masterpiece. War, horror, kindred bloodshed, with

a promise of further agonies to arise from Antigone's resolve are the

elements which Aeschylus has fused together in this vivid play.

"There was war in Heaven" between the new gods and the old. The

_Prometheus Bound_ contains the story of the proud tyranny of Zeus,

the latest ruler of the gods. Hephaestus, the god of fire, opens a

conversation with Force and Violence who are pinning Prometheus with

chains of adamant to the rocks of Caucasus. Hephaestus performs his task

with reluctance and in pity for the victim, the deep-counselling son

of right-minded Law. Yet the command of Zeus his master is urgent,

overriding the claims of kindred blood. Force and Violence, full of

hatred, hold down the god who has stolen fire, Hephaestus' right, and

given it to men. They bid the Fire-God make the chains fast and drive

the wedge through Prometheus' body. When the work is done they leave him

with the taunt:

"Now steal the rights of the gods and give them to the creatures

of the day; what can mortals do to relieve thy agonies? The gods

wrongly call thee a far-seeing counsellor, who thyself lackest a

counsellor to save thee from thy present lot."

Abandoned of all, Prometheus breaks out into a wild appeal to earth,

air, the myriad laughter of the sea, the founts and streams to witness

his humiliation; but soon he reflects that he had foreseen his agony

and must bear it as best he can, for the might of Necessity is not to

be fought against. A sound of lightly moving pinions strikes his ears;

sympathisers have come to visit him; they are the Chorus, the daughters

of Ocean, who have heard the sound of the riveted chains and hurried

forth in their winged car Awestruck, they come to see how Zeus is

smiting down the mighty gods of old. It would be difficult to imagine a

more natural and touching motive for the entry of a Chorus.

In the dialogue that follows the tragic appeal to pity is quickly

blended with a different interest. By a superb stroke of art Aeschylus

excites the audience to an intense curiosity. Though apparently subdued,

Prometheus has the certainty of ultimate triumph over his foe; he alone

has secret knowledge of something which will one day hurl Zeus from his

throne; the time will come when the new president of Heaven will hurry

to him in anxious desire for reconciliation; when ruin threatens him he

will forsake his pride and beg Prometheus to save him. But no words will

prevail on the sufferer till he is released from his bonds and receives

ample satisfaction for his maltreatment. The Chorus bids him tell the

whole history of the quarrel. To them he unfolds the story of Zeus'

ingratitude. There was a discord among the older gods, some wishing to

depose Cronos and make Zeus their King. Warned by his mother, Prometheus

knew that only counsel could avail in the struggle, not violence. When

he failed to persuade the Titans to use cunning, he joined Zeus who with

his aid hurled his foes down to Tartarus. Securing the sovereignty, Zeus

distributed honours to his supporters, but was anxious to wipe out

the human race and create a new stock. Prometheus resisted him, giving

mortals fire the creator of many arts and ridding them of the dread

of death. This act brought him into conflict with Zeus. He invites the

Chorus to step down from their car and hear the rest of his story. At

this point Ocean enters, one of the older gods. He offers to act as

a mediator with Zeus, but Prometheus warns him to keep out of the

conflict; he has witnessed the sorrows of Atlas, his own brother, and

of Typhos, pinned down under Etna, and desires to bring trouble upon no

other god; he must bear his agonies alone till the time of deliverance

is ripe. Ocean departing, Prometheus continues his story. He gave men

writing and knowledge of astronomy, taught them to tame the wild beasts,

invented the ship, created medicine, divination and metallurgy. Yet for

all this, his art is weaker far than Necessity, whereof the controllers

are Fate and the unforgetting Furies. Terror-struck at his sufferings,

the Chorus point out how utterly his goodness has been wasted in helping

the race of mortals who cannot save him. He warns them that a time

would come when Zeus should be no longer King; when they ask for more

knowledge, he turns them to other thoughts, bidding them hide the secret

as much as possible. Their interest is drawn away to another of Zeus'

victims, who at this moment rushes on the scene; it is lo, cajoled and

abandoned by Zeus, plagued and tormented by the dread unsleeping gadfly

sent by Zeus' consort Hera. She relates her story to the wondering

Chorus, and then Prometheus tells her the long tale of misery and

wandering that await her as she passes from the Caucasus to Egypt, where

she is promised deliverance from her tormentor.

