Scapegoat Carnivale’s Tragic Trilogy: Euripides’s Medea, Euripides’s Bacchae, and Sophocles’s Oedipus Tyrannus 9780228018346

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Scapegoat Carnivale’s Tragic Trilogy



Scapegoat Carnivale’s Tragic Trilogy Euripides’s Medea, Euripides’s Bacchae, and Sophocles’s Oedipus Tyrannus

e d i te d by ly n n koz a k Adapted by Joseph Shragge from literal translations by Andreas Apergis and Lynn Kozak



McGill-Queen’s University Press Montreal & Kingston • London • Chicago

© McGill-Queen’s University Press 2023 isbn 978-0-2280-1682-3 (cloth) isbn 978-0-2280-1764-6 (paper) isbn 978-0-2280-1834-6 (epdf) Legal deposit second quarter 2023 Bibliothèque nationale du Québec Printed in Canada on acid-free paper that is 100% ancient forest free (100% post-consumer recycled), processed chlorine free This book has been published with the help of a grant from the Canadian Federation for the Humanities and Social Sciences, through the Awards to Scholarly Publications Program, using funds provided by the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada.

We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts. Nous remercions le Conseil des arts du Canada de son soutien. Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication Title: Scapegoat Carnivale’s tragic trilogy : Euripides’s Medea, Euripides’s Bacchae, and Sophocles’s Oedipus Tyrannus / edited by Lynn Kozak ; adapted by Joseph Shragge from literal translations by Andreas Apergis and Lynn Kozak. Names: Kozak, Lynn, editor. Description: Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20220473293 | Canadiana (ebook) 20220473366 | isbn 9780228016823 (cloth) | isbn 9780228017646 (paper) | isbn 9780228018346 (epdf) Subjects: lcsh: Greek drama—Modern presentation. | lcsh: Greek drama (Tragedy)—Adaptations. | lcsh: Greek drama (Tragedy)—History and criticism. | lcsh: Greek drama (Tragedy)—Translations into English. | lcsh: Greek drama (Tragedy)—Appreciation—Québec (Province)— Montréal. | lcsh: Theater—Production and direction—Québec (Province)—Montréal. | lcsh: Euripides. Medea. | lcsh: Euripides. Bacchae. | lcsh: Sophocles. Oedipus Rex. | lcsh: Scapegoat Carnivale. Classification: lcc pa3238 .s33 2023 | ddc 882/.0109—dc23

This book was designed and typeset by studio oneonone in Minion 11/14

For our kids, Lula and Elroy – Lynn Kozak and Joseph Shragge

 Contents

Preface | ix Lynn Kozak Acknowledgments | xiii Introduction | 3 Erin Hurley and Lynn Kozak Greek Tragedy in Fifth-Century Athens | 11 Hallie Marshall

Medea Scapegoat Carnivale’s Medea | 31 Lynn Kozak Medea | 41 Euripides, adapted by Joseph Shragge from a literal translation by Andreas Apergis Craft and Context: Medea | 98 Florence Yoon

Bacchae Scapegoat Carnivale’s Bacchae | 107 Lynn Kozak

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contents Bacchae | 114 Euripides, adapted by Joseph Shragge from a literal translation by Andreas Apergis Dissolving Boundaries and the Liquid God in Euripides’s Bacchae | 181 Judith Fletcher

Oedipus Tyrannus Scapegoat Carnivale’s Oedipus Tyrannus | 193 Lynn Kozak Oedipus Tyrannus | 201 Sophocles, adapted by Joseph Shragge from a literal translation by Lynn Kozak A Paradigmatic Tragedy | 274 C. Michael Sampson

Reception Theory and Performance | 283 George Adam Kovacs Appendix: List of Productions Referenced | 305 Contributors | 307 Bibliography | 309 Index | 319

 Preface lynn kozak

I had seen Medea, or at least some version of Euripides’s play, perhaps a dozen times, and performed in one version of it, before I sat down to watch Scapegoat Carnivale Theatre’s 2010 production. I had worked with Scapegoat’s cast and crew for a few hours on dramaturgy and I was taking part in a talk-back after the play, so I was invested in the production. It was also my first spectatorial experience of Greek tragedy in Montreal, where I had just moved that summer. But none of this had prepared me for how much the production moved me – laughter, tears, and gut punches. I felt, perhaps for the first time, that I had seen the Medea – that somehow, I had seen the play I had read a hundred times finally brought to life in front of me. The language was streamlined and modern, but not colloquial; the costumes and the minimalist set conjured an indeterminate time and place. Euripides’s play that had broken my heart over and over and left me in awe of its semi-divine protagonist and the astonishing evil and audacity of her actions – here it was. The experience was inspiring, and over the next several years, I worked more closely with Scapegoat Carnivale on Greek tragedy, helping with the script and attending rehearsals for 2012’s production of Euripides’s Bacchae, and providing the literal translation for 2017’s staged reading of Sophocles’s Oedipus Tyrannus. This volume brings together these new English versions, each one adapted for the stage by playwright Joseph Shragge. Scapegoat Carnivale’s work offers a potent opportunity to situate Medea, Bacchae, and Oedipus Tyrannus among text and theory and production and performance. This volume invites readers to understand these plays both as foundational texts and as living performances, and it provides a wide range of access points to the plays that each reader can tailor to their own needs. The introduction to Scapegoat Carnivale’s tragic trilogy, by Erin Hurley and me, places their productions within a global Anglophone performance and

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pedagogical context as well as the specific theatrical landscape of English Montreal (and, to a lesser extent, Quebec and Canada). Hallie Marshall’s introduction to Greek tragedy situates these plays in their original contexts, detailing fifth-century Athens’s City Dionysia festival that produced the plays as well as the conventions and competition that defined their performances. These overview chapters are followed by more specific introductions to each play that focus on Scapegoat Carnivale’s productions, detailing the company’s conceptual approaches and key elements of their stagecraft while also surveying global performance reception trends for each tragedy. The scripts themselves feature notes that cover the people and places from Greek myth alluded to as well as manuscript traditions and production choices that give insight into their development. Finally, each play is accompanied by an essay that explores the tragedy’s essential themes and structural features: Florence Yoon addresses Medea’s “craft and context”; Judith Fletcher considers Bacchae’s “dissolving boundaries and liquid god”; and C. Michael Sampson explores what, if anything, makes Oedipus Tyrannus “a paradigmatic tragedy.” George Kovacs’s chapter closes out the volume, presenting reception as a theory that allows us to understand new versions of ancient tragedies at their point of production, before running through important receptions of these three plays from antiquity’s post-Classical period through the peak of the covid-19 pandemic. A diachronic list of performances mentioned throughout the volume is included as an appendix. This volume is meant to be modular, to fit easily with readers’ needs in a multiplicity of contexts – whether reading a Greek tragedy for the first or the fiftieth time, studying for a theatre class or a Classics course, preparing to stage one of these plays, or having an interest in theatre reception histories. The translations themselves benefit from having been tested in performance. That crucible, whose refining effects are reflected in the new versions that this volume brings together, assures these plays’ clarity and accessibility for contemporary audiences, renewing their ancient themes. At the same time, Scapegoat Carnivale’s productions allow us to examine how their creative choices and interpretations respond to both local features and global trends. Scapegoat Carnivale’s Tragic Trilogy serves as a snapshot of one company’s early twenty-first-century approach to Greek tragedy, while pointing to tragedy’s origins, considering our contemporary diversity of receptions, and musing on tragedy’s possible futures. As Kovacs writes, “We will never be

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done with Greek tragedy, and Greek tragedy will never be done with us – and that’s a very good thing.”1 note 1 Kovacs, this volume, 283.

 Acknowledgments

Lynn Kozak would like to thank Scapegoat Carnivale Theatre for inviting their consultation, and later, collaboration, with a shout-out to all those involved in these incredible productions over the years; Jonathan Crago and the team at McGill Queen’s University Press (Jonathan has been essential in supporting and shaping this volume and no one could ask for a more engaged, more constructive, and more patient editor); Pierre Bonnechere and the support of sshrc through the “À travers le vortex” project; Michaela Drouillard and Meghan O’Donnell, who helped edit the scripts, generously supported by the Paul F. McCullagh Special Projects Fund and McGill Classical Studies; Clara Nencu and Patrick Gannon, who helped prepare the manuscript for submission; Susan Glickman for her insights and generosity through the editing process; the readers who gave very helpful feedback, especially about this volume’s structure; and all the amazing contributors to this volume, who have put their time, labour, and insights into supporting this project, and who have done so with patience and kindness over several years. Finally, special thanks to Joseph Shragge. Scapegoat Carnivale Theatre would like to thank Peter Hinton, Paula Danckert, Emma Tibaldo, and the National Arts Centre of Canada for their guidance and inspiration; former Centaur Theatre artistic director Roy Surette for his incredible open-mindedness in programming these pieces; Eda Holmes for her support in taking over at the Centaur; the many performers who participated in readings and productions; all the volunteer singers of the Choeur Maha, the Zakynthines Phones, and the Montreal Artists’ Choir; the generous support and tech staff at the Centaur Theatre; the Greek Consulate General of Montreal; and Lynn Kozak, Sean Gurd, and Pierre Bonnechere for their invaluable consultations and audience discussions. All photographs included in the book are courtesy of Scapegoat Carnivale Theatre.

Scapegoat Carnivale’s Tragic Trilogy

 Introduction er in hu rley and lynn kozak

Montreal’s Scapegoat Carnivale Theatre produced three Greek tragedies in less than a decade, starting with Euripides’s Medea in 2010, followed by Euripides’s Bacchae in 2012, and then a staged reading of Sophocles’s Oedipus Tyrannus in 2017, creating the “tragic trilogy” that this volume brings together. The Centaur Theatre, one of the only major English-language theatres in the city, presented each play as part of its Brave New Looks series, which highlights work from independent companies like Scapegoat Carnivale. There’s an inherent irony in performing the world’s oldest recorded plays in a series called Brave New Looks. But there’s also a twofold truth in these tragedies fitting into such a series – first, as this introduction discusses, Greek tragedies are “new” (or at least, rare) in Montreal’s English-language theatre context, and second, these Scapegoat Carnivale productions do indeed provide a brave new look at some very old texts. Greek tragedies have an odd place in the global Anglophone theatrical tradition. Unlike other “classics,” such as Shakespeare, they have no continuous performance tradition, not in Europe, not even in Greece. Greek tragedies didn’t find their way onto English-language stages until the eighteenth century and didn’t proliferate until the end of the nineteenth, when they were also popular in universities as well as in other languages and other venues across Europe.1 Through the twentieth century and into the twentyfirst, they began to break free from their late European “rediscovery,” with post-colonial and diverse translations and adaptations around the world.2 These tragedies debuted in a fifth-century bce Athenian theatre, a long time before there was any notion of “Europe” that might match the borders or the cultures we might now think of, in a form of the Greek language that disappeared millennia ago. This distance disallows any agenda to fit the tragedies into a clearly defined literary canon or performance repertoire, and the tragedies’ history here in Canada reflects that.

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As long ago as fifth-century bce was, the tragedies portray an even older mythical past, doubling the distance between the characters on stage and ourselves. This gap provides space enough for anyone to hope that they might not share in Oedipus’s fate. The mythical nature of the tragedies means that they are endlessly flexible:3 their very unreality is what makes them feel so real. Their central themes, from family conflict to political strife, ring as contemporary and relatable, but their mythical settings and characters ensure they are never too much of either. The tragedies’ forms and conventions also demonstrate these paradoxes of difference and sameness: their lengths are perfectly palatable to contemporary theatre audiences, usually coming in under ninety minutes. But contemporary English-language theatre has nearly never embraced their use of full-face neutral masks, and seldom integrated a fully singing and dancing chorus. This, too, makes the Scapegoat Carnivale tragedies stand out: each of their three plays incorporated a full chorus, with sung lyrics throughout. Re-animating the chorus through song and movement reasserts its centrality to tragic structure, just as Aristotle suggests in his Poetics (1452b). The plays’ balance between actions and reactions came into sharper focus as the chorus and the music that accompanied them provided a parallel narrative arc to the main characters’ tragedies, serving as a guide for audience response. In teaching these plays, we remind students that the parts that feel familiar to us, those that feature two or three characters talking onstage, are “episodes”: in Greek ἐπεισόδιον (epeisodion) means “an addition,” and this is how Aristotle describes the parts of tragedy that come between choral songs (Poetics 1452b20). Scapegoat Carnivale recentred the choruses in their productions and, in doing so, recentred the audience. Finally, Scapegoat’s choice of plays for their ad hoc trilogy – Euripides’s Medea and Bacchae and Sophocles’s Oedipus Tyrannus – is reminiscent of the mythical mixed bag we might find in a single day of competition at ancient Athens’s City Dionysia. Three playwrights would compete at that festival, each producing a tetralogy of three, usually unrelated, tragedies, plus a satyr play. While Euripides’s Medea might be the most frequently produced of these plays today, the tetralogy that it was performed in came in last in 431 bce.4 And although Bacchae is the least produced of the three now, Euripides’s tetralogy won first prize in 405 bce, possibly benefiting from a posthumous voting bump (the playwright had died that year) among the jurors. Oedipus Tyrannus sits right in the middle of those two

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plays in terms of modern proliferation, and, appropriately, Sophocles won second place with his tetralogy in 429 bce. These three represent a tiny fraction of the extant Greek tragedies, which themselves represent a tiny fraction of the genre, most of which is lost to us now. Yet at the same time, Scapegoat’s trilogy showcases diverse protagonists with far-reaching resonance: these are the stories of a betrayed woman, a vengeful god, and a man who has the worst luck. None of us have ever met anyone quite like these characters, yet we see shadows of ourselves in them. Perhaps this is why these plays remain paradigms of Greek tragedy in both popular culture and the academy. Certainly, the politics of anthologization and canonization also contribute to the centrality of these plays in North American curricula. Most widely available collections are scaffolded on the Greeks’ concepts of drama, so Oedipus, Medea, and Bacchae return again and again in courses across the Anglo-American world. In our department’s mandatory “Introduction to Theatre” course, either the Oedipus or the Medea has laid the foundation for the study of theatre since the inception of the course. These tragedies’ multidisciplinarity points toward a range of world traditions that also braid song, dance, and speech – from African Total Theatre,5 to Nō, to the book musical. Similarly useful for studying theatre is how classical tragedies alternate poetic voices: the narrative monologues of the messengers prompt the named characters’ dramatic dialogue on which the chorus’s odes reflect. Such alternation allows us to isolate key dramatic principles: the imitation of action (mimesis, following Aristotle) but also, and crucially, the establishment and exploration of relations of difference that are essential to the dramatic impulse. Indeed, drama’s distinction from the lyric and epic forms lies in its institution of a third-person relationship between actors and audience (and between characters in the dramatic world). In the same vein, cathartically effective tragic heroes are at once like and yet unlike us by definition, as noted above – they stand out on stage in relation to the chorus, our delegate and guide. Medea, Dionysus, and Oedipus all “come from away,” foreigners to the city where we find them in medias res. Further, Greek tragedies emblematize the “theory” in the “theatre” when the chorus plays back what was just enacted from another perspective, when it abstracts and draws conclusions, or when it produces theories of mind about the protagonists. And yet while the richness of these plays, as well as their ancient pedigree, has guaranteed canonicity in the academy, it has not always translated into

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actual performance. When a twenty-year-old Christopher Plummer portrayed Oedipus in a 1950 production by the Montreal Repertory Theatre (mrt) – and this performance foretold his illustrious future on the stage6 – it neither helped establish Greek tragedy as repertoire nor did it even increase production of plays from antiquity in Montreal (or in English Canada, for that matter). For Plummer’s Oedipus was not that of Sophocles but rather that of Jean Cocteau in The Infernal Machine (1932). If this anecdote fails as an example of a significant production of a Greek tragedy in this corner of Turtle Island, it does furnish material for a different story. Such a data-driven narrative recapitulates the main lines of Hallie Marshall’s 2005 essay on Greek drama in Canada, but also adds a new wrinkle. Marshall dryly observes, “Greek drama does not hold a significant place in the landscape of Canadian theater”; she locates what impact it has had in university and community productions and attributes its “international dimension” to the “translations and adaptations by important figures in Canadian literature, particularly poets Anne Carson and Gwendolyn MacEwan.”7 In Quebec between 1898 and 2010, the year of Scapegoat Carnivale Theatre’s Medea, professional English-language productions of Ancient Greek drama (comedy and tragedy) numbered approximately six, most between 1953 and 1982; they were supplemented by a few university productions (an 1898 Rudens at McGill here, a 2001 Bacchae at Concordia there). However, our earlier story centring on Plummer adds the following variation to this arc: a more populated history of professional productions of classical adaptations. Interestingly, productions of adaptations by Englishlanguage companies in Quebec come almost exclusively from the French tradition – Steven Berkoff ’s Greek (Repercussion Theatre, 2007) and Heiner Müller’s Medeamaterial (The Other Theatre, 1992) are exceptions. Joining Cocteau’s adaptation at mid-century are Jean Anouilh’s Antigone (twice: at the mrt in 1951 and then by the Negro Theatre Guild in 1953) and Medea (Montreal Theatre Lab, 1974).8 More recently, Talisman Theatre staged English translations of Québécoise playwrights’ adaptations, including Suzie Bastien’s reworking of the Medea as The Medea Effect (2015) and Sarah Berthiaume’s Antigone-inspired Antioch (2021). That the twentieth-century productions often feature translations of French adaptations indicates the cross-pollination of English- and French-language theatre before the 1955 founding of the Canada Council, whose funding model allowed for more widespread professionalization of theatre in both languages in the region,9

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but it also highlights the different relations these language traditions have to the ancients and, more broadly, to repertoire. Even a cursory glance at French-language theatre activity in Quebec pre- and post-professionalization reveals a more sustained interest in Greek tragedy in both production and pedagogical contexts. The influence of Jesuit education in Quebec – with its emphasis on the classics, rhetoric, and debate – might go some way to explaining the hold of the Greeks on French-language stages. Recent seasons of Montreal’s French-language feminist theatre Espace go 10 suggest that the meaty women’s roles the Greeks provided in their plays, in combination with their reintroduction to the page and the stage by the French Neoclassicists and promotion by Jesuit pedagogues in Quebec, has resulted in more regular productions. With respect to complex and compelling women characters, Espace go mounted Électre in 2019 and Oedipe à Colone (in which Antigone plays an important role) in 2003. The 2011 creation of Project Andromache by Anne Dorval and Serge Denoncourt, which was based on Racine’s Andromaque (1667), highlighted both strong women leads and Neoclassical familiarity. But the influence of Quebec’s most celebrated and prolific contemporary French-language playwright, Michel Tremblay (b. 1942), must also be added to this picture; he has long acknowledged the classical influence on his plays, citing the particular power of the chorus. Robert Proulx notes that Tremblay’s Un Ange cornu avec des ailes de tôle recounts his fateful encounter with Aeschylus’s Agamemnon. The chorus was “fixed in place, thunderstruck by a revelation that would change its life.”11 Among his successors, the Lebanese-Québécois-French Wajdi Mouawad, who has staged all of Sophocles’s plays – including a trilogy titled Des Femmes (Trachiniae, Antigone, and Electra in French translations by Robert Davreu) at Théâtre du Nouveau Monde in 2012 – recreates the catastrophe of Oedipus in the context of civil war in Lebanon in his 2003 tragedy, Incendies, produced in English translation as Scorched at the Centaur Theatre in 2008. In a similar vein, Montreal-based South African director and playwright Yaël Farber’s original creation Kadmos, commissioned by the National Theatre School in 2011, used Sophocles’s Theban plays to explore modern warfare and foreign policy. Her Montreal production combined images of atrocities committed against prisoners of war at the Abu Ghraib prison during the Iraq War with those of the Madres de Plaza de Mayo petitioning for the reappearance of family members who had been “disappeared” during Argentina’s “Dirty War.”

