Authors of Greece

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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.

TRANSLATIONS:--

Miss Swanwick; E. D. A. Morshead; Campbell (all in verse). Paley
(prose).

Versions also appear in Verrall's editions of separate plays
(Macmillan).

An admirable volume called _Greek Tragedy_ by G. Norwood (Methuen)
contains a summary of the latest views on the art of the Athenian
dramatists.

See Symonds' _Greek Poets_ as above.

SOPHOCLES

In Aeschylus' dramas the will of the gods tended to override human
responsibility. An improvement could be effected by making the
personages real captains of their souls; drama needed bringing down
from heaven to earth. This process was effected by Sophocles. He was
born at Colonus, near Athens, in 495, mixed with the best society in
Periclean times, was a member of the important board of administrators
who controlled the Delian League, the nucleus of the Athenian Empire,
and composed over one hundred tragedies. In 468 he defeated Aeschylus,
won the first prize twenty-two times and later had to face the more
formidable opposition of the new and restless spirit whose chief
spokesman was Euripides. For nearly forty years he was taken to be the
typical dramatist of Athens, being nicknamed "the Bee"; his dramatic
powers showed no abatement of vigour in old age, of which the _Oedipus
Coloneus_ was the triumphant issue. He died in 405, full of years and
honours.

Providence has ordained it that his art, like his country's tutelary
goddess Athena, should step perfect and fully armed from the brain of
its creator. The _Antigone_, produced in 440, discusses one of the
deepest problems of civilised life. On the morning after the defeat of
the Seven who assaulted Thebes Polyneices' body lay dishonoured and
unburied, a prey to carrion birds before the gates of the city which
had been his home. His two sisters, Antigone and Ismene, discuss the
edict which forbids his burial. Ismene, the more timid of the two,
intends to obey it, but Antigone's stronger character rises in
rebellion.

Loss of burial was the most awful fate which could overtake a Greek
--before he died Sophocles was to see his country condemn ten generals
to death for neglect of burial rites, though they had been brilliantly
successful in a naval engagement. Rather than obey Antigone would die.

"Bury him I will; I will lie in death with the brother I love,
sinning in a righteous cause. Far longer is the time in which I
must please the dead than men on earth, for among the former I
shall dwell for ever. Do thou, if it please thee, hold in dishonour
what is honoured by Heaven."

Here is the source of the tragedy, the will of the individual in
conflict with established authority.

A chorus of Theban elders enters, singing an ode of deliverance and
joy; they have been summoned by Creon, the new King, uncle of Oedipus'
children. Full of the sense of his own importance Creon states the
official view. Polyneices is to remain unburied.

"Any man who considers private friendship to be more important than
the State is a man of naught. In the name of all-seeing Zeus I would
not hold my tongue if I saw ruin coming to the citizens instead of
safety, nor would I make a friend of my country's enemy. Sure am I
that it is the State that saves us; she is the ship that carries us;
we make our friendships without overturning her."

The elders promise obedience, but grave news is reported by a guard
who has been set to watch the corpse. Someone had scattered dust
lightly over the dead and departed without leaving any trace; neither
he nor his companions had done the deed.

When the Chorus suggest that it is the work of some deity, Creon
answers in great impatience:

"Cease, lest thou be proved a fool as well as old. Thy words are
intolerable when thou sayest that the gods can have a care of this
corpse. What, have they buried him in honour for his services to them?
Did he not come to burn their pillared temples and offerings and
precincts and shatter our laws?"

He angrily thrusts the watchman forth, threatening to hang him and his
companions alive unless they find the culprit.

"There are many marvels, but none greater than Man. He crosses the
wintry sea, he wears away the hard earth with his plough, ensnareth
the light-hearted race of birds, catcheth the wild beasts, trappeth
the things of the deep, yoketh the horse and the unwearying ox. He
hath taught himself speech and thought swift as the wind, hath learnt
the moods of a city life and can avoid the shafts of the frost; he
hath a device for every problem save Death--though disease he can
escape. Sometimes he moveth to ill, again to good; his cities rear
their heads when they reverence the laws and the gods; he wrecketh
his city when he boldly forsakes the good. May an evil-doer never
share my hearth or heart."

Such is the ordinary man's view of the action of Polyneices, for in
Sophocles the Chorus certainly represents average public opinion. It
is quickly challenged by the entry of Antigone with the Watchman,
whose story Creon hastens out to hear. With no little self-satisfaction
the Watchman tells how they caught the girl in the very act of replacing
the dust they had removed and pouring libations over the dead. Antigone
admits the deed. When asked how she dare defy the official ordinance,
she replies--

"It came neither from Zeus nor from Justice, nor did I deem that thy
decrees had such power that a mortal could override the unwritten
and unshaken laws of Heaven. These have not their life from now or
yesterday, but from everlasting, and no man knows whence they have
appeared. It was not likely that, through fear of any man's will,
I would pay Heaven's penalty for their infringement. Die I must, even
hadst thou made no proclamation; if I die before my time, I count
it all gain. If my act seem folly to thee, maybe it is a foolish
judge who counts me mad."