The play now moves to its awful climax. The sight of Io stirs Prometheus

to prophesy more clearly the end in store for Zeus. There would be born

one to discover a terror far greater than the thunderbolt, and smite

Zeus and his brother Poseidon into utter slavery. On hearing this Zeus

sends from heaven his messenger Hermes to demand fuller knowledge of

this new monarch. Disdaining his threats, Prometheus mocks the new

gods and defies their ruler to do his worst. Hermes then delivers his

warning. Prometheus would be overwhelmed with the terrors of thunder and

lightning, while the red eagle would tear out his heart unceasingly till

one should arise to inherit his agonies, descending to the depths of

Tartarus. He advises the Chorus to depart from the rebel, lest they too

should share in the vengeance. They remain faithful to Prometheus, ready

to suffer with him; then descend the thunderings and lightnings, the

mountains rock, the winds roar, and the sky is confounded with sea; the

dread agony has begun.

Once more the bold originality of Aeschylus displays itself. Here is a

theme unique in Greek literature. The strife between the two races of

gods opens out a vista of the world ages before man was created. It will

provide a solution to a very difficult problem which will confront us in

a later play. The conflict between two stubborn wills is the source of a

sublime tragedy in which our sympathies are with the sufferer; Zeus, who

punishes Prometheus for "unjustly" helping mortals, himself falls

below the level of human morality; he is tyrannous, ungrateful and

revengeful--in short, he displays all the wrong-headedness of a new

ruler. No doubt in the sequel these defects would have disappeared;

experience would have induced a kindlier temper and the sense of an

impending doom would have made it essential for him to relent in order

to learn the great secret about his successor.

Pathos is repeatedly appealed to in the play. Hephaestus is one of the

kindliest figures in Greek tragedy; the noble-hearted young goddesses

cannot fail to hold our affection. They are the most human Chorus in all

drama; their entry is admirable; in the sequel we should have found

them still near Prometheus after his cycle of tortures. But the

subject-matter is calculated to win the admiration of all humanity; it

is the persecution of him to whom on Greek principles mankind owes all

that it is of value in its civilisation. We cannot help thinking of

another God, racked and tormented and nailed to a cross of shame to save

the race He loved. The very power and majesty of Aeschylus' work has

made it difficult for successors to imitate him; few can hope to equal

his sublime grandeur; Shelley attempted it in his _Prometheus Unbound_,

but his Prometheus becomes abstract Humanity, ceasing to be a character,

while his play is really a mere poem celebrating the inevitable victory

of man over the evils of his environment and picturing the return of an

age of happiness.

Nearly all the characters in Greek tragedy were the heroes of well-known

popular legends. In abandoning the well-trodden circle Aeschylus has

here ensured an undying freshness for his work--it is novel, free and

unconventional; more than that, it is dignified.

The slightest error of taste would have degraded if to the level of

a comedy; throughout it maintains a uniform tone of loftiness and

sincerity. The language is easy but powerful, the art with which the

story is told is consummate. Finally, it is one of the few pieces in the

literature of the world which are truly sublime; it ranks with Job

and Dante. The great purpose of creation, the struggles of beings of

terrific power, the majesty of gods, the whole universe sighing and

lamenting for the agonies of a deity of wondrous foresight, saving

others but not himself--such is the theme of this mighty and affecting

play.

In 458 Aeschylus wrote the one trilogy which is extant. It describes the

murder of Agamemnon, the revenge of Orestes and his purification

from blood-guiltiness. It will be necessary to trace the history

of Agamemnon's family before we can understand these plays. His

great-grandfather was Tantalus, who betrayed the secrets of the gods and

was subjected to unending torture in Hades. Pelops, his son, begat two

sons, Atreus and Thyestes. The former killed Thyestes' son, invited the

father to a banquet and served up his own son's body for him to eat.