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However, it is often to the independent, avant-garde theatre company Gravy Bath (1999–2006) that the founders of Scapegoat Carnivale point as a more immediate predecessor in staging Greek tragedy. Dedicated to “the creation of original works, re-interpretation of important classical texts and the exploration of new theatrical styles,”12 this “budget-poor” company “rich with imagination”13 ran the New Classical Theatre Festival from 2002 until the company’s demise in 2006. For four years, participating artists drew inspiration from the classics for their formal experimentation in both original creations and re-interpretations of canonical plays from Sophocles to Wilde. Known for their sharp visual sense and for their stylistic audacity in melding movement- and text-based dramaturgy, the Bath also made its mark on English-Montreal’s theatre landscape through its unusual connection to ancient drama. Scapegoat Carnivale Theatre became the next significant home for sustained experimentation with the classics. In balancing classical adaptations with artist-driven new work by cofounders Joseph Shragge and Alison Darcy, Scapegoat Carnivale stands out in the English-language theatre scene. The two English-language “institutional” theatres in Quebec that receive ongoing operating funding from the arts councils – the Centaur Theatre and the Segal Centre for the Performing Arts (formerly the Saidye Bronfman Centre) – have produced a single classical text between them in their fifty-plus years of existence: Electra by Euripides in 1972 at the Centaur. While the former mounts a mix of contemporary international and Canadian drama, the latter focuses on commercial successes, including musicals, and Jewish plays. In part because of the offerings at the two large theatres, the mid-sized and independent companies tend to have more targeted missions and audiences. By and large, they share with the Segal and the Centaur a commitment to singly authored drama: of French-language Quebec plays in translation (Talisman); of a world repertoire by, for, and about women (Imago); of plays from the Black diaspora (Black Theatre Workshop); of new Canadian plays (Tableau d’hôte); of culturally diverse content with social relevance (Teesri Duniya); and of documentary theatre on matters of contemporary concern (Porte Parole). Within this minority-language theatre ecology, Scapegoat Carnivale charts a different path through their choice of dramatic material, philosophical inclinations, and imaginative stagings. Formally adventuresome, original creations such as Yev (Darcy and Shragge, 2019) and Bar Kapra the Squirrel Hunter

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(Shragge, 2015) address questions of communication and companionship; Yev has extended untranslated dialogue in Russian and a wordless final sequence. In The Heretics of Bohemia (Shragge, 2012), human actors and puppets (constructed by Zach Fraser) bring to life the perils of power and the human condition with the playwright’s signature dark humour. Formal experimentation inflects their productions of classic – and, as you’ll see below, classical – plays too. Shragge’s pitch-perfect adaptation of Roswitha of Gandersheim’s martyr play, Sapientia (2019), was staged by director/creator Mia van Leeuwen on a tabletop with common household objects, while an adaptation of Goethe’s Faust (Darcy and Shragge, 2013) was performed against a backdrop of shadow puppets. Scapegoat’s Greek tragedy productions stand out for their large casts and their live choruses, both particularly noteworthy when we consider the financial realities of a minority-language independent theatre company. As we will see throughout this volume, their approach to these plays is unusual in that they choose a place-time setting which inflects their costuming and musical choices but not the language of their adaptations, leaving the action to unfold “somewhere, sometime,” unmarked by linguistic cues. The streamlined fidelity of Shragge’s adaptations could suggest a desired participation in repertoire or a greater bid towards canonicity. But that none of their productions have made it onto the mainstage also speaks to the fact that there simply is no Greek tragic repertoire in English in Montreal. This tragic trilogy, then, remains curiously timeless, largely untethered to contemporary production and adaptation trends. Scapegoat’s adaptations reflect the eclecticism and openness of the original texts, inviting further expansion and interpretation. In that respect, these adaptations feel both familiar and out-of-place, echoing the elusive cultural distance that Greek tragedy itself holds for us, central and unknowable at the same time. notes See Kovacs, this volume, 296. See Kovacs, this volume, 299–300. See Marshall, this volume, 19–20, 21. See Marshall, this volume, 14–20, on the City Dionysia’s competition conventions as well as a discussion of this volume’s plays in competition. 5 Zenega, “The Total Theater Aesthetic Paradigm.” 6 See Béraud, 350 ans de theatre, and Whittaker, Setting the Stage. In addition to portraying Sophocles’s Oedipus on film in 1967 and Jason to Dame Judith Anderson’s 1 2 3 4

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9 10 11 12 13

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Medea in 1955, Plummer regularly trod the boards in plays from the repertoire, particularly Shakespearean comedies and tragedies; he also made a notable Cyrano de Bergerac in Rostand’s play of the same name. Marshall, “Greek Drama in Canada.” Classically inspired plays include Amphitryon 38 by Giraudoux (in 1947 by the mrt and in the summer of 1955 at the Brae Manor Playhouse); The Plea of Orpheus by Negro Theatre Arts Club member Val Ford in 1965; Maxim Mazumdar’s 1978 solo, Dance for Gods; Harry Standjofski’s 1992 Atreus; Paul Van Dyck’s The Cyclops (2004); Suzie Bastien’s The Medea Effect (Talisman Theatre, 2012); and Sophie Gee/Nervous Hunter’s The Phaedra Project (No! I! Don’t! Want! To! Fall! In! Love! With! You!) (2013). Schryburt, De l’acteur vedette. The English-language feminist theatre in Montreal is Imago Théâtre. Michel Tremblay, quoted in Proulx, “Le Theâtre comme métaphore,” 51. See also Bélanger and Paul, “Famille et fatalité.” Gravy Bath Production, “Gayanashagowa.” Radz, “Gravy Bath.”

 Greek Tragedy in Fifth-Century Athens hallie marshall

Scripted theatre in the Western tradition began in Greece on the cusp of the classical period (late sixth century bce). While our sources for the early history of Greek theatre are unreliable, ascribing the invention of tragedy variously at times to Arion of Methymna or Epigenes of Sicyon or Thespis, they are unified in their description of plays developing out of choral performance traditions through the addition of speaking characters. Aristotle’s Poetics (1449a) describes theatre in the fifth century bce as being in flux, with innovations such as the addition of a second speaking actor (ascribed to Aeschylus), and then a third actor and scene painting (ascribed to Sophocles), but eventually achieving a relatively fixed form. The evidence of surviving texts supports this view of an art form developing and evolving over time. Aeschylus’s Persians (472 bce) seems to have been produced in a theatre without a skēnē (stage building), as suggested by the fact that no character enters or exits a building, but Aeschylus’s Oresteia, staged fourteen years later in 458 bce, makes extensive use of the stage building, opening with a watchman on the palace roof and using entrances and exits through the skēnē doors as significant moments in the action.1 Like the development of any new art form – for example, film over the course of the twentieth century – Greek drama engaged in experiments that helped to establish the parameters of the different genres and their performance conventions, while at the same time pushing those same boundaries.

City Dionysia Festival Wherever tragedy and comedy first originated in Greece, in the fifth century bce, Athens and its annual City Dionysia festival was the most prestigious venue for theatre. The City Dionysia (also referred to as the Greater Dionysia) was a religious festival in honour of the god Dionysus, held towards

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the middle of the month Elaphebolion (late March to early April in our calendar). The City Dionysia coincided with longer and warmer days, the first new crops of the year, and the opening of the seas (seafaring in the Mediterranean was dangerous in the winter months). As a result, by the time the plays in this volume were staged, the festival served not only to honour the god Dionysus, but also as a site for diplomatic exchanges and commercial trade, as well as celebratory feasting after the lean winter months. People came to the festival from around the Greek world, with colonies and allies bringing tribute, merchants bringing goods for trade, and almost certainly a variety of performers (everything from sophists to acrobats) showing off their skills in festival-adjacent settings.2 Preparations for the City Dionysia occupied almost a full calendar year. Organization of the festival was part of the duties of the “eponymous archon,” a civic official selected for a year-long term to carry out various duties on behalf of the city-state or polis. The archon was responsible for selecting which poets would be granted a chorus, and thus the privilege of performing in the City Dionysia, and he also appointed the chorēgoi, wealthy Athenian citizens who funded the performances at the festivals through “liturgies,” a form of taxation by the city-state. The polis covered certain costs, such as payments to the didaskaloi who produced/directed the productions and who, for tragedy, were typically the poets who wrote the plays, as well as to the three actors who played all the speaking roles, and the aulos players (the aulos was an ancient wind instrument that looked like a double flute and was the primary musical accompaniment for ancient Greek drama). The chorēgoi were responsible for costs associated with the extended period of training, including feeding and housing the chorus members, costumes, masks, and other production elements specific to the play or plays that they were funding. Plutarch tells us that the combined costs of these dramatic productions to the state and the chorēgoi was remarkable, writing in his Moralia (349a), “If the cost of the production of each drama was reckoned, the Athenian people would appear to have spent more on the production of Bacchaes and Phoenician Women and Oedipuses and the misfortunes of Medeas and Electras than they did on maintaining their empire and fighting for their liberty against the Persians.”3 The comic chorēgoi funded a single comedy each, while the tragic chorēgoi each funded a tetralogy of plays (three tragedies and a satyr play). The process by which

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poets and chorus members were selected, actors allotted, and each poet assigned to an individual chorēgos is unclear. But whatever the process, preparations were taken very seriously, and rehearsals lasted the better part of the year. In a world where everyone had grown up performing choral dance as part of the cultural fabric of their society, these performances were designed to showcase the best Athenian choristers in performances that were physically, aurally, and visually spectacular, and the chorēgoi provided the resources that made those displays possible. While this volume focuses on the plays performed at the City Dionysia, it is worth having a sense of the festival in its entirety, from the opening pompē (parade) to the closing kōmos (celebratory revelry). Dramatic performances occupied the majority of the festival days, but the festival was not exclusively theatrical. The City Dionysia began with the pompē, which may have been the biggest event both in terms of participants and viewers. Csapo has described the event as, “riotous, creative and colourful. It may also have been the most intensely musical event in ancient Greece, with even more chorus than the lyric and dramatic contests that followed.”4 The performances in competition were limited to formally selected participants (chorus members, actors, aulos players, etc.). The pompē, on the other hand, provided the opportunity for much broader participation, including not only those performing in the festival competitions and Athenian citizens with formal roles in the procession, but also visitors from allied city-states and Athenian colonies, who processed in festival-appropriate costumes with sacrificial animals and phallic objects (vase paintings indicate these might range from a tree-sized phallus used as a parade float to phallus-tipped sticks and phallic costume items that could be worn on the head or nose), singing and dancing along the parade route.5 According to the aetiological myth, the pompē re-enacted the afflictions cast upon the Athenians by Dionysus for failing to embrace his worship (unpleasantly persistent erections in the myth of Pegasus and drunkenness in the related myth of Icarus).6 These myths surely set the tone for the event, and we have testimonia of participants in the procession engaging in ritual abuse and at times displaying physical aggression.7 Csapo estimates that at the height of the Athenian empire the pompē alone would have involved hundreds of sacrificial animals and at least 8,000 participants, to say nothing of the thousands of spectators who would have lined the processional route to watch.8 The

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pompē not only marked the formal beginning of the festival but it also served to bring together the Athenian population and foreign visitors as a collective body in an appropriate frame of mind for worshipping Dionysus. The procession entered the city, probably through the Dipylon, the main city gate, and passed through the agora, the civic heart of the ancient city, stopping for choral dances in various locations. It then made its way to the sanctuary of Dionysus on the south slope of the Acropolis (the route is uncertain) accompanying the effigy of the god to his ritual home, possibly setting it up in the theatre so that Dionysus could watch the performances in his honour, and delivering the offerings, which included a sacrificial bull. The theatre itself seems to have been purified with the sacrifice of a piglet, with offerings of wine (libations) being poured out onto the ground by the generals (stratēgoi). These ritual actions were accompanied by others which, rather than being rooted in religious practices, were instead about civic display and celebration, as well as a performative display of the power and wealth of the Athenian empire. Athenian citizens were awarded crowns for extraordinary benefactions of one sort or another to the polis. The children of Athenian citizens who had died in war were brought before the audience and praised. And the tribute from city-states controlled by or otherwise allied with Athens was displayed in the theatre orchestra. As with all other parts of the festival, worship of Dionysus and ritual practice were intertwined with civic pride, politics, and propaganda. Like all Greek festivals, the City Dionysia was an occasion for competition. It was somewhat unusual because the competitions were exclusively artistic, with no athletic competitions. The ordering of events and performances within the festival is a matter of speculation but we know that the central competitive events were the dithyrambs, the tragic tetralogies, and Old Comedy. Dithyrambs were choral performances of songs composed and choreographed for the occasion, which were primarily mythic in content but also contained praise of those associated with the performance – city-state, tribe, poet, and conceivably individuals such as the chorēgoi. A thousand Athenians performed in the dithyrambs on behalf of their tribe, with each of the ten tribes being represented by a men’s chorus with fifty members and a boys’ chorus of the same size. There were three tragic tetralogies, each consisting of three tragedies and a satyr play. But although we are certain about the number of performances for the dithyrambic and tragic competitions, there is some uncertainty regarding Old Comedy, with evidence suggesting that

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the number of plays was reduced from five to three over the course of the fifth century bce. However the performances of the different genres were scheduled, it was an all-day affair. Each festival day seems to have begun early in the morning, taking advantage of cooler temperatures, and performances continued throughout the day, with breaks to accommodate both the needs of the audiences and those of the production teams. The performances were judged by a panel of ten Athenians (one from each tribe) who were selected by lot at the beginning of the festival. The voting system was such that not all votes were counted, only enough to provide a clear first through third ranking, a system that perhaps functioned to give the god a hand in the outcome.9 The festival closed with the awarding of prizes and the kōmos, the celebratory revelry.

The Theatre of Dionysus As indicated in the opening paragraph, the conventions of tragedy evolved over the course of the fifth century bce, but by the time the plays in this volume were staged many conventions were relatively fixed. Plays were performed in the Theatre of Dionysus located in the sanctuary dedicated to the god, with a temple located behind the skēnē and, from the mid-fifth century onwards, an odeon built by Pericles located at the entrance nearest the Street of the Tripods, where victory monuments from previous competitions were on display. The physical theatre (seating, stage building, and associated items such as the mēchanē, a crane device) was not a constant feature of the cityscape in fifth-century Athens, but rather part of the festival landscape. The stone theatre, the remains of which are still visible, was first built in the fourth century bce and continued to be altered through the Roman period. In the fifth century bce, the theatre building and seating were made of wood, and the task of installing this infrastructure each year fell to men known as the theatropolai (theatre-sellers) or theatronai (theatre-buyers).10 These men were given rights to set up the theatre and then recouped their costs, and perhaps made money, from the sale of tickets. The assembly of the theatre, like the erection of a modern fairground, will undoubtedly have been an annual marker of the encroaching festival and part of a city-wide burst of preparatory activity. The theatre consisted of three central areas: the theatron, the seating area for the audience; the orchēstra, a performance space between the seating area

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and the stage building that was the primary location for the chorus; and the skēnē, the stage building, which in the fifth century seems to have consisted of a wooden stage elevated slightly above the orchestra level, though connected to the orchestra via a short flight of stairs, and a stage building that had one large central door.11 While the stone theatres that have survived, particularly the spectacular theatre of Epidaurus, the best-preserved ancient theatre in mainland Greece, have created an iconic image of the shape of the ancient Greek theatre, the Theatre of Dionysus in the fifth century bce would have borne little resemblance to these structures with their cascading stone seats leading down to a circular orchestra. The wooden seating would have created a rectangular orchestra, a shape that we see also in the oldest extant stone theatre in Attica, the theatre at Thoricus, near Cape Sounion, which dates to the fifth century bce. While Aristotle tells us that Sophocles introduced scene painting (skēnographia), there is no indication as to what is meant by this term. It might suggest the introduction of a generic painted backdrop in front of which all the performances took place in any given year, or that painted backdrops specific to each play were introduced. Many Greek tragedies, though by no means all, share a common location; the primary action of the play takes place in the public space immediately in front of the palace occupied by characters in the play. Like Shakespearean drama, ancient Greek theatre relied primarily upon language rather than sets or costumes to convey the specific setting of a play to its audience. That is not to say, however, that the Greek theatre was uninterested in the creation of spectacular theatrical effects, as the plays in this volume amply demonstrate. We know of two pieces of stage machinery introduced of the course of the fifth century whose purpose was theatrical display: the ekkyklēma and the mēchanē. The ekkyklēma was a low platform that could be wheeled out through the central doors of the skēnē, revealing interior scenes. So in Aeschylus’s Oresteia, first staged in 458 bce, at the end of the first two plays in the trilogy – Agamemnon and Libation Bearers – we get mirrored scenes, in which the ekkyklēma is wheeled out of the palace to reveal a tableau of a murderer standing over the bodies of her or his victims, visually reinforcing the cyclical nature of a vengeance-based justice system. The second machine was the mēchanē, used for scenes such as the deus ex machina which concludes many extant tragedies, flying in a god to bring a divine resolution to the action. The first evidence for its use is Euripides’s Medea, staged in 431

