Delphi Complete Works of Aeschylus (Illustrated) (Delphi Ancient Classics) (75 page)

There remains
one Aeschylean play, the most famous — unless we except the
Agamemnon
— in
extant Greek literature, the
Prometheus Bound
. That it was the first of
a Trilogy, and that the second and third parts were called the
Prometheus
Freed
, and
Prometheus the Fire-Bearer
, respectively, is accepted:
but the date of its performance is unknown.

The
Prometheus
Bound
is conspicuous for its gigantic and strictly superhuman plot. The
Agamemnon
is human, though legendary the
Prometheus
presents to us the gods of
Olympus in the days when mankind crept like emmets upon the earth or dwelt in
caves, scorned by Zeus and the other powers of heaven, and — still aided by
Prometheus the Titan — wholly without art or science, letters or handicrafts.
For his benevolence towards oppressed mankind, Prometheus is condemned by Zeus
to uncounted ages of pain and torment, shackled and impaled in a lonely cleft
of a Scythian precipice. The play opens with this act of divine resentment
enforced by the will of Zeus and by the handicraft of Hephaestus, who is aided
by two demons, impersonating Strength and Violence. These agents if the ire of
Zeus disappear after the first scene, the rest of the play represents
Prometheus in the mighty solitude, but visited after a while by a Chorus of sea
nymphs who, from the distant depths of ocean, have heard the clang of the
demons’ hammers, and arrive, in a winged car, from the submarine palace of
their father Oceanus. To them Prometheus relates his penalty and its cause:
viz., his over tenderness to the luckless race of mankind. Oceanus himself
follows on a hippogriff, and counsels Prometheus to submit to Zeus. But the
Titan who has handled the sea nymphs with all gentleness, receives the advice
with scorn and contempt, and Oceanus retires. But the courage which he lacks
his daughters possess to the full; they remain by Prometheus to the end, and
share his fate, literally in the crack of doom. But before the end, the strange
half human figure of Io, victim of the lust of Zeus and the jealousy of Hera,
comes wandering by, and tells Prometheus of her wrongs. He, by his divine
power, recounts to her not only the past but also the future of her wanderings.
Then, in a fresh access of frenzy, she drifts away into the unknown world. Then
Prometheus partly reveals to the sea maidens his secret, and the mysterious
cause of Zeus’ hatred against him — a cause which would avail to hurl the
tyrant from his power. So deadly is this secret, that Zeus will, in the lapse
of ages, be forced to reconcile himself with Prometheus, to escape
dethronement. Finally, Hermes, the messenger of Zeus, appears with fresh
threats, that he may extort the mystery from the Titan. But Prometheus is firm,
defying both the tyrant and his envoy, though already the lightning is
flashing, the thunder rolling, and sky and sea are mingling their fury. Hermes
can say no more; the sea nymphs resolutely refuse to retire, and wait their
doom. In this crash of the world, Prometheus flings his final defiance against
Zeus, and amid the lightnings and shattered rocks that are overwhelming him and
his companions, speaks his last word, “
It is unjust
!”

Any
spectacular representation of this finale must, it is clear, have roused
intense sympathy with the Titan and the nymphs alike. If, however, the
sequel-plays had survived to us, we might conceivably have found and realized
another and less intolerable solution. The name
Zeus
, in Greek, like
that of
God
, in English, comprises very diverse views of divine personality.
The Zeus in the
Prometheus
has little but the name in common with the
Zeus in the first chorus of the
Agamemnon
, or in
The Suppliant
Maidens
(ll. 86-103): and parallel reflections will give us much food for
thought. But, in any case, let us realize that the
Prometheus
is not a
human play: with the possible exception of Io, every character in it is an
immortal being. It is not as a vaunt, but as a fact, that Prometheus declares,
as against Zeus (l. 1053), that “Me at least He shall never give to death.”

A stupendous
theological drama of which two-thirds has been lost has left an aching void,
which now can never be filled, in our minds. No reader of poetry needs to be
reminded of the glorious attempt of Shelley to work out a possible and worthy
sequel to the
Prometheus
. Who will not echo the words of Mr. Gilbert
Murray, when he says that “no piece of lost literature has been more ardently
longed for than the
Prometheus Freed
”?

But, at the
end of a rather prolonged attempt to understand and translate the surviving
tragedies of Aeschylus, one feels inclined to repeat the words used by a
powerful critic about one of the greatest of modern poets— “For man, it is a
weary way to God, but a wearier far to any demigod.” We shall not discover the
full sequel of Aeschylus’ mighty dramatic conception: we “know in part, and we
prophesy in part.” The Introduction (pp. xvi.-xviii.) prefixed by Mr. A. O.
Prickard to his edition of the
Prometheus
is full of persuasive grace,
on this topic: to him, and to Dr. Verrall of Cambridge —
lucida sidera
of help and
encouragement in the study of Aeschylus — the translator’s thanks are due, and
are gratefully and affectionately rendered.

E. D. A. M.

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.