The sons of Atreus were Agamemnon and Menelaus, who married respectively

Clytemnestra and Helen, daughters of Zeus and Leda, both evil women;

the son of Thyestes was Aegisthus, a deadly foe of his cousins who had

banished him. The "inherited curse" then had developed itself in this

unhappy stock and it did not fail to ruin it.

When Helen abandoned Menelaus and went to Troy with Paris, Agamemnon led

a great armament to recover the adulteress. The fleet was wind-bound

at Aulis, because the Greeks had offended Artemis. Chalcas the seer

informed Agamemnon that it would be impossible for him to reach Troy

unless he offered his eldest daughter Iphigeneia to Artemis. Torn by

patriotism and fatherly affection, Agamemnon resorted to a strategem to

bring his daughter to the sacrifice. He sent a messenger to Clytemnestra

saying he wished to marry their child to Achilles. When the mother and

daughter arrived at Aulis they learned the bitter truth. Iphigeneia

was indeed sacrificed, but Artemis spirited her away to the country

now called Crimea, there to serve as her priestess. Believing that her

daughter was dead, Clytemnestra returned to Argos to plot destruction

for her husband, forming an illicit union with his foe Aegisthus,

nursing her revenge during the ten years of the siege.

The _Agamemnon_, the first play of the trilogy, opens in a romantic

setting. It is night. A watchman is on the wall of Argos, stationed

there by the Queen. For ten years he had waited for the signal of the

beacon-fire to be lit at Nauplia, the port of Argos, to announce the

fall of Troy. At last the expected signal is given. He hurries to tell

the news to the Queen, a woman with the resolution of a man; in his

absence the Chorus of Argive Elders enter the stage, singing one of the

finest odes to be found in any language. It likens Agamemnon and his

brother to two avenging spirits sent to punish the sinner. The Chorus

are past military age, and are come to learn from Clytemnestra why

there is sacrifice throughout all Argos. They remember the woes at the

beginning of the campaign, how Chalcas prophesied that in time Troy

would be taken, yet hinted darkly of some blinding curse of Heaven

hanging over the Greeks, his burden being

"Sing woe, sing woe, but let the good prevail."

"Yea, the law of Zeus is, wisdom by suffering, for thus soberness of

thought comes to those who wish not for it. First men are emboldened

by ill-counselling foolish frenzy which begins their troubles; even

as Agamemnon, through sin against Artemis, was compelled to slay his

daughter to save his armament. Her cries for a father's mercy, her

unuttered appeals to her slayers--these he disregarded. What is to

come of it, no man knows; yet it is useless to lament the issue before

it comes, as come it will, clear as the light of day."

Clytemnestra enters, the sternest woman figure in all literature. She

reminds the Chorus that she is no child and is not known to have a

slumbering wit. When they enquire how she has learned so quickly of the

capture of Troy, she describes with great brilliance the long chain of

beacon fires she has caused to be made, stretching from Ida in Troyland

to Argos. She imagines the wretched fate of the conquered and the joy

of the victors, rid for ever of their watchings beneath the open sky.

Striking the same ominous note as Chalcas did, she continues:

"If they reverence the Gods of Troy and their shrines, they shall not

be caught even as they have taken the city. May no lust of plundering

fall upon the army, for it needs a safe return home. Yet even if the

army sins not against the gods, the anger of the slain may awake,

though no new ills arise. But let the right prevail, for all to see

it clearly."

This speech inspires the Chorus to sing another solemn ode. Too much

prosperity leads to godlessness; Paris carried away Helen in pride and

infatuation, stealing the light of Menelaus' eyes, leaving him only the

torturing memories of her beauty which visited him in his dreams. But

there is a spirit of discontent in every city of Greece; all had sent

their young men to Troy in the glory of life, and in return they had a

handful of ashes, asking why their sons should fall in murderous strife

for another man's wife. At night the dark dread haunts Argos that the

gods care not for men who shed much blood, who succeed by injustice, who

are well spoken of overmuch. Often these are smitten full in the face by

the thunderbolt; and perhaps this beacon message is mere imagining or a

lie sent from heaven.

Hearing this the Queen comes forth to prove the truth of her story. A

herald at that moment advances to confirm it, for Troy has been sacked.