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bce, where it was used for spectacular effect to facilitate Medea’s escape in her serpent-pulled chariot.12 The size of the fifth-century bce Theatre of Dionysus is a source of significant scholarly debate. Plato, who is our only ancient source to provide a number, writes in his Symposium (175e) of 30,000 Greeks seeing the wisdom of the poet Agathon. On the other hand, the archaeological evidence, despite its deficiencies, makes clear that the fifth-century theatre could hold only a fraction of this number. Recent scholarship suggests an audience of 3,700– 5,000, but there is no consensus on the seating capacity of the fifth-century theatre.13 It might be possible to reconcile these numbers if what is preserved in Plato was the number of tickets available for the entire festival rather than the seating for a single day. But no matter how many seats were available, it is clear that there were not enough to accommodate more than a small portion of the Athenian population, let alone visitors from elsewhere. We have some evidence for people watching from informal viewing locations, with references to the “view from the trees” suggesting that some watched from the area above where the wooden bleachers ended. The gap between potential audience members and available seating (even the upper-end estimates that most scholars believe to be reasonable would not have accommodated all of the participants in the pompē) suggests that there must have been some system of ticketing to determine who would be granted admission to the theatre on any given day. As mentioned earlier, the performances stretched over the course of the day, so the system of admission would also have needed to allow for audience members to leave the theatre during breaks in the program to attend to necessary bodily functions (we can be quite certain that thousands of people were not relieving themselves within the theatre or the larger Sanctuary of Dionysus) and probably getting refreshments as well. At some point in the mid-fifth century, a charge for attending the performances was introduced. Sommerstein gives a ticket price of two obols per day (noting that six obols was a good daily wage).14 In the second half of the fourth century bce, the Theoric Fund was established to subsidize the cost of the festival for Athenian citizens, but there is evidence that the practice of providing subsidies dates to the fifth century, perhaps coinciding with the introduction of admission fees.15 As Rhodes notes, charging for admission was unusual for a religious festival.16 We ought to consider whether the performances themselves were considered an integral part of the worship

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of Dionysus Eleuthereus, or whether they were seen to be a peripheral by-product of the religious worship of the god. Easter dinner feasts, for example, are for many people peripheral events of the celebration of Easter in the Christian calendar, Santa Claus parades peripheral to Christmas. The central religious event, and opportunity for free time and communal gathering, gives rise to collective celebrations that are adjacent to, but not required for, the ritual observance. Certainly, the not-insignificant admission fee will have impacted who attended the theatre, with most attendees being men, both citizen and non-citizen residents of Athens and the surrounding area of Attica, as well as male visitors from elsewhere. There has been significant scholarly debate as to whether women were able to attend the theatre.17 The general consensus is that while some women, children, and slaves may have been in attendance, the ideal audience for whom the poets composed their plays was the adult male, citizen or non-citizen, who had sufficient standing as to participate in polis affairs. While it is possible to keep this idealized audience, at whom any political messages were primarily directed, in mind when we are considering the plays in the original context of performance, we should probably think of theatre audiences in the plural. While all audiences are heterogeneous in one way or another, in fifth-century Athens there were discrete groups who would have engaged with the performances in different ways. At all festivals (from the small Rural Dionysias held in areas of Attica outside of Athens, to the Dionysian Lenaea festival held in early spring, to the international City Dionysia) there would have been a local audience for whom many of those participating in the performances would have been friends and family. And indeed, many audience members will have in some way contributed to the festival preparations. When the dithyrambic teams representing specific tribes entered the performance spaces, we can be certain that they were met with cheers from their fellow tribesmen in the audience. Similarly, audience members likely cheered for their favourite poets, actors, and aulos players. The ancient anecdotes make clear that fifth-century theatre audiences were boisterous, readily sharing their opinions on a performance, whether it was encouraging the judges to vote a certain way or hissing an actor whose performance was deemed lacking. Inevitably these immediate responses will have shaped the reception of the plays.

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The Plays Three genres of plays were performed at the City Dionysia – tragedy, satyr plays, and Old Comedy – each of which had its own conventions. While Old Comedy was explicitly political and deeply engaged with the affairs of the polis, satyr plays, which were bawdy in tone, dealt exclusively with the realm of myth, as did tragedy, with rare exceptions. While we have one extant tragedy that deals with historical events – Aeschylus’s Persians, which tells the story of the defeat of the Persians in the Battle of Salamis – tragedy typically found its stories in myth, drawing in particular on the stories related to the Trojan War or to the city of Thebes. The audiences for tragedies would have been familiar with these stories from the epic poems that they had grown up with, and which were regularly performed in Athens by rhapsodes, who specialized in reciting epic poetry as part of the Panathenaic Festival, as well as through other art forms. And many stories were deployed by more than one tragedian, or in different iterations by the same poet. So, for example, we know of other Oedipus plays that dealt with the story of the death of Laius and the marriage of Oedipus and Jocasta, and we know that there were other Medea tragedies as well. It was not new stories that drew audiences, but rather the question of how poets would tell the old stories. And, of course, it helped that the ancient Greeks had no sense of the fixedness of the narratives. Many mythic stories existed in multiple versions that at times conflicted with one another. This mutability of narrative and detail also meant that stories could be changed. So, for example, Medea’s act of infanticide seems to have originated in Euripides’s tragedy. In other variants of the myth, the children of Jason and Medea also die but either because the Corinthians killed them in vengeance or as the result of a terrible accident stemming from a misunderstood oracle.18 While both tragedy and epic tell the stories of the heroes and gods, tragic versions of these myths differ from their epic sources in how they are told (dramatic performance versus narration), their time frame, and their geographic scope. Typically, as with all three plays in this volume, the action takes place in a single location. As discussed previously, this is most often a palace represented by the skēnē. Action necessary to the plot of the play that occurs elsewhere is reported via a messenger’s speech, as with the death of Jocasta inside the palace in Oedipus or the death of Creon and his daughter

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in Medea. This unity of location was not, however, a fixed rule, as demonstrated by Eumenides, the third play in Aeschylus’s Oresteia, in which the action of the play shifts from Delphi to Athens. And whereas epic covered extended periods of time, the action of Greek tragedy unfolds over the course of a single day. During that day, a character’s fortunes will undergo a reversal (generally from good to bad, but it can also go from bad to good, as in Euripides’s Helen). In Aristotle’s opinion, the best tragedies combined the reversal of fortune with a moment of recognition (Poetics 1452a22–3), as when Oedipus realizes in a single moment that he is the murderer of Laius, and that Laius was his biological father.19 Not only has he fulfilled the oracular prophecy that he would kill his father and marry his mother, but in an instant, he has gone from being the man who saved Thebes from the scourge of the Sphinx to being the man who polluted the city through patricide and incest and who must go into exile. We should keep in mind that at any given City Dionysia, the tragic poets who were competing composed not just a single tragedy but a set of three tragedies and a satyr play. What was being judged was not Euripides’s Medea but rather the entire tetralogy to which it belonged, which we know placed third in competition in 431 bce.20 Sophocles’s Oedipus tetralogy did not win either, instead earning Sophocles one of his rare second-place finishes. Likewise, an actor was being judged not just on his performance of the role of Oedipus, but rather his performances across the tetralogy. Our only extant tragic trilogy, Aeschylus’s Oresteia, consists of three interconnected plays that tell the story of the murder of Agamemnon by his wife Clytemnestra (Agamemnon), the murder of Clytemnestra by her son Orestes as an act of vengeance on behalf of his dead father (Libation Bearers), and the two competing systems of justice for Orestes in response to the matricide – pursuit by the chthonic Furies and trial by jury (Eumenides). This interconnected chronological narrative across the three tragedies appears, however, to be atypical. While we have no other plays that we know were performed together as part of the same set, the titles of plays and other information about their content suggest that the normal practice was to have three tragedies plus a satyr play that each engaged with a different myth. It is, of course, possible that there were thematic links across these plays, but our evidence is so limited that we cannot do more than speculate. Of the hundreds of dramatists who were active in the fifth century bce and the thousands of plays that they composed, fewer than forty plays survive, composed by just six poets.

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We have eleven Old Comedies by Aristophanes, six tragedies by Aeschylus plus one attributed to him – Prometheus Bound – which is almost certainly by another author, seven tragedies by Sophocles, and sixteen tragedies and one satyr play by Euripides, plus an additional tragedy – Rhesus – attributed to him, but which appears to be the work of a fourth-century bce author.21 Other plays and playwrights are represented by fragments that range in size from almost complete plays, as is the case with Sophocles’s satyr play Ichneutae, to single words.

Theatre and Politics It has often been claimed that there is a link between Athenian democracy and Greek drama, largely because of the pre-eminence of the City Dionysia as a theatrical event in the fifth century bce and because of the abundance of texts and evidence associated with that festival. As scholars have turned their attention to other performance contexts, however, it has become clear that theatre was popular in non-democratic contexts as well.22 That is not to deny a political function for ancient Greek drama, but instead points to the malleability of the political function of Greek theatre. There is nothing inherently democratic about it, and framing plays in ways that shore up political ideology functions equally well in a democracy as in an autocracy. Part of the lasting appeal of Greek tragedy has been the degree to which the veil of myth allows for the ancient plays to be grafted on to new conversations in different times and places. That appears to have been at least part of how it managed to flourish in ancient Greece in the radical democracy of fifth-century Athens, but also in contexts such as Macedon under a monarchical system of governance or under the tyrants of Sicily.

The Performers There were four kinds of performers in ancient Greek tragedy: the twelve or fifteen chorus members, who were amateur performers drawn from the Athenian citizen population (choreutai);23 professional actors, who performed all the non-choral speaking roles; silent characters performed by extras; and professional musicians (aulos players). It is possible that we should add a fifth category for the herald, who would make festival announcements, as prizes for heralds appear in festival records in later periods. For reasons

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that are unclear, though possibly rooted in the profound misogyny of fifthcentury Athenian society, these performers were all men. Like all other aspects of ancient Greek theatre, the role of these performers shifted over the course of the fifth century bce. We are told that in the early fifth century, poets performed in their own plays, though this practice gradually gave way to professionalization of the actors. As part of this trend, prizes for tragic actors were introduced in 449 bce. The increased professionalization, along with the prestige of acting prizes, seems to have also led to the rise of star performers. As theatre spread throughout the Greek world, the use of professional actors will have provided the opportunity to bring famous actors from other city-states to perform for Athenian audiences. The festival also afforded the opportunity to bring famous musicians from other parts of Greece; for example, the Theban aulos player Pronomos is known to have performed in Athens and was in demand throughout the Greek world.24 Through this use of professional performers, the City Dionysia represented an opportunity for Athenians and their guests to see the pre-eminent actors and musicians of the day, while at the same time showcasing the talents of the Athenian choreutai performing alongside them, and the Athenian poets who wrote most of the plays.

Role-Sharing The actors were paid for by the polis, with three actors being allotted to each poet, the so-called “rule-of-three-actors.” This limit meant that actors had to play multiple roles within a single play, with changes in character facilitated by costume and mask changes, and performative changes in voice and body. While there is disagreement among scholars as to the extent to which audience members were able to identify actors beneath their masks and costumes and therefore track the actor and his roles through the entire play, the breakdown of actors and their roles in many plays seem to suggest that poets used the practice of role-sharing as a dramatic tool. For example, in Euripides’s Bacchae, the actor who played the role of Pentheus would also have played the role of his mother, Agave.25 Thus, when Agave holds aloft the decapitated head of Pentheus at the end of the play, the actor is in all probability holding up the mask that he himself had worn earlier in the play. While the scene works dramatically even if the audience does not recognize

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that the actor, costumed as one character, is holding the mask of his other role in the play, the scene provides an additional level of metatheatrical enjoyment if the connection is made. The metatheatrical nature of this scene extends beyond the boundaries of the play itself, with the mise en scène of an actor holding his mask in one hand while gazing at it evoking the images that we see on a number of Greek vases, including the Pronomos vase, of actors pre- or post-performance in the same pose. This would continue the metatheatrical streak that seems to run through the entire play, which we first encounter with the Dionysiac costuming of Cadmus and Tiresias, and which continues with the cross-dressing disguise scene of Pentheus.

Costumes Audience members at the Dionysia would have been able to identify the genre of play they were watching simply by looking at the costumes. Each of the three dramatic genres performed at the Dionysia had its own distinct costuming conventions that closely aligned with the tone of the performance. Satyr costumes consisted of only tight-fitting shorts (depicted on the Pronomos vase as furry, but in other vase paintings as patterned fabric) with a horse tail attached to the back and a small erect phallus on the front, and a bearded mask with dark hair and slightly pointy ears. Performers of Old Comedy wore padded body suits that extended to the wrists and ankles, and which had exaggerated bellies and buttocks, as well as a large dangling phallus. Masks were similarly exaggerated and are often described as grotesque; neither men nor women were attractive.26 While costumes for Old Comedy choruses might be elaborate (birds, clouds, wasps, for example), costumes for central characters were average everyday Athenian clothing, generally a chiton (a tunic-like garment of varying lengths) and a himation (a cloak). Tragic costumes, on the other hand, were made from elaborately woven fabrics, and most heroic characters seem to have been dressed in gowns made from this fabric that covered the entire body (down to the wrists and ankles) – again, see images on the Pronomos vase.27 Non-heroic characters, such as the shepherd in Oedipus Tyrannus, likely appeared in ordinary clothing. Playwrights of course could, and did, play with these conventions for dramatic effect. Aristophanes, in his Old Comedy Acharnians (393–479 bce), mocks Euripides’s penchant for bringing on stage

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noble characters dressed in rags. In addition to marking genre and social class, costume could also be used to mark a character’s Greekness or lack thereof. In Euripides’s Medea, for example, the poet does not emphasize Medea’s barbarian background, instead casting her in very Greek, if masculine, terms. We can assume that Medea’s costume in this play also worked to highlight her ties to the Greek world and was that of a Greek tragic heroine. But evidence, such as the Cleveland Medea vase, suggests that other ancient Greek playwrights foregrounded her foreignness, putting her on stage in a distinctly Eastern costume. This should be tied to the earlier discussion of a poet’s ability to manipulate a familiar myth. This manipulation could take place not only at the level of the narrative, but also through performance elements such as costume, which function in part to shape an audience’s interpretation of what they are seeing on stage. The descriptions in our extant plays make clear that there was no standard costume for the tragic chorus. The range of possibilities for choral costumes is pointed to in the three plays in this volume. The chorus of Oedipus consists of the men who are citizen elders of Thebes, the chorus of Medea the citizen women of Corinth, and in Bacchae the chorus is composed of the women followers of Dionysus. Our visual evidence for the costumes of ancient Greek tragedy is limited to two vases: the Kiev vase from Olbia Pontica, which depicts musicians and what appears to be a female chorus, and the Basel Dancers vase, which appears to depict a chorus of young male soldiers.28 The costumes on these vases suggest that the choral costumes of tragedy were tailored to the particular identity of the chorus, but that, at least for certain classes of characters such as citizens, the fabric used in the costumes bore elaborate weaving patterns which, while less detailed than the fabric of the heroic characters, still marked it as a tragic costume. We should assume that both the citizen choruses of Oedipus and Medea wore costumes that reflected clothing typically worn by Greek citizens of their respective genders, but that the pattern of the weaving marked them as tragic. We have no evidence as to whether this was also true for non-citizen costumes, such as those worn by the slave chorus of Aeschylus’s Libation Bearers, who are described as wearing “dark clothes of mourning” in the text, but for which we have no visual evidence that might provide additional details of the costumes. In Euripides’s Bacchae, the chorus will have been dressed in Dionysiac costumes, their loose hair crowned with ivy and fawn-skins over their flowing dresses, which

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themselves may have been patterned with an ivy design appropriate to the god. And like some of our other extant choruses, they were carrying props (the thyrsus in this case: Dionysian staffs topped with pinecones and often dangling ivy, but jugs holding libations in Aeschylus’s Libation Bearers), which will have been an essential part of at least some of their choral dances. Costumes and their related stage properties will have served multiple functions ranging from marking genre and identifying a character or the chorus, to working as part of the visual design of the production through the colours and movement of the fabrics. Costumes should not be thought of as simply being decorative, but also as being an integral part of the visual impact of the performance and thus able to be manipulated in meaningful ways by the production team. An essential part of the tragic costume was the mask. Our evidence indicates that all performers, except for the musicians, both speaking and nonspeaking, wore masks. Ancient Greek theatrical masks covered the entire head, with a full face-covering and attached wig. They were made of linen using a technique akin to a papier-mâché, layering linen and glue over a mould and then painting it. Wigs would be made from human hair, likely sourced from slaves. There were two basic variables to these masks: gender and age (youth, middle-aged, old), with features such as skin colour, hair style and colour, and the presence or absence of a beard being used as signifiers of each. This provides six basic mask types that could accommodate most characters on the tragic stage, but that could also be altered for characters whose appearance was atypical in some way.29 To use an example from this volume, in Euripides’s Bacchae, Pentheus would wear the mask of a beardless young man, Cadmus and Tiresias the masks of bearded whitehaired old men, the messenger a bearded dark-haired mask indicating a middle-aged man, and Agave the mask of a middle-aged woman. The description of Dionysus given in the text suggests that his mask was atypical, being beardless with flowing blond hair (456–60). If Oedipus changed his mask after blinding himself, as some scholars believe, this would provide another example of a unique mask made for a specific character. As with other aspects of costuming, masks appear to have been somewhat standardized, which helped the audience to interpret the performance before them but which could also be manipulated for dramatic effect.