Creon replies that this is sheer insolence; it is an insult that he, a
man, should give way to a woman. He threatens to destroy both girls,
but Antigone is sure that public opinion is with her, though for the
moment it is muzzled through fear. Ismene is brought in and offers to
die with her sister; Antigone refuses her offer, insisting that she
alone has deserved chastisement.

In a second ode the gradual extinction of Oedipus' race is described,
owing to foolish word and insensate thought, for "when Heaven leads a
man to ruin it makes him believe that evil is good". A new interest is
added by Creon's son Haemon, the affianced lover of Antigone, who
comes to interview his father. This is the first instance in European
drama of that without which much modern literature would have little
reason for existing at all--the love element, wisely kept in check by
the Greeks. A further conflict of wills adds to the dramatic effect of
the play; Creon insists on filial obedience, for he cannot claim to
rule a city if he fails to control his own family. Haemon answers with
courtesy and deference; he points out that the force of public opinion
is behind Antigone and suggests that the official view may perhaps be
wrong because it is the expression of an individual's judgment. When
he is himself charged thus directly with the very fault for which he
claimed to punish Antigone, Creon lets his temper get the mastery;
after a violent quarrel Haemon parts from him with a dark threat that
the girl's death will remove more than one person, and vows never to
cross his father's doorstep again.

Antigone is soon carried away to her doom; she is to be shut up in a
cavern without food. In a dialogue of great beauty she confesses her
human weakness--death is near, and with it banishment from the joys of
life. Creon bids her make an end; her last speech concludes with a
clear statement of the problem. Who knows if she is right? She herself
will know after death. If she has erred, she will confess it; if the
King is wrong, she prays he may not suffer greater woes than her own.

A reaction now occurs. Teiresias, the blind seer, seeks out Creon
because of the failure of his sacrificial rites; the birds of the air
are gorged with human blood, and fail to give the signs of augury. He
bids Creon return to his right senses and quit his stubbornness. When
the latter mockingly accuses the seer of being bribed, he learns the
dread punishment his obstinacy has brought him.

"Know that thou shalt not see out many hurrying rounds of the sun
before thou shalt give one sprung from thine own loins in exchange
for the dead, one in return for two, for thou hast thrust below
one of the children of the light, penning up her spirit in a tomb
with dishonour, and thou keepest above ground a body that belongs
to the gods below, without its share of funerals, unrighteously;
wherefore the late-punishing ruinous gods of death and the
Furies lie in wait for thee, to catch thee in like agonies."

Cowed by the terror, the King hurries to undo his work, calling for
pickaxes to open the tomb and himself going with all speed to set free
its victim.

The sequel is told by a messenger who at the outset strikes a note of
woe.

"Creon I once envied, for he was the saviour of his land, and was
the father of noble children. Now all is lost. When men lose
pleasure, I deem that they are not alive but moving corpses. Heap
up wealth and live in kingly state, but if there is no pleasure
withal, I would not pay the worth of a shadow for all the rest.
Haemon is dead."

Hearing the news, Eurydice the Queen comes out, and bids him tell his
story in full. Creon found Haemon clasping the body of Antigone who
had hung herself. Seeing his father, he made a murderous attack on
him; when it failed, he drew his sword and fell on it--thus in death
the two lovers were not separated. In an ominous silence the Queen
departs. Creon enters with his son's body, to be utterly shattered by
a second and an unexpected blow, for his wife has slain herself.
Broken and helpless he admits his fault, while the Chorus sing in
conclusion:--

"By far the greatest part of happiness is wisdom; men should
reverence the gods; mighty plagues repay the mighty words of the
over-proud, teaching wisdom to the aged."

To Aeschylus the power that largely controlled men's acts was Destiny.
A notable contrast is visible in the system of Sophocles. Destiny does
not disappear, rather it retires into the background of his thought.
To him the leading cause of ruin is evil counsel. Over and over again
this teaching is driven home. All the leading characters mention it,
Antigone, Haemon, Teiresias, and when it is disregarded, it is
remorselessly brought home by disaster. The dramatic gain is enormous;
man's sorrows are ascribed primarily to his own lack of judgment, the
tragic character takes on a more human shape, for he is more nearly
related to the ordinary persons we meet in our own experience. Another
great advance is visible in the construction of the plot. It is more
varied, more flexible; it never ceases developing, the action
continuing to the end instead of stopping short at a climax. Further,
the Chorus begins to fall into a more humble position, it exercises
but little influence on the great figures of the plot, being content
to mirror the opinions of the interested outside spectator. Truly
drama is beginning to be master of itself--"the play's the thing".