"Altars and shrines have been demolished and all the seed of land

destroyed. Thus is Agamemnon the happiest man of mortals, most

worthy of honour, for Paris and his city cannot say that their

crime was greater than its punishment."

Immediately after learning this story, Clytemnestra makes the first of a

number of speeches charged with a dreadful double meaning.

"When the first news came, I shouted for joy, but now I shall hear

the story from the King himself. And I will use all diligence to

give my lord the best of all possible welcomes. Bid him come with

speed. May he find in the house a wife as faithful as he left her!

I know of no wanton pleasure with another man more than I know how

to dye a sword."

The Chorus understand well the hidden force of this sinister speech and

bid the messenger speak of Menelaus, the other beloved King of the land.

In reply he tells how a dreadful storm sent by the angry gods descended

upon the Greek fleet. In it fire and water, those ancient foes, forsook

their feud, conspiring to destroy the unhappy armament. Whether Menelaus

was alive or not was uncertain; if he lived, it was only by the will of

Zeus who desired to save the royal house. The Chorus who look at things

with a deeper glance than the herald, hear his story with a growing

uneasiness.

"Helen, the cause of the war, at first was a spirit ofcalm to Troy,

but at the latter end she was their bane, the evil angel of ruin.

For one act of violence begets many others like it, until

righteousness can no longer dwell within the sinner."

They touch a more joyous chord of welcome and loyalty when at last they

see the actual arrival of Agamemnon himself.

The King enters the stage accompanied by Cassandra, the prophetic

daughter of Priam, thus giving visible proof of his contempt for Apollo,

the Trojan protector and inspirer of the prophetess. He has heard

the Chorus' welcome and promises to search out the false friends and

administer healing medicine to the city. Clytemnestra replies in a

second speech of double significance.

"The Argive Elders well know how dearly she loves her lord and the

impatience of her life while he was at Troy. Often stories came of

his wounds; were they all true, he would have more scars than a net

has holes. Orestes their son has been sent away, lest he should be

the victim of some popular uprising in the King's absence. Her fount

of tears is dried up, not a drop being left."

After some words of extravagant flattery, she bids her waiting women lay

down purple carpets on which Justice may bring him to a home which he

never hoped to see. Agamemnon coldly deprecates her long speech; the

honour she suggests is one for the gods alone; his fame will speak loud

enough without gaudy trappings, for a wise heart is Heaven's greatest

gift. But the Queen, not to be denied, overcomes his scruples. Giving

orders that Cassandra is to be well treated, he passes over the purple

carpets, led by Clytemnestra who avows that she would have given many

purple carpets to get him home alive. Thus arrogating to himself the

honours of a god, he proceeds within the palace, while she lingers

behind for one brief moment to pray openly to Zeus to fulfil her prayers

and to bring his will to its appointed end. Thoroughly alarmed, the

Chorus give free utterance to the vague forebodings which shake them,

the song of the avenging Furies which cries within their hearts.

"Human prosperity often strikes a sunken rock; bloodshed calls to

Heaven for vengeance; yet there is comfort, for one destiny may

override another, and good may yet come to pass."

These pious hopes are broken by the entry of the Queen who summons

Cassandra within: when the captive prophetess answers her not a word,

Clytemnestra declares she has no time to waste outside the palace:

already there stands at the altar the ox ready for sacrifice, a joy she

never looked to have; if Cassandra will not obey, she must be taught to

foam out her spirit in blood.

In the marvellous scene which follows Aeschylus reaches the pinnacle

of tragic power. Cassandra advances to the palace, but starts back in

horror as a series of visions of growing vividness comes before her

eyes. These find utterance in language of blended sanity and madness,

creating a terror whose very vagueness increases its intensity. First

she sees Atreus' cruel murder of his brother's children; then follows

the sight of Clytemnestra's treacherous smile and of Agamemnon in the

bath, hand after hand reaching at him; quickly she sees the net cast

about him, the murderess' blow. In a flash she foresees her own end

and breaks out into a wild lament over the ruin of her native city. Her

words work up the Chorus into a state of confused dread and foreboding;

they can neither understand nor yet disbelieve. When their mental

confusion is at its height, relief comes in a prophecy of the greatest

clearness, no longer couched in riddling terms. The palace is peopled by

a band of kindred Furies, who have drunk their fill of human blood and

cannot be cast out; they sit there singing the story of the origin

of its ruin, loathing the murder of the innocent children. Agamemnon

himself would soon pay the penalty, but his son would come to avenge

him. Foretelling her own death, she hurls away the badges of her office,

the sceptre and oracular chaplets, things which have brought her nothing

but ridicule. She prays for a peaceful end without a struggle; comparing

human life to a shadow when it is fortunate and to a picture wiped out

by a sponge when it is hapless, she moves in calmly to her fate.