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Music Ancient Greek theatre was musical theatre. As discussed earlier, the polis paid the costs of hiring a professional aulos player for each poet in competition, and the musicians who performed were famous beyond the borders of Attica. The music and the musicians were in no way a secondary part of the performance, but rather should be seen as a central pillar. The aulos player himself was a prominent figure in the performance space, present from the beginning to the end of the performance. Vase paintings make clear that the aulos player wore an elaborately patterned gown, which marked his formal role within the performances alongside the actors and the chorus. Visual depictions of non-dramatic choral performance indicate that an aulos player would normally be positioned in close physical proximity to the dancers, suggesting that in the Theatre of Dionysus, the aulos player was likely positioned centrally in the orchestra, which would also have had acoustic benefits. As with costumes and masks, each dramatic genre will have been musically distinct, a reality that is reflected in their poetry through the metres used and the register of the language. Tragedy is the most poetically elevated of the genres (though we should avoid terms like “highbrow,” as this was very much popular culture and the genres sat comfortably alongside one another in the festival). But whereas in comedy music was used to underscore the humorous potential of Greek poetry, in tragedy it worked hand in hand with the language for emotional impact, with both choral songs and the sung lyrics of the central characters creating an emotional soundscape for the plays. Unfortunately, ancient Greek tragedies have come down to us only as texts, and even those are often problematic. For the most part they preserve only the words spoken, often indicating a change of speaker but not which character the lines should be attributed to. There is no musical score to accompany the words, nor any stage directions.30 In some cases, such as the end of Bacchae, the text that has come down to us has incurred significant damage over the millennia and part of the play has been irrevocably lost. All of our extant tragedies have suffered from the inevitable scribal errors that come from being copied and recopied by hand for centuries, not to mention the deliberate alterations made for performances from the fifth century bce onward. While Oliver Taplin’s pioneering scholarship in the 1970s opened the door to scholars reading the texts for what they can tell us about ancient

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tragedy in its original performance context, and his subsequent work has brought material culture to bear on these questions as well, there is still far more that is unknown about the performances of ancient Greek theatre at the City Dionysia than what is known. Despite a tradition of scholarship that stretches back to ancient Alexandria, there is still work to be done. But of course, there is also much that is simply unrecoverable, some of which would have been at the very heart of the festival experience for the ancient theatregoer. Presumably there were stalls set up for the occasion that sold food to the throngs who were going to the theatre or simply enjoying the festival environment. We will never know the aromas of the festival or which foods and goods were eagerly anticipated. We know that the performances were announced as part of an event called the proagōn (literally “pre-contest”) the day before the festival began, but we can capture nothing of the whispers of anticipation of seeing new plays by a famous poet, or the conspiratorial whispers as to whether the judges had been bribed or were otherwise inappropriately favouring one team over another. The plays come down to us detached not only from their tetralogies but also from the larger festival experience, despite the fact that it was the festival that provided the ritual context and Dionysiac atmosphere for their original audience. notes 1 See Taplin, The Stagecraft of Aeschylus. 2 On non-formal festival entertainments, see Slater, “Deconstructing Festivals.” 3 Translation by Csapo and Slater, The Context of Ancient Drama. For an argument that military funding was the primary financial priority of fifth-century Athens, see Pritchard, “Costing Festivals and Wars.” 4 Csapo, “The Dionysian Parade,” 1. It should be noted that Csapo is arguing (convincingly) against those who describe the pompē with adjectives such as “solemn” and “dignified,” which has been the traditional scholarly view. 5 For discussion of the phallic imagery of the pompē and images on vase paintings, see ibid., 10–13. See also Csapo, “The Earliest Phase.” 6 Ibid., 77 and note 52 for sources. 7 Ibid., 61–3. 8 Csapo, “The Dionysian Parade,” 30. 9 On the voting system, see Marshall and van Willigenberg, “Judging Athenian Dramatic Competitions.” 10 Csapo, “The Men Who Built the Theatres.” 11 On performance spaces in Classical Athens, see Wiles, Tragedy in Athens. 12 See this volume, Kozak, “Medea,” 31, 34, Yoon, 103, 104n18, and Kovacs, 290. See also Wyles, “Staging Medea,” 59–61, for further discussion of the chariot.

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13 For 3,700, see Dawson, “The Theatrical Audience,” 7–8. Csapo, “The Dionysian Parade,” suggests a range of 4,000–7,000 and provides a summary of the ranges suggested by other scholars. For a summary of the archaeological evidence for the early theatre, see Rupprecht, “Archaeological Appendix.” 14 Sommerstein, Greek Drama and Dramatists, 5. 15 See Roselli, “Theorika in Fifth-Century Athens.” 16 Rhodes, “Nothing to Do with Democracy,” 111. 17 See Podlecki, “Could Women Attend”; Henderson, “Women”; Goldhill, “Representing Democracy.” Kovacs, this volume, 302n18, follows Roselli, Theatre of the People, in arguing for a more diverse audience. 18 On the variant versions of the Medea myth, see Mastronarde, Euripides: Medea, 44–70, and Gantz, Early Greek Myth, 371–3. See also Kovacs, this volume, 287. 19 For more on Aristotle on recognition and reversal in this volume, see Fletcher, 188, Kozak, “Oedipus,” 198, and Sampson, 274. 20 See also Hurley and Kozak, 4, Yoon, 98, and Kovacs, 298, for playwrights’ placing in competition. 21 See also Kovacs, this volume, 283, for the number of extant tragedies. 22 See for example, Bosher, Theatre Outside of Athens, as well as Csapo and Wilson, “The Politics of Greece’s Theatrical Revolution.” 23 On the question of the size of the chorus, see Sansone, “The Size of the Tragic Chorus.” 24 See Wilson, “Pronomos and Potamon.” 25 For further discussion on the stagecraft of Pentheus and Agave being played by the same actor, see Fletcher, this volume, 185. 26 On the costumes of Old Comedy, see Compton-Engle, Costumes. 27 On tragic costumes, see Wyles, Costume in Greek Tragedy. 28 On vase illustrations of tragedy more generally, see Taplin, Pots & Plays. 29 On fifth-century masking conventions, see Marshall, “Some Fifth-Century Masking Conventions.” 30 We have at least three papyri that preserve different aspects of performance that are not typically present in our texts. Vienna Papyrus G 2315 preserves a small fragment from Euripides’s Orestes that contains musical notation. The P. Oxy fragments of Sophocles’s Ichneutae contain an extrametrical notation that seems to be a notation for an offstage sound effect. And P. Oxy 4546 seems to come from a rehearsal script for Euripides’s Alcestis.



Medea

 Scapegoat Carnivale’s Medea lynn kozak

There are well over a thousand entries under Medea in the Archive of Performances of Greek and Roman Drama database,1 marking it as the most popular of all Greek tragedies in its reception. While Kovacs’s chapter in this volume points to the play’s lasting influence and popularity in antiquity,2 this section will look at how Scapegoat Carnivale approached their 2010 production, and how that production fits into the broader context of contemporary performance. As Yoon’s essay in this volume says, Medea focuses on “an established marriage that had suddenly become a political liability with serious ramifications for both existing and future children.”3 This essential plot point places the play at the intersection of the domestic and the political. Moreover, Medea’s ending sees the collision of human and divine elements, as Medea escapes her fate with the help of her grandfather, the sun god Helios, when he lends her his chariot.4 These disparate yet perfectly entwined aspects of the play allow for an extraordinary diversity of responses: those that focus on political scenarios, those that home in on the domestic drama, those that fixate on Medea’s relationship with the divine and the supernatural, and those that combine any of the above, with varying levels of “fidelity” to Euripides’s extant text. Scapegoat Carnivale balances these elements without leaning too hard on any one of them. Company member Andreas Apergis first suggested that the group turn towards Greek tragedy. Its mandate to “produce both new works and adaptations from the classical repertoire” had previously produced only one other “classical” play – Pedro Calderón de la Barca’s Life Is a Dream (directed by Alison Darcy, 2009). Apergis’s own Greek background drove his initial interest in the Greek tragedies and inspired the setting for Scapegoat’s version of Medea, which I’ll return to in a moment.

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Medea, written after Pericles’s law that defined an Athenian citizen as having two Athenian parents, raises essential questions about civic identity, the possibility of cultural assimilation, and the risk of disenfranchisement or exile.5 This aspect of Medea has inspired numerous contemporary productions with political overtones that directly take on the notion of belonging within their own cultural context,6 from Alfonse Luis Alfaro’s 2013 adaptation Mojada,7 tackling Mexican immigration in America through its Nahuatl protagonist, to even more explicitly anti-colonial works like Brendan Kennelly’s 1988 Medea, which imagines Medea as an Irish Republican, or Wesley Enoch’s 2000 Black Medea, with an Aboriginal Australian heroine.8 Scapegoat Carnivale took a similarly political context, though not its own, as a point of departure for its production, inspired by the origins of rembetika music, which emerged after the Greek-Turkish population exchange. In 1923, the Convention Concerning the Exchange of Greek and Turkish Populations was signed in Switzerland, resulting in a population exchange that forced at least 1.6 million people from their homes based on their religious identity, resulting in ethnic cleansing on both sides. While the Greek-Turkish population exchange took place more than two millennia after Pericles’s citizenship law, both policies essentially redefined civic identity. As evident throughout this volume, Scapegoat Carnivale takes a unique approach to their adaptations of Greek tragedy. Rather than explicitly historicizing or modernizing the tragedies through adapting the language to reflect a clear place and time, they instead use a historical reference point only as an aesthetic guide for production. For Medea, the Greek-Turkish population exchange set the tone for the play with its rembetika-influenced choral compositions by Brian Lipson, split between the acting-singing chorus of five women and a live bouzouki-led band on the stage’s mezzanine. The costumes, too, reflected the referenced period, with the chorus and the nurse (as well as Medea, at least initially) in dresses and aprons, the tutor and the messengers in traditional vests, and Creon, Jason, and Aegeus in military uniforms. But these costumes, like the minimalist set, were generic enough to create a setting any time in the past couple of hundred years, in any number of places. Finally, as in the original production script and in performance, characters’ names were spoken with modern Greek pronunciation, so “Mithia” for Medea, “Iason” for Jason, and so on. These elements combined to give a sense of historicity and a political background to the play’s events

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but, when coupled with the adaptation’s fidelity to Euripides, did not impose themselves: the play never felt about the Greek-Turkish population exchange. Still, these historically specific shadings within Scapegoat Carnivale’s production created distance between the audience and the action of the play and, at the same time, distance from the most popular form of modern Medeas – productions that make the play a contemporary domestic drama. These productions often freely modernize the script: Rachel Cusk’s 2015 adaptation, directed by Rupert Goold for Almeida Theatre, has its protagonist reminiscing about the early days of her marriage, when Jason owned a bicycle that they would ride together, him standing on the pedals while she sat on the seat. In 2020, Simon Stone directed his own adaptation at bam (Brooklyn Academy of Music), a marital drama between “Anna” and “Lucas” that also responded to the real-world crimes of Debora Green, who killed two of her children and tried to poison her husband. In the words of star Rose Byrne, Stone’s version explored “the banal minutiae of domesticity with a couple and how that works with kids, and moment-to-moment, and life, and the history of that and the patterns and the traumas around that. And that being actually harder to bring to life than bigger, traumatic moments in the play.”9 Byrne played opposite her real-life husband, Bobby Cannavale, lending an extra-textual dimension to their domestic strife in the play. While Scapegoat largely eschewed this kind of contemporary reading, its leads, Andreas Apergis playing Jason and France Rolland playing Medea, were a real-life couple, and their son Thomas Apergis Rolland also played one of their sons onstage. Much of the Centaur Theatre’s audience would have known this, having some familiarity with both actors. It might seem that this approach to Medea as true-to-life contemporary domestic drama depends on a radical adaptation of the text, which Shragge, cleaving close to Euripides in working from a literal translation by Apergis, avoids. But many famous productions that closely follow Euripides’s play also explicitly refuse to understand Medea as more than a spurned wife and mother capable of atrocities. When Deborah Warner directed Fiona Shaw as Medea in a 2001 Abbey Theatre production, using a 1994 translation by Kenneth McLeish and Frederic Raphael, she tried to dismantle “our misplaced image of Medea as a strong, willful, witchy woman,” seeing Medea instead as someone who “spends the play struggling to find the strength to do the deed.”10 Shaw, too, saw her Medea as someone decidedly human: “The play in its

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translated poetry is full of vacillation, and vacillation is very human. If people have chosen to not play that, that’s a pity.”11 The National Theatre’s 2014 production of Medea, directed by Carrie Cracknell, also approaches the character primarily through this vision of its protagonist. As one critic noticed, “the production’s climax seems better suited to modern tastes than Euripides’s original.”12 The set featured two levels, a luxurious domestic setting on the upper level and a forest on the lower. But rather than making use of the mezzanine’s height for Medea, played by the late Helen McCrory, to make her escape on the sun god’s chariot, she leaves the stage on foot through the lower level, carrying the corpses of her children in sleeping bags thrown over her shoulders. This approach contrasts with adaptations and productions that have emphasized Medea’s magical prowess and her connection to the sun god, from Steve Carter’s 1990 Pecong, which sees “Mediyah” as a Caribbean sorceress,13 to Marina Carr’s By the Bog of Cats, whose Irish Traveller protagonist Hester Swane has widely been interpreted as a witch, in part because of her relationship with ghosts, curses, and other supernatural elements throughout the play. But the production that perhaps best captures Medea’s links with supernatural power, particularly in the grandiosity of her exit, is that directed by Yukio Ninagawa in his 1978 Ohjo Media.14 This Japanese-language production, heavily influenced by Kabuki and Nō theatre and featuring men in all its roles, toured globally for years, with over 250 performances. A recording of a 1984 performance showcases the production’s bracing final sequence that sees Medea, spot-lighted, rising high above the set’s monumental palace on a dragon-chariot, red clouds swirling in the backdrop, the bodies of her children streaming red ribbons of blood as she defiantly holds them up for Jason, far below, to see.15 For Medea’s exit, the chariot flies away, back into the field of clouds until it disappears. Scapegoat Carnivale balances these human and superhuman elements in how it presents Medea, with several moments under the direction of Apergis and Alison Darcy suggesting, but not necessarily confirming, the supernatural possibilities that Medea presents. The first hint is Medea’s costume change between lines 395 and 407, when she resolves to unleash evil on Jason and Creon alike, calling on the goddess Hecate and naming herself a descendent of the sun god Helios. Shragge has characterized this change as Medea’s “becoming,” and it offers an interesting riposte to her “human-

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Figure 1 Medea’s (France Rolland) first costume change, with the chorus behind her (Lindsay Wilson, Holly Gauthier-Frankel, Melissa Trottier, Gitanjali Jain, Stefanie Buxton)

ity,” emphasizing her early resolve for revenge as well as her association with divinities to enact it. Later, when Medea is offstage killing the children, as we hear their shouts the theatre blacks out, and then the lights come back up only on the chorus, in a tableau, frozen in silent screams. The moment lasts almost a full minute, and suggests that Medea, or the horrible power of her act, has stopped the world. Lastly, much like the National Theatre production, Scapegoat’s production uses a split-level set, which becomes instrumental in the final third of the play. Once the children are dead and Jason makes his entrance, shouting, to find Medea, the wall connecting the stage floor and the mezzanine comes crashing down; accompanied by the sound of a thousand-pound flat falling, a backdrop of ash, blood, and the sea, an imagistic evocation of Medea’s journey with Jason, is revealed. At the same moment, Medea appears on the mezzanine, triumphant, above the corpses of her children. Once Medea appears above him, Jason’s shouts from below seem increasingly futile. She has changed costume again; a regal blue gown now covers her simple white dress. All these elements add up to

Figure 2 Medea’s Chorus, in silent scream, as Medea kills the children offstage. (Stefanie Buxton, Melissa Trottier, Lindsay Wilson, Holly Gauthier-Frankel, Gitanjali Jain) Figure 3 Opposite top Medea’s set change, with Medea (France Rolland) and the children (Thomas Rolland Apergis and Elijah Flomen) on the mezzanine, and Jason (Andreas Apergis) and the chorus (Gitanjali Jain, Stefanie Buxton, Melissa Trottier, Lindsay Wilson, and Holly Gauthier-Frankel) below. Figure 4 Opposite bottom Medea (France Rolland) triumphant on the mezzanine.

a clever portrait of Medea that balances her as all-too-human and domestic as well as semi-divine. Beyond these larger considerations are the equally notable local ones. Aegeus’s entrance, which arguably injects some comic relief or, as Aristotle put it, “absurdity” (Poetics 1461b19) into the play, had another extradiegetic layer to it: Aegeus pulls back the large hood he is wearing to reveal that he is played by Maurice Podbrey, the Centaur Theatre’s founder (and father to codirector Alison Darcy). This role came thirteen years after his retirement as the theatre’s artistic director and effected a return to the house that he founded back in 1969. That he should appear suddenly as Medea’s comic saviour scored many points with local audiences, and his return to the

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Figure 5 Jason (Andreas Apergis) shouts at Medea (France Rolland) from the ground level.

Centaur stage attracted much attention from local media. Another Montreal-specific aspect of the production included its onstage mixing-withoutremark of Anglophone, Francophone, and Allophone accents, as is common in Montreal’s English-language theatre scene (and also true of the other plays in this volume). Finally, Montreal as the home of a large Greek diaspora population figured into both the play’s conception and its reception. As mentioned, Apergis drew on his roots as the child of Greek immigrants and on

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Figure 6 Maurice Podbrey, the Centaur Theatre’s founder, appears as Aegeus (with France Rolland as Medea, and chorus members Holly Gauthier-Frankel, Melissa Trottier, and Lindsay Wilson in the background).

his family’s relationship to rembetika music in approaching the play; the production also did significant outreach with the Montreal Greek community, attracting large audiences of Greek-Canadians to the theatre – including a viewing by the Greek consul – and garnering positive reviews in both local Greek papers and in the press in Greece. Scapegoat Carnivale’s version of Medea encapsulates the tensions that Euripides’s play holds, balancing the domestic and the political, the human and the divine. Its production has unique elements, from using the GreekTurkish population exchange as its jumping-off point, to incorporating rembetika-inspired singing choruses throughout. At the same time, we can see how it responds to broader trends in contemporary performance reception in its choices, particularly in how it literally elevates Medea at the end of the play.

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notes 1 Archive of Performances of Greek and Roman Drama, accessed 4 July 2022, www.apgrd.ox.ac.uk/research-collections/performance-database/productions. 2 Kovacs, this volume, 291. 3 Yoon, this volume, 102. 4 See also this volume, Marshall, 16–17, Yoon, 103, 104n18, and Kovacs, 290, on the chariot. 5 See also Yoon, this volume, 100. 6 See Kasimis, “Medea the Refugee” for a recent political reading of the play. For a round-up of late twentieth-century political interpretations of Medea, see van Zyl Smit, “Medea Becomes Politically Correct.” 7 In Andújar, The Greek Trilogy. 8 See also Kovacs, this volume, 299–300. 9 BAMorg, “Making Medea.” 10 As quoted in Wartofsky, “With Medea.” 11 Ibid. 12 Billington, “Medea Review.” 13 In Wetmore, Black Medea. 14 For more, see Smethurst, “Ninagawa’s Production” and “The Japanese Presence”; Foley, “Twentieth Century Performance,” 2–3; Miyashita, “Ninagawa Yukio.” 15 Lee, “Medea – Ending.”