But far more important is the subject of this play. It raises one of
the most difficult problems which demand a solution, the harmonisation
of private judgment with state authority. The individual in a growing
civilisation sooner or later asks how far he ought to obey, who is the
lord over his convictions, whether disobedience is ever justifiable.
If a law is wrong how are we to make its immorality evident? In an age
when a central authority is questioned or loses its hold on men's
allegiance, this problem will imperiously demand an answer. When
Europe was aroused from the slumber of the Middle Ages and the
spiritual authority which had governed it for centuries was shattered,
the same right of resistance as that which Antigone claimed was
insisted upon by various reformers. It did not fail to bring with it
tragic consequences, for the "power beareth not the sword in vain".
Its sequel was the Thirty Years' War which barbarised central Germany,
leaving in many places a race of savage beings who had once been
human. In our own days resistance is preached almost as a sacred duty.
We have passive resisters, conscientious objectors, strikers and a
host of young and imperfectly educated persons, some armed with the
very serious power of voting, who claim to set their wills in flat
opposition to recognised authority. One or two contributions to the
solution of this problem may be found in the _Antigone_. The central
authority must be prepared to prove that its edicts are not below the
moral standard of the age; on the other hand, non-compliance must be
backed by the force of public opinion; it must show that the action it
takes will ultimately bring good to the whole community. It is of
little use to appeal to the so-called conscience unless we can produce
some credentials of the proper training and enlightenment of that
rather vague and uncertain faculty, whose normal province is to
condemn wrong acts, not to justify law-breaking. Most resisters talk
the very language of Antigone, appealing to the will of Heaven; would
that they could prove as satisfactorily as she did that the power
behind them is that which governs the world in righteousness.

A somewhat similar problem reappears in the _Ajax_. This play opens at
early dawn with a dialogue between Athena, who is unseen, and
Odysseus; the latter has traced Ajax to his tent after a night of
madness in which he has slain much cattle and many shepherds,
imagining them to be his foes, especially Odysseus himself who had
worsted him in the contest for the arms of Achilles. Athena calls out
the beaten hero for a moment and the sight of him moves Odysseus to
say:--

"I pity him, though my foe; for I think of mine own self as much as
of him. We men are but shadows, all of us, or fleeting shades."

To this Athena replies:--

"When thou seest such sights, utter no haughty word against the gods
and be not roused to pride, if thou art mightier than another in
strength or store of wealth. One day can bring down or exalt all
human state, but the gods love the prudent and hate the sinners."

A band of mariners from Salamis enter as the chorus; they are Ajax'
followers who have come to learn the truth. They are confronted by
Tecmessa, Ajax' captive, who confirms the grievous rumour, describing
his mad acts. When the fit was over, she had left him in his tent
prostrate with grief and shame among the beasts he had slain, longing
for vengeance on his enemies before he died.

The business of the play now begins. Coming forth, Ajax in a long
despairing speech laments his lot--persecuted by Athena, hated of
Greeks and Trojans alike, the secret laughter of his enemies.

Where shall he go? Home to the father he has disgraced? Against Troy,
leading a forlorn hope? He had already reminded Tecmessa with some
sternness that silence is a woman's best grace; now she appeals to his
pity. Bereft of him, she would speedily be enslaved and mocked; their
son would be left defenceless; the many kindnesses she had done him
cry for some return from a man of chivalrous nature, Ajax bade her be
of good cheer; she must obey him in all things and first must bring
his son Eurysaces. Taking him in his arms, he says:--

"If he is my true son, he will not quail at the sight of blood.
But he must speedily be broken into his father's warrior habit
and imitate his ways. My son, I pray thou mayest be happier than
thy sire, but like him otherwise, then thou shalt be no churl.
Yet herein I envy thee that thou canst not feel my agonies. Life
is sweetest in its careless years before it learns joy and pain;
but when thou art come to that, show thy father's enemies thy
nature and birth. Till then feed on the spirit of gladness,
gambol in the life of boyhood and gladden thy mother's heart."

He reflects that his son will be safe as long as Teucer lives, whom he
charges on his return to take the boy to his own father and mother to
be their joy. His arms shall not be a prize to be striven for; they
should be buried with him except his shield, which his son should take
and keep. This ominous speech dashes the hopes which he had raised in
Tecmessa's heart, even the Chorus sadly admitting that death is the
best for a brainsick man, born of the highest blood, no longer true to
his character.

Ajax re-enters, a sword in his hands. He feels his heart touched by
Tecmessa's words and pities her helplessness. He resolves to go to the
shore and there bury the accursed sword he had of Hector, which had
robbed him of his peace. He will soon learn obedience to the gods and
his leaders; all the powers of Nature are subject to authority, the
seasons, the sea, night and sleep. He has but now learned that an
enemy is to be hated as one who will love us later, while friendship
will not always abide. Yet all will be well; he will go the journey he
cannot avoid; soon all will hear that his evil destiny has brought him
salvation. This splendid piece of tragic irony is interpreted at its
surface value by the Chorus, who burst into a song of jubilation. But
the words have a darker meaning; this transient joy is but the last
flicker of hope before it is quenched in everlasting night.

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