There is a momentary interval of reflection, then Agamemnon's dying

voice is heard as he is stricken twice. Frantic with horror, the Chorus

prepare to rush within but are checked by the Queen, who throws open the

door and stands glorying in the triumph of self-confessed murder. Her

real character is revealed in her speech.

"This feud was not unpremeditated; rather, it proceeds from an

ancient quarrel, matured by time. Here I stand where I smote him,

over my handiwork. So I contrived it, I freely confess, that he

could neither escape his fate nor defend himself. I cast over him

the endless net, and I smote him twice--in two groans he gave up

the ghost--adding a third in grateful thanksgiving to the King of

the dead in the nether world. As he fell he gasped out his spirit,

and breathing a swift stream of gore he smote me with a drop of

murderous dew, while I rejoiced even as does the cornfield under

the Heavensent shimmering moisture when it brings the ears to the

birth. Ye Argive Elders, rejoice if ye can, but I exult. If it were

fitting to pour thank-offerings for any death, 'twere just, nay,

more than just, to offer such for him, so mighty was the bowl of

curses he filled up in his home, then came and drank them up himself

to the dregs."

To their solemn warning that she would herself be cut off, banished and

hated, she replies:

"He slew my child, my dearest birth-pang, to charm the Thracian

winds. In the name of the perfect justice I have exacted for my

daughter, in the name of Ruin and Vengeance, to whom I have

sacrificed him, my hopes cannot tread the halls of fear so long

as Aegisthus is true to me. There he lies, seducer of this woman,

darling of many a Chryseis in Troyland. As for this captive

prophetess, this babbler of oracles, she sat on the ship's bench

by his side and both have fared as they deserved. He died as ye see;

but she sang her swan-song of death and lies beside him she loved,

bringing me a sweet relish for the luxury of my own love."

A little later she denies her very humanity.

"Call me not his spouse; rather the ancient dread haunting evil

genius of this house has taken a woman's shape and punished him,

a full-grown man in vengeance for little children."

Burial he should have, but without any dirges from his people.

"Let Iphigeneia, his daughter, as is most fitting, meet her father

at the swift-conveying passage of woe, throw her arms about him and

kiss him welcome."

The last scene of this splendid drama brings forward the poltroon

Aegisthus who had skulked behind in the background till the deed was

done. He enters to air his ancient grievance, reminding the Chorus how

his father was outraged by Atreus, how he himself was a banished man,

yet found his arm long enough to smite the King from far away. In

contempt for the coward the Elders prepare to offer him battle; they

appeal to Orestes to avenge the murder. The quarrel was stopped by

Clytemnestra, who had had enough of bloodshed and was content to leave

things as they were, if the gods consented thereto.

Before the sustained power of this masterpiece criticism is nearly dumb.

The conception of the inherited curse is by now familiar to us; familiar

too is the teaching that sacrilege brings its own punishment, that human

pride may be flattered into assuming the privilege of a deity. These

were enough to cause Agamemnon's undoing. But it is the part played by

Clytemnestra which fixes the dramatic interest. She is inspired by a

lust for vengeance, yet, had she known the truth that her daughter was

not dead but a priestess, she would have had no pretext for the murder.

This ignorance of essentials which originates some human action is

called Irony; it was put to dramatic uses for the first time in European

literature by Aeschylus. The horrible tragedy it may cause is clear

enough in the _Agamemnon_; its power is terrible and its value as a

dramatic source is inestimable. There is another and a far more subtle

form of Irony, in which a character uses riddling speech interpreted by

another actor in a sense different from the truth as it is known to the

spectators; this too can be used in such a manner as to charge human

speech with a sinister double meaning which bodes ruin under the mask

of words of innocence. Few dramatic personages have used this device so

effectively as Clytemnestra, certainly none with a more fiendish intent.