 Medea eur ipides

Adaptation by Joseph Shragge Literal translation by Andreas Apergis Scapegoat Carnivale Theatre’s version of Medea was selected as part of the Brave New Looks series at the Centaur Theatre, Montreal, by artistic director Roy Surette, and played from 21 to 30 October 2010. Medea received dramaturgical support from the National Arts Centre, with dramaturgy by Peter Hinton and Paula Dankert, and was supported by the Canadian Council for the Arts, the Conseil des arts et lettres du Québec, and the Conseil des arts de Montréal. The production won two Montreal English Critics Circle Awards, for Best Production and Best Actress (France Rolland). Crew Adaptation Joseph Shragge Co-direction/Literal Translation Andreas Apergis Co-direction Alison Darcy Composition Brian Lipson Musical Direction David Oppenheim Set and Costume Design Amy Keith Lighting Design David Perrault Ninacs Stage/Production Management Melanie St Jaques Assistant Stage Management Michael Panich Technical Direction Scott Drysdale Scenic Painting Samantha Scafidi Costume Technician Jez Yung Assistant Set and Costume Design Maria Pasik Foley Sound Tobias Haynes Props Lucy Satzewich

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Cast Jason Andreas Apergis Tutor George Bekiaris Chorus Stefanie Buxton Musician John Dodge Musician/Messenger Dusan Dukic Nurse Diana Fajrajsl Child Elijah Flomen Chorus Holly Gauthier-Frankel Creon Alex Ivanovic Chorus Gitanjali Jain Aegeus Maurice Podbrey Medea France Rolland Child Thomas Rolland Apergis Chorus Melissa Trottier Chorus Lindsay Wilson Note on the Text: Joseph Shragge adapted Andreas Apergis’s literal translation for performance, often cutting redundant lines and streamlining sections, particularly in the choral odes. These odes were then further cut when Brian Lipson set them as lyrics to his choral compositions. For the purpose of this volume, we have restored the majority of the cut lines, as well as all the excised choral verses. Throughout the script, {} indicates lines that were cut for Scapegoat Carnivale’s production; [] indicates lines that have been cut from the ancient Greek by editors judging from different manuscript traditions; notes on the text throughout also indicate missing lines. Many sections remain streamlined in their expression when compared to the ancient Greek text; please note that the line numbers refer to the Greek text. All stage directions represent Scapegoat Carnivale’s choices, as surviving Greek plays do not contain any such directions.



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Characters nurse, a slave of Jason and Medea’s household tutor, a slave of Jason and Medea’s household chorus of Corinthian Women medea, a Colchidian woman creon, ruler of Corinth jason, Medea’s husband aegeus, Athenian king messenger The play’s setting is in front of a house with a single entrance.

Prologue nurse I wish the Argo1 had never sailed, flying between blue rocks and jagged cliffs to Colchis,2 or the felled pine not tumbled down the slopes of mount Pelion,3 arming the hands of Argonauts4 with oars to paddle after the Golden Fleece.5 Then Medea, my mistress, would not have sailed to Iolcus,6 mad with passion for Jason. She wouldn’t have tricked Pelias’s daughters into killing their own father,7 or fled to Corinth with her husband and children,

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1 The Argo was the ship Jason sailed in search of the Golden Fleece. It was this quest that led him to Colchis where he met Medea. 2 Colchis was on the coast of the Black Sea in modern-day Georgia; its king, Aeëtes, promised to give Jason the Golden Fleece if he performed several tasks, including killing the dragon who guarded it. Aeëtes’s daughter, Medea, helped him accomplish these tasks. 3 Mount Pelion is in Thessaly, a region of northern Greece. 4 The crew of the Argo; literally “Argo-sailors.” 5 The Golden Fleece was the hide of a mythical ram that Jason set out to bring back to King Pelias in Thessaly so that he might someday reign over Iolcus. 6 A city in Thessaly, where Jason was from. 7 When Jason and Medea returned to Thessaly, King Pelias would not give up his

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refugees on the shore. She delighted the citizens here, and completely devoted herself to Jason. Security is when a woman stands with her husband. Now everything is hateful – love is sick – because Jason left her and their children, to seduce a royal wife, the daughter of Creon,8 {ruler of this land,} while Medea, wretched and shamed, cries, {invoking the oaths they swore with their right hands,} calling the gods to witness how Jason has repaid her loyalty. She won’t eat. She lies there, collapsed, melting away hours with tears. Since she learned of Jason’s betrayal, she has not raised her hands or lifted her face from the earth. Like a rock or a sea-wave, she responds to no one. If she ever does lift her white neck, it is only to howl for her father and the homeland she betrayed. Now she values what is lost, dispossessed, pining for home. She hates her children. She takes no joy from seeing them. I’m afraid of what plots are forming inside her.

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throne to Jason as promised, so Medea tricked his daughters into killing him. She cut up an old ram and threw the pieces in boiling water and a young ram jumped up out of the pot. The daughters then did the same to Pelias, who did not survive (Pausanias, Description of Greece, 8.11.2), prompting Medea and Jason to flee to Corinth. 8 This Corinthian Creon is not to be confused with the Theban Creon of the Oedipus Tyrannus: the name simply means “ruler” in Greek.

Medea [She does not waver or suffer offence. I know her and I’m terrified {that she’ll thrust her sword into her own liver, or kill both the royals and the groom, seizing hold of even greater disaster.]9 She’s dangerous} – she will not give her enemies an easy victory. The children are returning from their walk with no thought of their mother’s unhappiness. A young mind is no friend to misery.

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Enter Tutor from the house. tutor Old woman, what are you doing out here, talking of trouble? Did Medea consent to being left alone? nurse Loyal slaves share their master’s pain. This is what brought me out here – to speak to the earth and sky of my lady’s grief.

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tutor She hasn’t stopped howling. nurse I envy your stupidity, old man. Her suffering has only begun. tutor That poor fool, if I may describe my mistress thus. She hasn’t heard the latest. nurse What is it? Don’t hold back.

9 Editors have thought that some or all of these lines were interpolated into the Greek text. Diggle, Euripides ad 38.

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tutor Nothing. I regret saying anything. nurse Don’t hide this from me. We’re both slaves. I can be quiet if you need me to be. tutor You know those idle old men who sit by the fountain of Peirene?10 I pretended not to hear them gossiping, but they said Creon is going to exile Medea and the children. I hope it’s only a rumour. nurse How could Jason allow that? His quarrel is with their mother.

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tutor Old love has ceded to new. He’s no friend of this house. nurse If I have to announce yet another misfortune, I’ll be lost. tutor This is no time to tell her anything. Stay calm. nurse O children, do you hear what kind of man your father is? Curse him!

10 A fountain in Corinth fed by a spring of the same name. In myth, Peirene was a young woman who turned into a spring with weeping for her son Cencrhrias, whom the hunt-goddess Artemis accidentally killed (Pausanias, Description of Greece, 2.2.2).

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No, he is still my master, but he has harmed the ones he loves. tutor Everyone’s the same. Haven’t you learned people love themselves most? These children no longer have their father’s love. nurse Come children, into the house, both of you. (To Tutor) Keep them away from her. I’ve seen her looking at them with eyes like a wild bull. She’s plotting. She won’t hold back her anger. Let’s hope, for our sake, it strikes her enemies and not her friends.

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medea (From inside the house) Let me die! nurse (To the children) Listen to that! Get into the house and stay out of sight. Keep a safe distance. Her nature is fierce, her heart is unforgiving. Go inside, quickly now. (Exit Tutor with children) {This dark cloud of lamentation will soon break into a storm. What will her unstoppable fury do when these new evils bite her soul?} medea (From inside the house) I can’t scream loud enough to match my misery.

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Children, you’ve been cursed with a hated mother. Death take you, with your father and the whole house. Exit tutor. nurse Why them? Why hate them? Their father committed the offence. O children, I’m afraid of what you may suffer. {Royal tempers go unchecked – their moods change so violently. It’s better to live as equals. For my part, I hope to grow old in modesty and safety. Moderation is best for mortals. Excess brings nothing good and an angered god brings worse.}

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Enter chorus.

Choral Parodos11 chorus I heard a voice. I heard the unlucky Colchidian12 – is she still distressed? Speak, old woman. I heard a servant shouting all the way from my home – 11 The parodos is the choral entrance song, usually, as here, in chanted anapests (in Greek, this metre has two short vowel sounds followed by a long one). This parodos is unusual because it incorporates the Nurse’s non-anapestic dialogue as well as Medea’s shouted anapests from inside the house. For more on this parodos, see Willink, “Euripides.” 12 This refers to the “woman from Colchis,” Medea.

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it gives me no joy, woman, when my friends in this house are suffering. nurse There is no more house. It was swept away. Jason lies in a royal bed, Medea in her room. No words and no friends can console her.

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medea Come, flame from the sky, pierce my head! Why live? Kill me and kill this hateful life.

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chorus (strophe)13 Zeus, Earth, and Light, do you hear that plaintive sound? Rash woman, why desire a bed you can’t approach? You’ll rush to your death – please don’t pray for that. If your husband chose another bed, don’t let it anger you – let Zeus be your advocate. Shed no more tears for your husband. medea Great Themis and Artemis,14 can’t you see how I suffer, bound by oath to an accursed man?

13 Choral odes often contain a strophe (literally a “turn”) and an antistrophe (a “counter-turn”), which mirror each other metrically. 14 Themis, or “Rightness” is one of the gods who protects oaths, while Artemis’s bow was also a sacred object that oaths were sworn on.

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50 Show me Jason and his bride ground to pieces and their home demolished for wronging me unprovoked. O father, O city, I killed my brother. I left in shame. nurse Do you hear what she’s saying? She is calling on Themis, guardian of mortal oaths. But I am afraid nothing will stop her bile. chorus (antistrophe) How can we make her come outside and listen? Our words may help her. I can’t abandon a friend. Persuade her to come. Hurry, before she hurts someone inside. Her grief is unrelenting. nurse I’ll try, but I might not be able to convince her. When servants approach, she stares at us like a lioness eyeing its prey. (She goes to the door. Stops.) No one calls men of old stupid, but you wouldn’t be wrong if you did. They invented hymns for celebrations, banquets and feasts – pleasant sounds for living. But no one thought to invent music to ease pain and sorrow. Misfortune comes and people die – homes fall apart. If only singing could help us then. When food is abundant, why sing? Aren’t food and wine enough to make us happy?

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Nurse exits into the house. chorus (sung) I hear lamentation wailing, scorning her husband’s treachery, calling on the gods of broken promises, Zeus and Themis,15 who guided her to Greece through night-dark waves, through the brine of the impassable Black Sea.16

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Episode One Enter Medea from her house; she is cool and dispassionate. medea Women of Corinth, I’ve come outside so you don’t judge me. There are many deserving bad reputations, who are prideful, arrogant, or pompous, but then there are those who get bad reputations for living quietly – because they keep to themselves, they are perceived as indifferent. Mortals are always quick to judge. Until we know a man, we see him as hateful, though he’s wronged no one. Therefore, as a foreigner, I’m careful to obey the rules of this land, neither approving of citizens who hate their city nor those who harm their neighbours. But I have been struck by something so unexpected it destroyed my life and happiness. My friends, I want to die. The one who was everything to me, whom I knew so well, my husband, turned out to be the worst of men.

15 Zeus, the king of the gods, and Themis, the god of “rightness,” traditionally protected oaths between men. 16 Refers to Jason and Medea’s crossing the Black Sea from Colchis to Greece.

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Of everyone who has breath and thought 230 women are the most miserable. We give money for a husband17 to rule our bodies, having no idea how he will treat us. 235 It is disreputable for women to divorce and refusing men is not possible. We must divine how to treat a man, being thrown into customs and laws we never learned. 240 And if, after all our great labour, our husband lives with us and doesn’t struggle against the yoke, life is enviable. If not, death is the only answer. Because whenever the man is vexed, he leaves, finding ways to relieve his distress, 245 while I can only look to one soul for my needs. They say at home we live lives without danger, while they battle with spears. That’s all wrong. I would rather stand behind a 250 shield three times than give birth once. But how can you relate? You’re in your own city, in your father’s houses, enjoying life and friends. I’m alone, scorned by my husband, 255 looted from my homeland without a mother or brother to rescue me from this calamity. I ask one thing. 260 If I contrive to harm my husband, keep silent. So often women tread in fear – one look at battle or steel and she comes undone. But if you strike her bed, her spirit 265 is never more murderous. chorus I will do this. You are right to make him pay. 17 This refers to the dowry women were expected to bring into a marriage.

Medea No wonder you lament, Medea. But look, I see Creon.

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Enter Creon. creon You, Medea, with your spiteful face, who rails and curses my new son, I proclaim you and your children exiled. Do not delay. Since this is my command, I will not return home 275 until I see you gone from this land. medea What’s left of my life is destroyed. I’m lost, my enemies full-sail against me. There’s no way out of this misery! Still, I’ll ask – for what reason am I being sent away, Creon? creon I am afraid of you. Signs are gathering that you want to harm my daughter. I know how clever you are, how skilled you are in wickedness, how you’ve been hurt by the loss of your husband’s bed, how you’ve made threats against me, the groom and the bride. I will be on my guard. Better you hate me than for me to be soft now and regretful later. medea This is not the first time, Creon, I’ve been hurt by my reputation. Sensible men should not educate children beyond the ordinary.

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Apart from being labelled idle, they incur envy and ill-will. If you offer new teachings to idiots, you’re not called wise, but useless, while those considered smarter than the multitudes reap the scorn of their city. This is my fate and it burns. I’m seen as clever and removed, enviable to some, adversarial to others. But I’m not so clever. Why do you fear me? {What do you think will happen?} Don’t tremble, Creon, I would never hurt a man of your rank. What injustice have you done me? You gave your daughter according to your heart’s desire. It’s my husband I hate – you acted wisely, I have no ill-will toward you – marry them and prosper. But let me live in your land. I have been wronged but will be silent, defeated by superior strength. creon The words I hear are gentle, but I’m terrified that you are plotting evil. I trust you less than before I came here. Angry women, like heated men, are easier to guard against than silent sophisticates. Leave now! No more words. Someone with your skills cannot be among us, harbouring hostility against me.

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medea Don’t – I’m at your knees, the knees of your newlywed daughter.18

18 Grasping the knees is a typical gesture of supplication, a kind of divinely protected begging. For its use in this play, see Yoon, this volume, 100. See also Oedipus Tyrannus line 327.

Medea creon Spare your breath.

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medea You would not banish me, when I’m prostrate before you? creon Do you think I love you more than my family? medea O country, I have strong memories of you now. creon Except for my children, I love my country most. medea Mortal loves are quickly corrupted.

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creon That depends on luck. medea Zeus, don’t overlook the one who is responsible for these evils. creon Walk, mad woman, and rid me of this bad feeling. medea Bad feelings. I’m not in want of bad feelings. Please don’t give me more. creon If I have to, my attendants will throw you out. medea No, Creon, I beg you …

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creon You’re only going to cause trouble. medea I’ll leave, but I beg you, listen – creon Let go of my hand. medea Let me stay just one more day, and finish the preparations for my flight. I must provide for my children. They’re no longer a priority to their father. Pity them – you are a father too! It’s natural you’d be kind to them. I don’t care that I’m exiled; I cry for my children, for what they’ve been dealt. creon I’m no tyrant. Mercy has been my ruin many times. I know I’m making a mistake. Do this – stay one more day, Medea. But I declare, if tomorrow’s sunrise shines on you and your children in this land, you die. I’m not lying. Stay if you need. Stay one more day. What harm can you do in a day?

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Exit Creon. chorus Unhappy woman, what misery befalls you. Where will you go? What friend’s house will deliver you from this plight?

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Tossed into a sea of hopelessness as if by a god. medea Misfortune is spreading everywhere. Who would deny it? This isn’t over for the newlyweds and their wedding planner. Do you think I’d flatter Creon with nothing to gain? I’d never talk to him and never touch his hand. His folly will cost him. He could have stopped me had he thrown me out, but he allowed me one more day. Long enough to corpse three of my enemies – father, daughter, and husband of mine. I have many ways to kill them, but which to use, my friends? Burn down the bridal house? Steal into their chamber and plunge a dagger through their livers? There’s one obstacle. If I’m caught trespassing, I’ll be executed, and my enemies will laugh at me. Best to take the straightest road – my stock-in-trade – poison. So they die. What city would accept me? Who would shelter me? No one. I’ll wait a little. If my tower of safety appears, I’ll kill Jason quietly. But if death is inevitable, I’ll slaughter them both with unbounded daring. This I swear by my mistress, my partner Hecate, who dwells deep in my heart. Their wedding will be bitter. Creon will be bitter too – {because of this marriage, and my exile.} Upwards, Medea! Spare none of your abilities. Resolve.

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Step into the dark. Now it’s a battle of courage. Look how you suffer. You will not be shamed by Jason’s Sisyphean marriage.19 You, born of a good father, descendant of Helios, the sun god – you above all others know – though women are incapable of valour, we are the most skilled craftsmen of evil.

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First Choral Stasimon chorus (strophe a) The holy river flows backwards to its source – justice is upside down. Man is deceitful. The gods’ oaths are broken. What they say about us will change, our lives will be esteemed. Honour is coming to womankind. No longer will we be slandered. (antistrophe a) Ancient bards will stop singing of our treachery. Had Phoebus20 not denied our voice divine music we could have answered man in song. This long day will have much to say about our lot and man’s.

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(strophe b) From out your father’s house you sailed, a lovesick heart passing between twin rocks21 19 Sisyphus was the founder and king of Ephyra, which became Corinth, so this refers to Jason marrying into the Corinthian royal family. 20 Apollo’s most common epithet, which often stands in for his full name: it means simply “bright.” 21 The “twin rocks” refers to the Symplegades, or the Cyanean Rocks, at the Bosphorus. They would clash together and destroy ships until Jason and the Argonauts defeated them through the advice of the Thracian king and seer Phineus.

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to dwell on foreign soil in an empty bed – a suffering refugee dishonoured, driven out. (antistrophe b) The grace of oaths is gone – there’s no humility left in Greece. {It has flown up to the ether. And you have no father’s house as an anchorage from your troubles.} Poor woman, a princess has replaced you.

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Episode Two Enter Jason. jason This is not the first time your savage nature has led you to disaster. You could have stayed had you respected the king. You’ve been exiled because of your public tantrums, for speaking like a mad woman. Keep saying Jason is the worst man alive – it doesn’t affect me. Given what you’ve said about your rulers you should consider exile a blessing. I tried to calm the king’s anger, but you won’t relent. You can’t let go of your stupidity, so you’re banished. I have not failed my loved ones. I will look after your welfare; though you and your children have to go, you won’t be without money. Hate me – I still wish you the best. medea O vile man!

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What unmanly wickedness to come to me like this – to look your loved ones in the face, when you’ve acted hatefully. This is not courage, it’s the greatest disease of man – shamelessness. You did well to come. What I have to say will lighten my soul and hurt yours to hear. From the beginning I saved you, as all the Greeks on board the Argo witnessed. I lit your way when you were sent to yoke the fire-breathing bulls and sow the land of the dead.22 I rescued you from the sleepless dragon who surrounded the Golden Fleece with tangled coils.23 I killed for you. I betrayed my father’s house, and followed you to the base of Mount Pelion in Iolcus24 because I loved you – {being more eager than wise.} I had Pelias murdered by his own daughters, forever destroying their family.25 Despite all that I gave you, despite all I gave up for you, you left me for a new marriage. Had I not given you children,

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22 The Khalkotauroi, or Colchis Bulls, were made by Hephaestus with bronze hoofs and bronze mouths that breathed fire (Apollonius, Argonautica 3.215); King Aeëtes of Colchis promised the Golden Fleece to Jason if he could tame the bulls and have them sow a field with dragon’s teeth, which he did, using a magical potion that protected him from their flames which Aeëes’s daughter Medea made for him. 23 The Colchidian dragon guarded the Golden Fleece in Ares’s sacred grove; Medea used drugs to put it to sleep so that Jason could take the Fleece (PseudoApollodorus, Bibliotheca 1.109–32). 24 The city in Thessaly where Jason set out on his quest for the Golden Fleece. 25 When Pelias refused to give Jason the throne despite his bringing him the Golden Fleece, Medea helped Jason get revenge by tricking his daughters into murdering him. See note 7.