Again, in this play the Chorus is employed with amazing skill; their

vague uneasiness takes more and more definitely the shape of actual

terror in every ode; this terror is raised to its height in the

masterly Cassandra scene--it is then abated a little, perhaps it is just

beginning to disappear, for nobody believed Cassandra, when the blow

falls. This integral connection between the Chorus and the main action

is difficult to maintain; that it exists in the _Agamemnon_ is evidence

of a constructive genius of the highest order.

The _Choephori_ (Libation-bearers), the second play of the trilogy,

opens with the entry of Orestes. He has just laid a lock of hair on

his father's tomb and sees a band of maidens approaching, among them

Electra, his sister. He retires with Pylades his faithful friend to

listen to their conversation. The Chorus tell how in consequence of

a dream of Clytemnestra they have been sent to offer libations to the

dead, to appease their anger and resentment against the murderers.

They give utterance to a wild hopeless song, full of a presentiment of

disaster coming on successful wickedness enthroned in power. They are

captives from Troy, obliged to look on the deeds of Aegisthus, whether

just or unjust, yet they weep for the purposeless agonies of Agamemnon's

house. When asked by Electra what prayers she should offer to her dead

father, they bid her pray for some avenging god or mortal to requite the

murderers. Returning to them from the tomb, she tells them of a strange

occurrence; a lock of hair has been laid on the grave, and there are two

sets of footprints on the ground, one of which corresponds with her

own. Orestes then comes forward to reveal himself; as a proof of his

identity, he bids her consider the garments which she wove with her own

hands; urging her to restrain her joy lest she betray his arrival,

he tells how Apollo has commanded him to avenge his father's death,

threatening him with sickness, frenzy, nightly terrors, excommunication

and a dishonoured death if he refuses.

In a long choral dialogue the actors tell of Clytemnestra's insolent

treatment of the dead King; she had buried him without funeral rites or

mourning, with no subjects to follow the corpse; she even mangled his

body and thrust Electra out of the palace; thus she filled the cup of

her iniquity. The Chorus remind Orestes of his duty to act, but first he

inquires why oblations have been offered; on learning that they are the

result of Clytemnestra's dreaming that she suckled a serpent that stung

her, and that she hopes to appease the angry dead, he interprets the

dream of himself. He then unfolds his plot. He and Pylades will imitate

a Phocian dialect and will seek out and slay Aegisthus. An ode

which succeeds recounts the legends of evil women, closing with the

declaration that Justice is firmly seated in the world, that Fate

prepares a sword for a murderer and a Fury punishes him with it.

Approaching the palace Orestes summons the Queen and tells her that a

stranger called Strophius bade him bring to Argos the news that Orestes

is dead. Clytemnestra commands her servants within the house to welcome

him and sends out her son's old nurse Cilissa to take the news to

Aegisthus. The nurse stops to speak to the Chorus in the very language

of grief for the boy she had reared, like Constance in _King John_. The

Chorus advise her to summon Aegisthus alone without his bodyguard, for

Orestes is not yet dead; when she departs they pray that the end may

be speedily accomplished and the royal house cleansed of its curse.

Aegisthus crosses the stage into the palace to meet a hasty end; seeing

the deed, a servant rushes out to call Clytemnestra, while Orestes

bursts out from the house and faces his mother. For a moment his

resolution wavers; Pylades reminds him of Apollo's anger if he fails. To

his mother's plea that Destiny abetted her deed he replies that Destiny

intends her death likewise; before he thrusts her into the palace she

warns him of the avenging Furies she will send to persecute him. She

then passes to her doom.

After the Chorus have sung an ode of triumph Orestes shows the bodies of

the two who loved in sin while alive and were not separated in death. He

then displays the net which Clytemnestra threw around her husband's

body and the robe in which she caught his feet; he holds up the garment

through which Aegisthus' dagger ran. But in that very moment the cloud

of more agonies to come descends upon the hapless family. In obedience

to Apollo's command he takes the suppliant's branch and chaplet, and

prepares to hasten to Delphi, a wanderer cut off from his native land.

The dreadful shapes of the avenging Furies close in upon him: the

fancies of incipient madness thicken on his mind: he is hounded out,

his only hope of rest being Apollo's sacred shrine. The play ends with a

note of hopelessness, of calamity without end.

After the _Agamemnon_ this play reads weak indeed. Yet it displays

two marked characteristics. It is full of vigorous action; the plot is

quickly conceived and quickly consummated; the business is soon over.

Further, Aeschylus has discovered yet another source of tragic power,

the conflict of duties. Orestes has to choose between obedience to

Apollo and reverence for his mother. That these duties are incompatible

is clear; whichever he performed, punishment was bound to follow. It

is in this enforced choice between two evils that the pathos of life is

often to be found; that Aeschylus should have so faithfully depicted it

is a great contribution to the growth of drama.

The concluding play, the _Eumenides_, calls for a briefer description.

It opens with one of the most awe-inspiring scenes which the imagination

of man has conceived. The priestess of Delphi finds a man sitting as

a suppliant at the central point of the earth, his hands dripping with

blood, a sword and an olive branch in his hand. Round him is slumbering

a troop of dreadful forms, beings from darkness, the avengers. When the

scene is disclosed, Apollo himself is seen standing at Orestes' side. He

urges Hermes to convey the youth with all speed to Athens where he is to

clasp the ancient image of Athena. Immediately the ghost of Clytemnestra

arises; waking the sleeping forms, she bids them fly after their victim.

They arise and confront Apollo, a younger deity, whom they reproach for

protecting one who should be abandoned to them. Apollo replies with a

charge that they are prejudiced in favour of Clytemnestra, whom, though

a murderess, they had never tormented.

The scene rapidly changes to Athens, where Orestes calls upon Athena;

confident in the privilege of their ancient office the Chorus awaits the

issue. The goddess appears and consents to try the case, the Council

of the Areopagus acting as a jury. Apollo first defends his action

in saving Orestes, asserting that he obeys the will of Zeus. The main

question is, which of the two parents is more to be had in honour?

Athena herself had no mother; the female is merely the nurse of the

child, the father being the true generative source. The Chorus points

out that the sin of slaying a husband is not the same as that of

murdering a mother, for the one implies kinship, while the other does

not. Athena advises the Court to judge without fear or favour. When the

votes are counted, it is found that they are exactly even. The goddess

casts her vote for Orestes, who is thus saved and restored.

The Chorus threaten that ruin and sterility shall visit Athena's city;

they are elder gods, daughters of night, and are overridden by younger

deities. But Athena by the power of her persuasion offers them a full

share in all the honours and wealth of Attica if they will consent

to take up their abode in it. They shall be revered by countless

generations and will gain new dignities such as they could not have

otherwise obtained. Little by little their resentment is overcome; they

are conducted to their new home to change their name and become the

kindly goddesses of the land.

The boldness of Aeschylus is most evident in this play. Not content with

raising a ghost as he had done in the _Persae_, he actually shows upon

a public stage the two gods whom the Athenians regarded as the special

objects of their worship. More than this, he has brought to the light

the dark powers of the underworld in all their terrors; it is said that

at the sight of them some of the women in the audience were taken with

the pangs of premature birth. The introduction of these supernatural

figures was the most vivid means at Aeschylus' disposal for bringing

home to the minds of his contemporaries the seriousness of the dramatic

issue. It will be remembered that the _Prometheus_ was the last echo of

the contest between two races of gods. The same strain of thought has

made the poet represent the struggle in the mind of Orestes as a trial

between the primeval gods and the newer stock; the result was the

same, the older and perhaps more terrifying deities are beaten, being

compelled to change their names and their character to suit the gentler

spirit which a religion takes to itself as it develops. At any rate,

such is Aeschylus' solution of the eternal question, "What atonement can

be made for bloodshed and how can it be secured?" The problem is of the

greatest interest; it may be that there is no real answer for it, but it

is at least worth while to examine the attempts which have been made to

solve it.