Medea your desire for another woman would have been pardonable. But maybe you don’t believe in honouring oaths. Maybe you don’t believe that the gods rule. There must be new laws in place, since at the very least you know you broke your oath to me. My right hand you grasped so many times, my knees you held26 – {vain gestures from an evil man – how we were mistaken in our hopes.} Let me confide in you as if you were my friend. {What good can I expect from you, yet I’ll shame you more by asking.} Where can I turn now? My father’s house I betrayed, along with my whole country? Imagine the welcome I’d get from Pelias’s grieving daughters! I’ve made enemies of my loved ones; I went to war on your behalf. Greek women should envy my many blessings. My husband is admirable and trustworthy and I am wretched and forsaken, fleeing this country in exile, deserted by my friends, alone with my lonely children. It will reflect well on your new bride that her husband’s children are wandering beggars, along with their mother who saved your life. O Zeus, why do we know the value of gold by its lustre, but have no sign to show when a man is worthless? {chorus It’s a terrible and incurable anger that comes when friends fight friends.}

26 Right-hand clasping commonly signifies oath-swearing in the ancient Greek context, but generally only occurs between men; see Yoon, this volume, 101–2.

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62 jason I can’t afford to misspeak, but rather like a helmsman, I’ll trim my sails to navigate your storm of words. You greatly exaggerate your role. Aphrodite was the saviour of my enterprise – she alone of gods and men. You have a fine mind, but Eros forced you to save me when he shot you with his arrow.27 I won’t make too exact a reckoning of this. Where you helped, it wasn’t bad, though you received more than you gave. I’ll prove it to you. First, you live in Greece, where the laws are just, as opposed to your barbarian land ruled by dumb force. In Greece, you are famous for your intelligence, whereas if you resided at that far-away border there’d be no word of you. Why have gold in your house or a voice to match the beauty of Orpheus28 if no one knows about it? And since you started this war of words, let me tell you about my pain. Concerning your objections to my royal wedding – I acted wisely, in sound mind, and as a great friend to you and my children. Stay quiet! Since I left Iolcus, dragging with me my many misfortunes, what better luck could I have as a fugitive than marriage to a king’s daughter? It isn’t that I hated your company and longed for a new wife,

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27 Eros is the personified deity of sexual love, often understood to have shot those in the throes of desire with his arrows. 28 Orpheus was the most famous singer in the Greek mythical tradition.

Medea nor did I want more children. I have enough and I don’t complain. All I wanted was for us to live well, not in want. If you’re poor, your friends abandon you. I’ll rear my children so they’re worthy of this house – sow brothers for your children and, joining together our offspring, we’ll all prosper. You don’t need more children. If I have more, it will benefit ours in the future. Am I wrong? You would have remained your quiet self had you not felt the sting in your bed. All women are like this – if relations are regular, all is well, but if not, you see everyone as hostile. Men need a new way to reproduce. Women shouldn’t exist; then no harm would come to men.

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chorus Jason, you speak well. But how can you argue that the betrayal of your wife is just? medea I differ from many mortals. To me, defending injustice with cleverness deserves severe punishment. His boastful tongue hides his wrongdoing. He plays the villain, but not so cleverly. I can topple your argument with one question: if you really believed you were right, why not convince me before you made the wedding arrangements? jason I’m sure you would have offered to help when I mentioned my wedding. Even now you can’t let go of your jealousy.

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medea It was hardly fear of me, but fear a barbarian bed would rob you of honour in old age. jason Know this – it was for no woman that I married royalty. But like I said, I wanted to save you and our children, since having a royal family secures my house.

595

medea I have no need for wealth that is impoverished nor bliss that rips my heart. jason If you were wiser you would not mistake good for evil, fortune for adversity.

600

medea You may insult me – you have an escape. I’m alone, banished. jason You brought it on yourself. medea Did I marry someone else and betray you? jason You cursed the royal house. medea And I curse you.

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jason No more arguing. If you’ll take it, I’ll offer you money, for you and the children in exile. Speak, I’m willing, ungrudgingly, to help you. I’ll send word to my friends. They’ll treat you well. Don’t be crazy, woman. Stop raging and do what’s best.

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medea I accept nothing from your friends. I’ll take nothing, so give me nothing. What’s a gift from a cruel man? jason I call the gods to witness how in every way I tried to help you and the children. Push away your friends, and your pain will only grow.

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medea Leave. You’re seized by longing for the young woman you’ve harnessed. You’ve been apart too long. (Exit Jason) Be married. Perhaps a god will hear me and your marriage 625 will be a lamentable affair.

Second Choral Stasimon chorus (strophe a) Excessive love brings no joy, honour, or good. Restraint is the only charm. Never touch me, Aphrodite, with your poison arrow. (antistrophe a) The gods’ best gift is a moderate love.

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Dreaded Cypris,29 save me from an insatiable spirit who leaps for the bed of another. Spare the peaceful beds of married women. (strophe b) O country, O house. I never want to be without a city. {Or have a life without choices, an impossible life, the most pitiable of pains – may I be broken by death, before such a day.} There is no hardship greater than exile. (antistrophe b) {We see it now firsthand – no city,} no friend pities you, {as you suffer the most terrible sufferings.} Die, ungrateful man who refuses to honour his friends, {who won’t be honest with them – he will never be a friend of mine.}

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Episode Three Enter Aegeus.30 aegeus Joy to you, Medea. I know no better greeting for an old friend. medea Joy to you too, Aegeus, child of wise Pandion. Where are you coming from?

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29 Another name for Aphrodite, referring to her emerging from the sea near Cyprus. 30 Aegeus was the king of Athens and father to Theseus. When he mistakenly thought that his son had died, he threw himself into the sea, giving the Aegean its name.

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aegeus From Phoebus,31 the ancient oracle. medea Why did you go the earth’s prophetic centre?32 aegeus I asked to have children. medea By the gods – in all your years, you’ve never had children?

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aegeus It is my divine fate. medea Do you not have a wife? Or are you inexperienced as well? aegeus I’m not without a marriage bed. medea Is it inappropriate of me to ask what Phoebus said? aegeus He spoke wisdom beyond the reach of man.

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medea Perhaps I might understand his answer. aegeus Perhaps, given it requires a nimble mind.

31 Shorthand for Phoebus Apollo, and more specifically for Apollo’s temple at Delphi, where the Pythian oracle gave prophecies. 32 Another shorthand for Delphi, which was thought of as the “navel” of the world.

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medea What did he proclaim? aegeus He told me not to spill from the wineskin.33 medea Until when?

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aegeus Until I return home. medea Then what do you need here? aegeus Do you know Pittheus of Troezen?34 medea Son of Pelops – a pious man, they say.35 aegeus I want to tell him what the oracle said.

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medea He is wise in these matters. aegeus Of everyone, he is my dearest friend. 33 This oracle, more literally than Shragge has it, telling Aegeus not to “loosen the projecting foot of the wineskin” can imply different meanings, from just not drinking to not having sex until the end of his journey. Wineskins were made of a whole animal skin, with one of the feet usually serving as the spout. For more on the sexual connotations of this oracle, see Keen, “Undoing the Wineskin’s Foot.” 34 Troezen is a town on the easternmost peninsula of the Peloponnese, the Argolid. 35 Pittheus understands Aegeus’s oracle right away, and gets him drunk so that he ends up sleeping with Pittheus’s daughter, Aithra. Aithra, in turn, gives birth to Theseus.

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medea Good luck and good fortune in what you seek. aegeus Why that dejected look? medea Aegeus, my husband, is the worst of men.

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aegeus What are you saying? medea He wronged me. I didn’t deserve it. aegeus In what way? Tell me. medea He made another woman mistress of my house. aegeus How could he commit such a disgraceful act? medea He’s left his friends and former life behind. aegeus He’s in love with her? Or does he hate your bed? medea So in love that he’s forgotten all of us. aegeus Let him go then. If this is the case, forget him.

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medea He’s marrying into royalty. He loves the idea of having a king for a father.

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aegeus Who? Who would take a man like that? medea Creon of Corinth. aegeus Your grief is understandable, Medea. medea Worse, I am banished. aegeus By whose order?

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medea Creon himself ordered me to leave. aegeus Jason allows this? I don’t approve. medea He said he was against it, but accepted the outcome easily. I beg you, by your beard, I’m at your knees,36 pity me, I am dejected. Don’t let them drive me out with no hope of finding protection! Take me to your land, as a guest of your house. The gods will love you then and give you children and you’ll die blessed.

36 Another example of formal supplication gestures. See note 18, and cf. Naiden, Ancient Supplication.

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You don’t know what fortune you’ve found with me. I have a pharmacy of magic. I swear you won’t be childless any longer. aegeus You give me good reasons to accept your offer. First, for the gods. Second, for the promise of children, since there I am lost. If you can make it to my land, I’ll be your patron. [This I can offer. I can’t bring you with me, however.]37 Happily, I’ll take you in and keep you safe, not giving you up to anyone. But from here you walk alone. Creon must believe I’m ignorant of all this.

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medea I’ll do as you ask, if you give me your oath. I want everything you say, truly I do. aegeus You don’t trust me? medea I trust Pelias is my enemy, along with Creon and his house. I need to know I won’t be captured from your land. If you speak flippantly, unsworn, you could be befriended and persuaded to give me up. I have no money and no royalty to offer. aegeus You’ve shown foresight there – I’ll do it.

37 Some manuscripts and editors delete these lines from the Greek text; see Diggle, Euripides ad 725.

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I’ll never abandon you. I’ll swear the oath and if your enemies come to me, I’ll say I cannot comply, since I’ve sworn on it. Name your god.

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medea Swear by the earth, the sun, father of my father,38 and all the gods together. aegeus Tell me what to do and not to do. medea Never cast me out, and never let my enemies take me from you, for as long as you live.

750

aegeus I swear by the earth, the sun’s brilliance, and all gods everywhere. medea Enough. What will you suffer if you don’t not honour this oath? aegeus What all ungodly men suffer.

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medea Then goodbye. All is well. I’ll be there soon, once I’ve achieved my objectives. Exit Aegeus.

38 Helios, the sun, is Medea’s grandfather, the father of her own father Aeëtes, whom he had with the daughter of Ocean, Perseis.

Medea chorus May Hermes39 bring you home and help you on your way. Aegeus has shown himself a noble man. medea O Zeus’s justice, O light of the sun – I’m on the path to victory. My enemies will pay for their injustice. Aegeus came when I was hopeless, giving me the town of Pallas,40 a safe harbour where I’ll fasten my rope. The rest of my plan is less joyous. I will send my slave to summon Jason. When he arrives, I will speak to him softly, assuring him his actions were sound and wise. I will ask him to let my children stay – not to endure the mockery of this hostile land, but as bait for the princess. I’ll send my sons to the palace bearing gifts, a fine robe and a golden wreath, soaked in poison. When she puts on the robe, she’ll die in agony along with anyone who touches her. That’s how it will go. But enough of this; I’m crying for what I must do next. I’ll kill my children. No one can save them now. Once Jason’s house, his life, and his marriage are ruined, I’ll flee from this land, having dared the unholiest of acts, the murder of my dear sons. My friends, I won’t have to bear my enemies’ laughter. [What do I gain from living? No country or house.

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39 Hermes is a god of passage, often invoked to protect travellers. 40 Pallas is a common epithet for Athena, here standing in for the goddess, who was the patron goddess of Athens, Aegeus’s city.

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No way to reverse misfortune.]41 I erred the moment I left my father’s home, trusting the words of a Greek man. With the gods’ help, I’ll get justice. He’ll never see his children alive, or have a chance to make more. His beautiful young bride will die an ugly death. No one should think I’m weak or quiet. Be kind to your friends, severe to your enemies. That’s the only way to live a glorious life.

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chorus Since I see the full extent of your design, and since I follow the law and want only what’s good for you, I urge you not to do this. medea There is no other way. I excuse your attitude – you don’t suffer the way I do.

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chorus You’d dare kill your own children? medea Nothing will sting my husband more. chorus Or make you more miserable. medea Enough. I heard you. Get Jason. Bring him here and don’t divulge an iota of my plan. I trust you are loyal, to me and to all your sex. 41 Some editors have deleted these lines from the Greek text; see Diggle, Euripides, ad 798.

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Third Choral Stasimon chorus {(strophe a) Erechtheus’s42 race has always been happy, children of the blessed gods from a sacred unsacked land, nourished on the most famous wisdom, they stepped gracefully through the bright air, where the holy nine Muses, they say, gave birth to blonde Harmonia.43 (antistrophe a) They say Cypris drew water from the streams of Cephisus,44 and blew down to the land sweet temperate breezes. And dressing her flowing locks with a sweet-smelling wreath of rose blossoms, she sends the Loves to sit beside Wisdom, working together toward every excellence.} (strophe b) How can the city of divine rivers, the land that guides the gods, accept you, a child-killer, among its own? Picture the children’s wounds. Picture the murder. Don’t, we beg you, all of us, don’t kill them!

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42 Erechtheus was both a mythological founding king of Athens and one of its main cult heroes. 43 Harmonia is usually said to be the daughter of Ares and Aphrodite. She also married the Theban founder Cadmus; see Bacchae, notes 3 and 64. 44 A river and a river god, the son of Pontus and Thalassa, two sea gods.

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(antistrophe b) Where can you find the courage to commit this fearsome act? To conceive their slaughter and be tearless? You won’t have the strength, when your children kneel and beg, to soak your hands in their blood.

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Episode Four Enter Jason. jason I came as requested. And though you’re hostile, I won’t fail to listen. What do you need from me? medea Jason, I ask for your forgiveness for my words. Perhaps you weather my storms because of all the kindness that passed between us. I have reproached myself, asking, “Wretch, why rage at those who mean well for you? Why make enemies with the ruler of this land?” My husband’s done what’s best, marrying into royalty, begetting royal brothers for my children. How can I not let go of my anger, when the gods have given me so many blessings? Don’t I have the children, and don’t I know that we are refugees, and short on friends? I was thoughtless. My anger’s fruitless. Your actions are commendable, while I’ve been a fool. I should have taken part in your plan, stood by your bride’s bed,

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Medea tending to her every need. But I am who I am, a woman. You shouldn’t sink to my level, repaying my childishness by acting like a child. I yield. I renounce my bad deeds. Trust me, I see things differently now. (To children in the house) O children, come outside. Embrace your father. Speak to him, and let’s forget about everyone who’s mad at your mother. We’re friends. We’ve made peace. I no longer feel any bitterness. (Enter children with Tutor) (To children) Take your father’s hand. I’m worried something bad will happen. O children, how many more years will you live to stretch out your dear arms? Miserable me, I’m crying and filled with fear. Now that this fight with your father is over, my soft eyes are wet with tears.

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chorus My eyes, too, overflow, hoping this will not proceed further. jason I commend you; I don’t blame you. Women get angry when their husbands remarry. But your change of heart is for the best. Albeit late, you’ve acted wisely. My sons, your father has not been thoughtless, but provident. I believe that you, along with your brothers, will still hold first place in the land of Corinth.

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With the gods’ help, you’ll soon be joined by brothers. All you have to do is grow up. I’ll take care of the rest. I’ll see you both thrive, becoming stronger than all my enemies. Medea, why are you crying? Why do you turn away? Aren’t you happy with what I’m saying? medea It’s not that. I was thinking of the children.

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jason Why cry for the children? medea I made them – when I heard what you offered, I was overcome with compassion, wondering if it will come true.

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jason Courage, I’ll take good care of them.45 medea I’ll be courageous. I’ll trust your words. Women are weak and prone to crying. As far as what I said, it stands. But remember, I am exiled. I know it’s for the best, and I won’t come back. I won’t get in the way of you or Creon. I’ll leave, but since you want to be their provider, keep them with you. Ask Creon to let them stay. jason I’ll try, but I don’t know if I can convince him. 45 This translation changes the Greek line order between 925 and 930.

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medea Get your wife to beg her father. jason You’re right, she’ll listen to me. medea If she’s a woman like the rest, I can help you. I’ll send her the most beautiful gifts in all the world, a golden robe and wreath; the children will present them to her. Quickly, bring me the finery. Today she will have countless blessings – a noble man for her bed, and these gifts handed down from my father’s father, god of the sun. Children, take them in your hands. Offer them to her as a wedding gift. jason Why give away your most valued possessions? Do you think the palace lacks clothes or jewels? Save them for yourself. If I know my wife, there’s no need for bribery – {she’ll hold my opinion higher than wealth, I’m sure.}

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medea How dare you! Even the gods are persuaded by gifts! Gold is stronger than a thousand mortal words. 965 Fortune shines on her, a god exalts her. I’d give my life to the young princess if she repeals my children’s exile. 970 My possessions are nothing to me. My sons, once inside the rich house, approach the princess and plead with her to let you remain in Corinth. Make sure you place the gifts directly in her hands, so she accepts them.

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Go now. Good luck. Bring me good news.

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Exit Jason and Tutor with children.

Fifth Choral Stasimon chorus (strophe a) Now there’s no hope for the children. They march to their death. The bride will accept the golden snood – the wretch will accept her ruin. Gold bands for the bride’s gold hair – ornaments for Hades.46 (antistrophe a) {Their grace and ambrosial shine will tempt her to put on the crown} and the robe that gleams in golden light. She’ll dress herself as a bride for the world below, {a trap she won’t escape.} (strophe b) And you, sad groom, unknowingly you’ve killed your wife and your children. (antistrophe b) I grieve for you, poor little ones, to be murdered by your mother because her husband left her.

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46 Hades generally refers to the god of the underworld but can also refer simply to the underworld itself – either may be the case here.

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Episode Five Enter tutor and children. tutor Mistress, your children are free from exile. The princess eagerly accepted your gifts. (Medea begins to cry) Why does your good fortune distress you? [{Why do you turn away your cheek, Aren’t you happy to hear this news?}]47

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medea (cries)48 tutor This response is out of tune. medea (cries) tutor Did I unknowingly report something bad, thinking it was good? medea The message is the message. I don’t blame you.

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tutor Then why do you look so downcast? Why are you crying?

47 Some editors have deleted these lines from the Greek text; see Diggle, Euripides ad 1006. 48 Greek tragedy relies on a vocabulary of particles to express extreme emotion, which are difficult to translate into English (“boo-hoo” does not quite capture it!). When Medea cries, the Greek text says aiai.