Before we begin to attempt an estimate of Aeschylus it is well to face

the reasons which make Greek drama seem a thing foreign to us. We are at

times aware that it is great, but we cannot help asking, "Is it

real?" Modern it certainly is not. In the first place, the Chorus was

all-important to the Greeks, but is non-existent with us. To them drama

was something more than action, it was music and dancing as well. Yet

as time went on, the Greeks themselves found the Chorus more and more

difficult to manage and it was discarded as a feature of the main plot.

Only in a very few instances could a play be constructed in such

a manner as to allow the Chorus any real influence on the story.

Aeschylus' skill in this branch of his art is really extraordinary; the

Chorus does take a part, and a vital part too, in the play. Again,

the number of Greek actors was limited, whereas in a modern play

their number is just as great as suits playwright's convenience or his

capacity. The impression then of a Greek play is that it is a somewhat

thin performance compared with the vivacity and complexity of the great

Elizabethans. The plot, where it exists, seems very narrow in Attic

drama; it could hardly be otherwise in a society which was content with

a repeated discussion of a rather close cycle of heroic legends.

Yet here, too, we might note how Aeschylus trod out of the narrow

circumscribed round, notably in the _Prometheus_ and the _Persoe_.

Lastly, the Greek play is short when compared with a full-bodied

five-act tragedy. It must be remembered, however, that very often

these plays are only a third part of the real subject dealt with by the

playwright.

All Greek tragedy is liable to these criticisms; it is not fair to judge

a process just beginning by the standards of an art which thinks itself

full-blown after many centuries of history. Considering the meagre

resources available for Aeschylus--the masks used by Greek actors made

it impossible for any of them to win a reputation or to add to the fame

of a play--we ought to admire the marvellous success he achieved. His

defects are clear enough; his teaching is a little archaic, his

plots are sometimes weak or not fully worked out, his tendency is to

description instead of vigorous action, he has a superabundance of

choric matter. Sometimes it is said that the doctrine of an inherited

curse on which much of his work is written is false; let it be

remembered that week by week a commandment is read in our churches which

speaks of visiting the sins of the fathers upon the third and fourth

generation of them that hate God; all that is needed to make Aeschylus'

doctrine "real" in the sense of "modern" is to substitute the

nineteenth-century equivalent Heredity. That he has touched on a genuine

source of drama will be evident to readers of Ibsen's _Ghosts_. More

serious is the objection that his work is not dramatic at all; the

actors are not really human beings acting as such, for their wills and

their deeds are under the control of Destiny. What then shall we say of

this from Hamlet:--

"There's a divinity that shapes our ends,

Rough-hew them as we will?"

In this matter we are on the threshold of one of our insoluble

problems--the freedom of the will. An answer to this real fault in

Aeschylus will be found in the subsequent history of the Attic drama

attempted in the next two chapters. Suffice it to say that, whether

the will is free or not, we act as if it were, and that is enough to

represent (as Aeschylus has done) human beings acting on a stage as we

ourselves would do in similar circumstances, for the discussions about

Destiny are very often to be found in the mouths not of the characters,

but of the Chorus, who are onlookers.

The positive excellences of Aeschylus are numerous enough to make us

thankful that he has survived. His style is that of the great sublime

creators in art, Dante, Michaelangelo, Marlowe; it has many a "mighty

line". His subjects are the Earth, the Heavens, the things under the

Earth; more, he reveals a period of unsuspected antiquity, the present

order of gods being young and somewhat inexperienced. He carries us back

to Creation and shows us the primeval deities, Earth, Night, Necessity,

Fate, powers simply beyond the knowledge of ordinary thoughtless men.

His characters are cast in a mighty mould; he taps the deepest

tragic springs; he teaches that all is not well when we prosper. The

thoughtless, light-hearted, somewhat shallow mind which thinks it can

speak, think, and act without having to render an account needs the

somewhat stern tonic of these seven dramas; it may be chastened into

some sobriety and learn to be a little less flippant and irreverent.

Aeschylus' influence is rather of the unseen kind. His genius is of

a lofty type which is not often imitated. Demanding righteousness,

justice, piety, and humility, he belongs to the class of Hebrew prophets

who saw God and did not die.