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medea For many reasons. {The gods and I have planned it this way.} tutor Be brave, your children will bring you home.

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medea I’ll send others home first. tutor You’re not the first to be separated from your children. We must all adapt to misfortune. medea Yes, we must. Now go into the house and prepare their meals as usual. (Exit Tutor) My sons, you will keep your city and home, but lose your mother. I will go to another land, an exile. I’ll miss seeing you happy before your nuptial bath, miss dressing your bed and raising the torch at your wedding. I raised you both in vain. Suffered labour pains and childbirth for nothing. I imagined you both feeding me in old age, preparing my burial when I die – {an enviable state, but now my sweet dream is dead.} Deprived of you, my life is anguish. You’ll never again see your mother with your dear eyes as you leave this life for another. {But why do you look at me like that, children?} Why should this be your last smile? What will I do? My courage is gone, women,

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Medea now that I see the bright faces of my children. I can’t do it. Forget my former plans. I’ll take the children with me when I go. Why should I hurt them to hurt their father and doubly hurt myself? I won’t. But what’s come over me now? Can I bear to hear my enemies mock me as I leave Corinth? I must do it. Damn my cowardice letting soft words into my heart. Go in the house, children. Whoever doesn’t have the stomach for my sacrifice should tend to themselves. My hands won’t weaken. (She screams) [Don’t, spirit, don’t do this. Let them be, you wretch. Spare your children. In exile they’ll be your beacon. No, by Hades’s avengers, I’ll never let this happen; I’ll not deliver my children into the hands of my enemies. They’ll die. Better that I kill what I created. It’s done – there’s no escape. The wreath is on her head, the robe draped around her body. She’s dying as I speak. I chose this desolate path, and I have to walk it. First, I’ll say goodbye. My sons, give me your right hand. Dear hands, sweet mouths, beautiful, noble children. You’ll be happy there – but what’s here, your father takes away. Soft skin, soft breath. Leave, leave. (Exit children) I can’t look at them. I know what I’m about to do is evil.

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84 Rage fuels my resolve; rage is the cause of man’s greatest evils.]49 chorus Often I have entered into discussion, questioning things beyond what women should question. We too have a muse to guide and help us, but not all of us. There are those who are untutored, who’ve never had children. And it is those who are happier than all mothers. Those without children will never discover the pain they bring. Mothers are wasted in their homes by worry. How can they know if they are raising their children well, or if they’ll have an inheritance. What does all their labour amount to? The last problem is this – let us say they find means to raise their children only to see them killed by a god and sent to Hades, their work rewarded with dead bodies – why have children?

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medea Friends, I have been anxiously waiting to find out what’s happened over here. And here comes Jason’s attendant, out of breath. 49 Some editors and commentators have deleted these lines, with much controversy, as they were never suspected as interpolations in antiquity, and this has stood as one of tragedy’s most famous monologues. See Diggle, Euripides ad 1056. For the most recent discussion of this controversy, see de la Combe, “La philologie contre le texte?” For a general discussion of this monologue, see Foley, “Medea’s Divided Self.” See also Yoon, this volume, 103.

Medea He must have word of the horrors that transpired.

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Enter Messenger. messenger Medea, run; whether you go by sea or land, you must go now. medea Tell me why I should flee so suddenly. messenger The princess and Creon are dead. You poisoned them.

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medea Beautiful! From now on you’re my benefactor and best friend. messenger What are you saying? Are you mad? You killed the rulers. {Hearing this, you rejoice? You’re not afraid?} medea I could respond, but I’d rather hear what you have to say first. Take your time. Tell me how they died. You’ll double my delight if they died horribly. messenger When your sons arrived in the bridal chamber with their father, we slaves, who are sympathetic to you, rejoiced. Word spread you’d made peace with your husband. Someone kissed your children’s hands, another their blonde hair. I myself, delighted, followed them to the princess’s halls.

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Our new mistress, whom we must honour in your stead, was looking lovingly at Jason, until she laid eyes on your two children – then she covered her face and turned away her white cheek, disgusted by their presence. But your husband, in an attempt to calm her, said: “Don’t be hostile to your friends. Don’t be angry. Look at them. Friends of your husband are your friends, too. As a favour for me, accept their gifts and beg your father to spare them from exile.” When she saw the finery, she couldn’t restrain herself. She acquiesced, and before he and the children were far from the chamber, she put on the many-coloured robe, placed the gold wreath around her curls, arranging her hair in front of the shining mirror, smiling at her own lifeless image. She began strutting around the room, overjoyed with her gifts, admiring again and again how the dress fell along her legs, when we witnessed a fearful sight – she blanched, lurched off balance, and bent to the ground trembling. She scrambled to her throne and fell onto it, barely avoiding collapsing on the floor. Her old servant, thinking Pan50 or another god had possessed her, cried for an exorcism until we saw white foam bubble from her mouth, her eyes turning in her head and her face getting paler and paler. Then she let out a horrible wail. Some charged straight to her father’s chamber, others to Jason –

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50 Pan, sometimes said to be the son of Hermes and a wood nymph, was a god of the pastures and the mountains and worshipped not in temples but in caves and grottos.

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Medea footfalls thundered down the hallway of the palace. Then she rose up, speechless, eyes shut, and began to moan. She was besieged by two more effects of the poison. The wreath around her curls lit up in flames, while the robe your children gave her started to devour her white flesh. Ablaze she rose again from her throne, tossing in every direction, trying to shake off the wreath. But it was bound to her head and the more she shook, the brighter the flames grew. She fell down, defeated. She was unrecognizable, I couldn’t make out her eyes from what was left of her well-formed face. Blood seeped down her forehead. Flesh dripped from her frame like tears from a pine, eaten away by the unseen poison. We were all afraid to touch her body, having witnessed the grotesque spectacle, but her poor father, ignorant of what happened, came into the room and threw himself on her, crying. Kissing her, he said – “O miserable child, which god destroyed you so disgracefully? Who has killed me with the sight of my dead daughter? If only I could die with you.” After his lamentations ceased, he tried to get up from the ground, but he stuck to the robe like ivy to laurel shoots. He wrestled, trying to rise from his knees, but she held onto him. The more he pulled away, the quicker his flesh was torn from his body. After a few moments, he gave up and let go his spirit, lying dead beside his daughter. To you, I have nothing else to say.

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88 You will come to know the repercussions of the damage you’ve caused. As for us mortals, we are shadows. Without fear, I can say, those who seem the wisest, who fret over ideas, are the most foolish. Among mortals, no one can be truly happy. Even if fortune flows, and one is luckier than another, happiness is nowhere found.

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Exit Messenger. chorus Today a god has justly dealt Jason many punishments. [O wretch I pity you, daughter of Creon. Into the temple of Hades, because you married Jason.]51 medea Friends, I am resolved to kill my children quickly and leave this land. If I wait, they’ll be given up to my enemies and murdered. They must die now. I will kill that which I’ve born. Come heart, arm yourself. Why hesitate? Do it. Come miserable hand, grasp the sword – grab it. Walk toward your pitiful life. Stop shaking. Forget your children came from you. Forget that they’re your children. Lament them later. If I kill them, it doesn’t mean I didn’t love them, hapless creature that I am.

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Medea exits into house. 51 Some editors have deleted these lines from the Greek text; see Diggle, Euripides ad 1233.

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Sixth Choral Stasimon chorus (strophe a) O earth, Helios’s sunbeam, see this accursed woman – her hand about to strike. They are your golden offspring. How dreadful for a man to spill the blood of a god.52 O light, born of Zeus, stop her. Take her from this house – this vengeful, murderous Fury. (antistrophe a) You toiled for your children in vain. Gave birth in vain. Passed through the gateway of stone and water.53 Why let anger lead to murder? Woe to the mortals who soil the earth with the blood of their kin. Grief from the gods falls on their houses, as befits their violent acts.

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child 1 (from inside) Help! child 2 (from inside) What are you doing? chorus Should I go inside and try to rescue them?

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52 The mention of spilling a god’s blood here references how Medea and her children, in turn, are related to the sun god Helios. 53 Refers to the Symplegades; see note 21.

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child 1 (from inside) Help us. child 2 (from inside) Please put down your sword! chorus You are steel and rock to have done this – to kill the children you bore, dealing out their fate with your own hand. I heard of another who killed her children. Hera drove Ino mad and sent her wandering.54 She leaped from a cliff into the sea, taking her two children with her. What terror is still to come? O mournful marriage bed, how much evil have you wrought?

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Episode Six Enter Jason. jason Where is she? {Is she inside, or has she already left in flight?}

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54 Ino, like Semele, Autonoë, and Agave, who all feature in Bacchae, was a daughter of Cadmus (Hesiod, Theogony 975–8). Ino, when driven mad by Dionysus, helped Agave and Autonoë kill Agave’s son Pentheus (Bacchae 1135–9). The story of her Hera-driven madness differs: in one account, Hera resented Ino for raising Dionysus (because Zeus cheated on Hera with Dionysus’s mother, Semele) and so first drove Ino’s husband, Athamas, mad so that he killed their older son, Learchus. To escape his violence, Ino leapt into the sea with their other son, Melicertes (Hyginus, Fabulae 1, 2, 4, 224, 239, 243). Both Ino and Melicertes were then transformed into sea deities, Leucothea and Palaemon, respectively, who protected seafarers (Homer, Odyssey 5.333–5; Hyginus, Fabulae 2). This choral passage, much earlier than most other sources on Ino and Melicertes, claims that Ino threw herself into the sea with both children (1286–8), demonstrating the multiplicity of versions of most myths.

Medea She’ll need to hide under the earth or in the farthest reaches of the sky to escape justice from the royal house. Does she think she can murder kings and escape unharmed? I don’t care what happens to her; it’s my children I’ve come for. Those she’s harmed will harm her back. I’ve come to protect my own. I don’t want them hurt because of their mother’s actions.

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chorus Unhappy man, you wouldn’t say that if you knew to what evil you’ve come. jason What? Does she want to kill me, too?

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chorus Your children were killed by their mother. jason O me, what did you say? You destroy me. chorus They’re gone. jason Where did she do it? chorus Open the gates, you’ll find their bodies. jason Attendants, open the gates. Now. Open them so I can see my children, and the one I’ll punish.

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Exodos 55 Enter Medea on mezzanine (or on top of the house or on a [flying?] chariot) with the bodies of the children.56 medea Why do you pull at and shake the gates? Looking for the dead, and their killer? Stop. If you need something, speak. But you’ll never touch me. This chariot is from Helios,57 given to me for protection from my enemies. jason You despicable woman! The gods and all mankind will hate you. You dared strike your children, cutting them down with a sword. I’m childless. How can you dare to look to the sun and earth, after this ungodly act? I hope you die. I was a fool to bring you from your barbarian land into Greece. The gods’ vengeance, meant for you, has fallen upon me. You betrayed your father and city, you murdered your brother by the hearth, then without hesitation boarded the great Argo.58

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55 The exodos, literally the “way out,” is the final scene. 56 For staging possibilities of this scene, see, in this volume: Kozak, “Medea,” 31, 34, Yoon, 103, 104n18, and Kovacs, 290. The scene defies convention, for as Jason’s lines suggest, we expect to see the children’s corpses emerge from the skēnē building on the ekkyklēma, but instead they appear, with Medea, on the mēchanē. See Marshall, this volume, 16–17. 57 Helios is the sun god, Medea’s grandfather. 58 According to several sources, when Medea fled with Jason to the Argo in Colchis, she brought her brother with them. She cut her brother into pieces, spreading them across the road to slow down her father as he stopped to gather up the pieces (Pseudo-Apollodorus, Bibliotheca 1.9.24; Ovid, Tristia, 3.9; Apollonius, Argonautica 4.338, 4.460).

Medea Marrying me, bearing my children, then destroying them because of our marriage bed. No Greek woman would do this. I deemed you worthy, marrying you, wedding myself to my own destruction. You’re a lioness, not a woman, possessing a nature more savage than Scylla!59 Insults can’t hurt you, such is the audacity taken root inside you. Go, shameful villain, soaked in your children’s blood. My fate is worth lamenting, since I won’t enjoy my new wife, nor again speak to the children I fathered and raised. medea I would be obliged to give you a long answer, if Zeus didn’t know how you benefited from me, and how you treated me in return. You were not destined to dishonour my bed, and then spend the rest of your life ridiculing me. Nor was the princess. Nor was Creon going to exile me so easily. Therefore, call me lioness, call me Scylla the cave-dweller if you wish. In return I have your heart forever.

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jason My sorrow, too, you share with me. medea I do. It’s worth it to know you’ll never laugh at me. jason O children, what a horrible mother you had. 59 Scylla was a monster with twelve feet and six heads who lived in a cliff-cave across from the whirlpool Charybdis, darting her heads out to eat the men on passing ships (Homer, Odyssey 12.85–100).

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medea O children, you were killed by your father’s madness. jason Not by my hand.

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medea Your hand was elsewhere. jason And for that you slaughtered them? medea You think that was a small insult? jason For a good woman, it would be, but you are evil. medea Your children are dead – I did it to spite you.

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jason They’ll live to heap curses on you. medea The gods know who’s guilty. jason They know that you’re monstrous. medea Hate me, then. I hate your bitter talk. jason And I yours. Leaving you will be easy.

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medea How should we do it? I long for nothing more. jason Let me bury them, so I can grieve. medea No. I’ll dig their graves myself, and bring them to Hera’s sacred land.60 Their enemies won’t pull up their tombs and insult them. I will order a solemn festival to be performed hereafter to counter this profane murder.61 I will go to the land of Erechtheus,62 to Aegeus, son of Pandion, while you die suffering, knocked in the head by a remnant of the Argo.63 A souvenir of our bitter end. jason May both the children’s fury and bloody justice destroy you.

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medea What god or demon will listen to you, a cheater who breaks his oaths?

60 In the Greek, Medea specifically mentions Acraea (Akraia), the sanctuary to Hera on Acrocorinth, the acropolis above Corinth, as where she will bury her children. 61 These lines suggest Medea’s foundation of a festival at the sanctuary of Hera Akraia to honour her children. Many tragedies use their conclusions like this to explain the origins of religious rites and festivals; for Medea’s links with the Akraia festival, see Dunn, “Euripides and the Rites,” and Johnston, “Corinthian Medea.” 62 The “land of Erechtheus” is Athens; see note 42. 63 Many sources do have some piece of the Argo killing Jason, in different ways. The scholia (marginal notes added by later scribes) for this passage say that a stern piece that he had dedicated to Hera fell on him when he entered her temple.

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jason You murderer. medea Go bury your wife. jason I’ll go with my two children to mourn.

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medea Don’t cry now. Save it for old age. jason My dear children. medea They were dear to me, not to you. jason If you loved them, why did you kill them? medea To ruin you. jason I beg you, let me touch them. medea Now you talk to them; before you pushed them away. jason Let me, by the gods, touch their soft skin. medea It cannot be. You speak in vain.

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Medea jason Zeus, do you see how I suffer from this child-murderer? This beast! With all the strength I have I will wail and call the gods against you. Call them to witness how you have killed my children, and kept me from holding them, from burying their bodies. I wish I never had sons to see them dead by your hand. chorus Zeus on Olympus is master of many things. We never know what the gods will do. What we expect is never fulfilled. There ends the action.

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 Craft and Context: Medea florence yo on

Medea was first performed in 431 bce at the City Dionysia festival,1 shortly before the Spartan army invaded Attic territory and began what is now called the Second Peloponnesian War. It was performed with three other plays – Philoctetes, Dictys, and the satyr play Harvesters (Theristai) – none of which relate directly to the plot of Medea, and which do not survive.2 Euripides’s tetralogy took the third prize, while the competition was won by Aeschylus’s son Euphorion and second place went to Sophocles.3 The story of Jason and Medea certainly predates our play, though there is some debate over how familiar the original audience would have been with the myths that underlie the plots of Greek tragedy. It seems likely that Euripides’s audience would have known the story of Jason and the Argonauts travelling from Greece across the Black Sea to Colchis in search of the Golden Fleece (referred to in Homer’s Odyssey 12.69–72), and would also have known about his relationship with the Colchian princess Medea (sketched out by Homer’s contemporary Hesiod, Theogony 992–1002), and probably her assistance in the accomplishment of his quest.4 It is unclear, however, how well acquainted they would have been with the continuation of their story in Greece. There is considerable debate as to whether the audience would have anticipated the ending. It is perhaps safest to assume that most of the original spectators would have known enough to pick up on early hints to pay close attention to the children both as characters on stage and as symbolic figures whose importance develops throughout the play.5 Similarly, we may assume that some of the audience would have known the tradition about Medea’s further career in Athens (preserved in post-Euripidean sources), and would have viewed the scene between Medea and Aegeus with this in mind.6 One additional sensitivity that much of the audience would have shared was an awareness of the technique of ring-composition: the symmetrical

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crafting of a piece of literature around a central section, with a framing series of themes or formal elements repeated (and often resolved) in reverse order. This technique is embedded in the oldest Greek narratives, and the audience is usually cued to recognize it by a conspicuous correspondent element placed after the central pivot point.7 In our play, the central scene with Aegeus is followed by a superficially congenial scene between Medea and Jason that recalls and revises the first acrimonious debate. Any audience member who recognized this will have remained alert for the more subtle parallels in the remainder of the play. More practical considerations also influence the play’s structure. By Euripides’s time the playwright had three speaking actors available to him;8 nevertheless, Medea can be performed by only two speaking actors – the protagonist taking the roles of the nurse and then Medea, and a second actor playing all other solo parts – in addition to the chorus, silent extras, and one offstage voice. This is reflected in the construction of the play’s episodes. Euripides crafts the play as a series of scenes in which Medea engages with and outmanoeuvres an interlocutor. Euripides varies the dynamics of each encounter and arms Medea with an impressive range of persuasive techniques so that the scenes are never repetitive, but the effect is to enhance both the centrality and the isolation of the protagonist. It is also no coincidence that the parts can be divided between one actor playing the women (Medea and the nurse) and one playing the men (the tutor, Creon, Jason, Aegeus, and the servant), keeping in mind all the actors would be men. This reflects the play’s interest in gender, which remains a mainstay of its interpretation, as the following overview of these interactions will show. The play opens with the nurse, whose blend of sympathy and fear prepares the audience for the essential complexity of the protagonist, while her interaction with the tutor foreshadows the gendered encounters that make up most of the play. Medea’s voice is heard before she is seen, screaming inside the house (96). Her curses and threats are not spoken directly to another character but are “overheard.” This is a technique used sparingly in tragedy, and its use so early in a play is unparalleled; it is typically used for brief cries in climactic offstage violence, as we will see later in this play. Euripides amplifies the effect of this technique by having the offstage Medea sing rather than speak, a tragic convention conveying heightened emotion. By giving the audience this early glimpse into Medea’s unfiltered and uncontrolled state, Euripides prepares us to recognize how she shapes her self-presentation

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in each of the scenes that follow. At the same time, he establishes her essential isolation, heard but unhearing. When Medea finally emerges from the house she is “cool and dispassionate,” as Scapegoat Carnivale’s stage directions read (214). Her goal is revenge against Jason, but she does not focus on this yet. In one of the most famous speeches of Greek tragedy – one omitted in many early revivals of the play9 – she laments the shared suffering of women (230–52) establishing common ground with the chorus of Corinthian women before showing how, in her particular situation, she lacks whatever security the other women possess (253–8). The chorus easily accepts the gender alliance that Medea offers10 – and they agree to support her revenge against Jason by keeping silent. The arrival of Creon presents Medea with a new obstacle: exile for herself and her two children. The severity of this danger must not be underestimated. Exiles in the Greek world were dependent on personal networks of family and friends.11 As we hear repeatedly, Medea cannot return home, and no alternative refuge is initially suggested. Furthermore, the dangers of travel are emphasized throughout the play, set in a mythical time just after the invention of travel by sea. These two problems – where to go, and how to get there – are formidable, and they remain at the forefront of Medea’s mind, closely linked with her larger goal of revenge against Jason. The decree of exile is a harsh one, and Medea’s despairing response (277– 81) is fully convincing. Medea makes three attempts to disarm this threat. The first is a long speech claiming that she is not dangerous (293–315), but this only succeeds in making Creon more wary of her (316–24). She then performs a typically ancient Greek action: supplication. This is an important social and religious practice in which a person in peril attempts to place an obligation on a more powerful party, making a verbal request after establishing physical contact with the knees, hand, and/or beard.12 Even this ritual fails. It is not until Medea limits the scope of her request, focusing it on the welfare of her children and asking for delay rather than a reversal of the decree, that Creon yields. Her success in gaining even this limited respite is the more powerful because Creon is explicitly aware of the mistake he is making, but unable to stand firm (348–57). The nature of Medea’s performance in this exchange is emphatically revealed after Creon’s departure as Medea, left in possession of the stage, rejoices in her victory and considers possible paths to her revenge. We may

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compare this to our initial glimpse of her unfiltered state: here Euripides gives us access not to her private emotions, but to her private thoughts. The chorus accepts this without question, but the external audience may find it rather alarming. Euripides frames this scene with the offer of practical help that Jason has come to make (460–4) and Medea’s rejection of it (610–24). But the core of the interaction is the formal structure known as an agо̄n (“contest” or “debate”). Such debates rarely result in a clear victor, and their function seems to be less to resolve an issue than to air both sides, and to offer opportunities for characterization.13 Though Jason begins with an attack he quickly assumes an unconvincing defensive position, and while Medea does not persuade Jason, he does not even attempt to refute her accusations. The power and success of Medea’s performance here are essentially rhetorical rather than deceptive. During the debate, Medea and Jason range across three times and places: their past history in Colchis and during the return voyage of the Argo; their recent history in Corinth; and Medea’s future in exile, with the welfare of the children as a recurrent note. Medea’s long speech sets her past assistance to Jason, with its magical and mythical colouring, against Jason’s speech describing the practical benefits conferred by living in Greece. This is the only point in the play where Medea’s non-Greek background is raised against her, and it is possible that these elements of Jason’s speech may have resonated with some contemporary nationalistic views. Their final exchange does not ultimately resolve whether Medea’s exile was avoidable, or what Jason’s real motivations were in contracting the new marriage, and neither emerges untarnished from the debate. Nevertheless, it is Medea who is left with the last words and in possession of the stage. One particularly salient argument that Medea makes, and which Jason does not address, is that he has broken the oath he has made to her (492– 8). Like supplication, oath-taking was an action of great social and religio us significance in the ancient Greek world, and while the clever circumvention of an oath is a common theme in mythology, direct violation of an oath was viewed very seriously, and was believed to have severe divinely enforced consequences.14 An additional piece of background that may be relevant to this scene is a law passed by Pericles in 451 bce, which decreed that only the son of an Athenian father and an Athenian mother could become a full citizen; previously

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only the father’s citizenship had been taken into consideration. Although this law was twenty years old at the time that Medea was performed, many members of Euripides’s audience may well have had personal experience of the situation faced by Jason and Medea: an established marriage that had suddenly become a political liability with serious ramifications for both existing and future children.15 At the height of Medea’s need, Aegeus enters. His arrival is unexpected, but Euripides places this scene at the centre of the play not only structurally but thematically, revisiting and elaborating upon a number of the themes already raised: the importance of children (669–80, 715–21); the reciprocal power of supplication (709–10) and oaths (729–57); and the two problems posed by exile (destination and travel, carefully distinguished at 722–8). But the dominant tone of the scene is Medea’s control of the situation. This is notably demonstrated in the oath she exacts from Aegeus, elaborately detailing his obligations without specifying hers. More explicit still is the fact that Aegeus’s departure, like Creon’s, is followed by a monologue in which we are again shown the extent of Medea’s performance in the foregoing scene and given access to the extreme but consistent development of her plans. The scene following this central episode corresponds closely to the earlier scene between Jason and Medea, and the audience is invited to compare and contrast the two scenes. Medea’s performance of the role of submissive woman does not require elaboration here; nor does Jason’s complacent acceptance of this pretense. It is, however, worth noting some of the more understated indications of Medea’s control over the encounter, despite her imperfect self-control. For example, where Jason first arrived of his own accord to offer his help, he enters now at Medea’s request into a scene of her devising, and he leaves under her direction. Similarly, where Medea earlier rejected Jason’s offer of material aid, Jason cannot dissuade Medea from offering gifts to his new bride. Furthermore, where in the earlier scene both characters spoke for similar lengths of time, Medea now speaks substantially more lines. In these subtle ways, Euripides reinforces the obvious fact of Medea’s successful deception. The skill with which Medea has navigated the external obstacles of her revenge is stressed in the opening exchange of the next scene between her and the tutor, who explicitly represents Jason but also displays many of the qualities shown by Aegeus, Creon, and the chorus. He is, of course, entirely outclassed, but when he leaves the stage, Medea – as anticipated by the chorus

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– faces the final obstacle: herself. This kind of internal debate is a staple of Greek literature from Homer onwards, but in this scene the technique is developed to an extremely sophisticated degree. One classic reading of this scene sees it as the culmination of the conflict between Medea’s feminine (maternal) and her masculine (heroic) aspects.16 Her drive towards revenge ultimately triumphs, and she leaves the stage to execute it. Violence was rarely shown onstage in Greek tragedy, and the poets used different techniques to communicate these events. In this next scene Euripides juxtaposes two such techniques: the messenger-speech and offstage cries.17 Jason’s servant enters to recount the effect of Medea’s poisoned gifts on the royal family, and Medea listens eagerly to the fulfillment of her general intentions, announced in the first episode, and the specific plans formulated in the central scene. The account is long, detailed, and gruesome. By contrast, the death of the children is conveyed acutely and evocatively through their brief offstage cries, recalling and corresponding to Medea’s own offstage voice in the opening scene. Their interaction with the chorus in this scene is unparalleled in extant plays. In the final scene, Medea’s mastery is demonstrated spatially and visually. She literally excludes Jason from the house, which he now attempts to enter for the first time in the play (1312–14), and she appears above the house lifted by the crane (mēchanē), a device typically used by actors playing divine characters, in a chariot provided by her grandfather Helios.18 Her place of refuge has been secured by her powers of persuasion; her means of escape is now divinely provided. Yet despite the finality of the ending, many tensions remain unresolved. Medea’s victory over Jason is unambiguous and her pleasure in this is deep and intense, but Euripides leaves us in no doubt that the cost of this victory is equally deep. This conflict parallels the complex portrayal of Medea herself and allows for a wide range of interpretations. Much of the play’s enduring appeal lies in this open-endedness, and the challenges and opportunities that it continues to offer. notes 1 For more on the City Dionysia, see Marshall, this volume, 14–20. 2 Tentative reconstructions of all three are included in both the Loeb and the Aris and Philips collections of Euripidean fragments, with both Greek text and English translation.

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3 See this volume, Hurley and Kozak, 4; Marshall, 20; and Kovacs, 298, for playwright placings. 4 For a brief overview of earlier tellings of the story see McCallum-Barry, “Medea Before”; for an extensive study see Moreau, Le mythe. 5 Griffiths, Children in Greek Tragedy, discusses both the staging and the thematic importance of the children; see her index, s.v. Medeia. 6 For evidence and implications of this connection, see Sfyroeras, “The Ironies of Salvation.” 7 On the general characteristics and effects of ring-composition see Douglas, Thinking in Circles. The general concept is broadly accepted, but it is difficult to be methodologically robust in its detailed application to specific works (especially on a large scale), given e.g., inherent problems of selection (cherry-picking) for such schemes. 8 See also Marshall, this volume, 22–3. 9 Hall and Macintosh, Greek Tragedy and the British Theatre, 489. 10 For the implications of the chorus’s choice see Swift, “Conflicting Identities.” 11 On exile in the ancient world see Gaertner, Writing Exile, especially chapter 1. 12 The seminal article on supplication is Gould, “Hiketeia.”; see also Naiden, Ancient Supplication, for a comprehensive study. 13 For an overview of the Euripidean agōn, see Lloyd, The Agon in Euripides. 14 For the classic interpretation of oaths in this play see Flory, “Medea’s Right Hand” and Fletcher, “Women and Oaths”; for a different interpretation see Allan, “Masters of Manipulation.” For oaths in general, see “The Oath in Archaic and Classical Greece,” a project based at the University of Nottingham (https://www.notting ham.ac.uk/greatdatabase/brzoaths/public_html/index.php), and its publications. 15 For the status and perception of non-citizen women in Athens, see Kennedy, Immigrant Women, chapters 1–2. For more on how this issue of citizenship plays out in later receptions, see Kozak, this volume, “Medea,” 32. 16 See e.g., Foley, “Medea’s Divided Self,” and Rabinowitz, Anxiety Veiled, chapter 3, especially page 153: “The character Medea may be of the female sex but is of the male gender.” 17 The seminal study on the Euripidean messenger-speech is De Jong, Narrative in Drama; for offstage cries see e.g., Arnott, “Offstage Cries.” 18 On the use of the space above the stage building, see Mastronarde, “Actors on High.” On the deus ex machina as a closural device, see Dunn, Tragedy’s End, chapter 3. In the vase paintings of the fourth century bce and later, the magical nature of Medea’s chariot is emphasized as it is drawn by dragons or snakes; see also Kovacs, this volume, 290. Our text neither confirms nor contradicts this image. For more on the dragon-drawn chariot in antiquity, see Marshall, this volume, 16–17. For more on vertical space and the chariot in receptions, see Kozak, this volume, “Medea,” 31, 34.



Bacchae

 Scapegoat Carnivale’s Bacchae lynn kozak

As other chapters in this volume make clear, Greek tragedy, which so many of us consider the foundation of modern drama, emerged as a religious exercise within a religious festival context.1 Modern productions often overlook this aspect of Greek tragedy, forgetting that within the ancient Greek worldview, religion was not only a part of life but was inextricable from every aspect of lived experience from going to war, to voting in the assembly, to, yes, attending theatre. If contemporary productions of Medea often omit Medea’s connections to gods and to magic,2 then what do contemporary productions of Bacchae do, when its protagonist is a god? Scapegoat Carnivale decided to root its Bacchae in a historical moment when religion was not only pervasive, but also capable of inspiring awe and terrible ecstasy. For Scapegoat, this was the Second Great Awakening, a religious movement that stormed through America from the end of the eighteenth century through the middle of the nineteenth, changing and greatly expanding the reaches of Christian Protestant sects, especially the Methodists, Baptists, and Presbyterians. As with Medea, music played a role in choosing this historical setting, stemming from Shragge’s interest in Appalachian folk and hymnal music. With further research, the company focused specifically on the Cane Ridge Revival, an 1801 event that took place in Kentucky, as a setting. This five-day “communion” festival drew thousands of people from hundreds of miles away, resulting in one of the largest mass religious experiences in American history. Colonel Robert Patterson, a Kentucky-based slave owner and an attendee at the event, wrote in a letter, describing the scene: Of all ages, from eight years and upwards; male and female; rich and poor; the blacks; and of every denomination; those in favour of it, as

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well as those, at the instant in opposition to it, and railing against it, have instantaneously laid motionless on the ground. Some feel the approaching symptoms by being under deep convictions; their heart swells, their nerves relax, and in an instant they become motionless and speechless, but generally retain their senses … In order to give you a more just conception of it, suppose so large a congregation assembled in the woods, ministers preaching day and night; the camp illuminated with candles, on trees, at wagons, and at the tent; persons falling down, and carried out of the crowd, by those next to them, and taken to some convenient place, where prayer is made for them, some Psalm or Hymn, suitable to the occasion, sung.3 This Christian gathering carries clear parallels to the descriptions of Dionysian worship throughout Euripides’s Bacchae, particularly in the physical ecstasy that took over believers and non-believers alike. Despite the distance between early nineteenth-century Kentucky and ancient Greece, Christianity has connections with Dionysus. Christ and Dionysus are both gods of wine and renewal, with early Christians in the Greek-speaking Roman Empire understanding these parallels.4 Early Christian writers, as Kovacs notes, often even drew on Bacchae in their works: Scapegoat’s own translation restores the lacuna towards the end of the play (between lines 1329 and 1330) with parts of the Christus Patiens, a Christian passion drama attributed to possibly fourth-century Gregory of Nazianzus, who seemingly incorporated Euripides’s lines into its dialogue.5 Scapegoat’s placing Bacchae in a Christian context differentiates its production from most. Among recent productions, some have had features suggestive of Christianity, but rock ’n’ roll remains a far more essential cultural reference. Actor Jonathan Groff ’s 2009 Dionysus was “like Jesus in ‘Godspell,’ only dangerous,”6 in director Joanne Akalaitis’s production from a translation by Nicholas Rudall, while actor Ben Whishaw’s 2015 Dionysus’s hair and costume suggested Jesus, but his performance settled between “half androgynous rock star and half shape-shifting demon” (Almeida, directed by James McDonald in a translation by Anne Carson).7 Referencing the 1971 rockopera Godspell points in the direction that most contemporary productions have taken, with many directly invoking the late 1960s or early 1970s as a cultural setting,8 and many adopting the full format of a rock opera, with singing choruses.

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This close-knit association between Bacchae and a singular moment in American cultural history perhaps stems from what is arguably the most famous of Bacchae receptions, Richard Schechner’s Dionysus in 69.9 The Theatre Performance Group’s adaptation, filmed in 1970 by Brian de Palma, incorporated Schechner’s ideas around environmental theatre, and was both site-specific and encouraging of audience participation, with no clearly delineated audience area. Dionysus in 69 was foundational in the trend of “happenings” – participatory cultural events. But the production is perhaps more famously remembered for its nude chanting crowds of young performers, their bodies sometimes entwining as they moved, danced, and sang, with the audience in varying degrees of participation, around the space. This freewheeling aesthetic influenced much of what has come after.10 The rock star aspect of this aesthetic, reminiscent of the dancing muddy throngs of Woodstock and, as Kovacs notes, the “Summer of Love,”11 endures in many twenty-first-century productions, as well. Alan Cumming’s 2007 “rock star” turn as Dionysus was backed by a “soulful” singing chorus that the New York Times critic Charles Isherwood dubbed his “groupies” (National Theatre of Scotland, directed by John Tiffany, adapted by David Grieg).12 More recently, the 2020 Classical Theatre of Harlem production, directed by Carl Cofield, drew the headline “The Greeks Go Coachella,” with a “Dionysus worthy of Jimi Hendrix,” referring to actor Jason C. Brown.13 Leaving aside the musical implications of that era, the “more dangerous” cultural figure of Charles Manson also appears as a reference point. His name pops up in reviews for Ben Whishaw’s performance in the Almeida production,14 and he directly influenced director Jeremy Seghers’s recent drive-in covid pandemic version.15 One reviewer, watching a production of Bacchae in Oak Park, Illinois, said simply: “The group of feral young women driven to promiscuity, madness, and mayhem in the Saltbox Theatre Collective’s strongly acted new production of Euripides’s The Bacchae were fascinating to watch. But I struggled to make sense out of the conflict. Then I remembered Charles Manson’s ‘Helter Skelter’ girls in the late 1960s – his free-love, murderous ‘family’ commune in the California desert – and it all made sense.”16 These comparisons point to well-known charismatic figures but eschew religious undertones. Bacchae’s Dionysus is neither Jimi Hendrix nor Charles Manson but a multi-faceted god taking his revenge. Wole Soyinka’s The Bacchae by Euripides: A Communion Rite offers a parallel history to the play,17 first produced by London’s Old Vic in 1973, steeped

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in Soyinka’s own Nigerian, Yoruban heritage. Equating his Dionysus, still called Dionysus, with the Yoruban god Ogun, “the chthonic god of metals, creativity, the road, wine and art,”18 Soyinka explicitly marks his tragedy not just as a participatory “happening” but as a communal ritual, one, despite its title, not rooted in Christianity but in Yoruba traditions of sacrifice, disintegration, and renewal.19 His version ends in blood spurting from Pentheus’s decapitated head, which Tiresias claims becomes wine and which all on stage drink: “By drinking the king’s blood, the community as a whole partakes of his power, and all are revitalised and unified.”20 Soyinka’s ending offers a powerful rejoinder to Euripides’s chorus taunting Agave when she asks them, “Come, share in the feast,” and they reply, “What? Share? Sad woman” (1183–4). By recasting the play within a Yoruban context, Soyinka points towards a different cultural possibility, one of community restitution rather than destruction, while also leaning into the fact that “in other Euripidean finales a god pronounces the foundation of a cult or ritual to ameliorate the tragic events.”21 Scapegoat Carnivale’s 2012 production of Bacchae embraces these religious possibilities, incorporating some aspects of the play’s participatory potential while firmly rejecting rock ’n’ roll. The first indication of Scapegoat’s unique approach appears with Dionysus himself, played by Alex McCooeye. A departure from the script’s androgynous, long-haired beauty (454–9), often interpreted through rock-star decadence, his Dionysus was instead tall, bearded, and short-haired, still and fierce. Yet this casting choice did nothing to undermine the humour and eroticism in the stichomythia (the short lines of back-and-forth) between Dionysus and Pentheus, which one reviewer called “perversely hilarious.”22 In the infamous scene where Dionysus helps Pentheus dress as a woman, McCooeye’s height (6′9″) also allowed him to tower behind Brett Watson’s Pentheus, as he tenderly fixed Pentheus’s hair (925–40), their bodies interposed in an extraordinarily charged way. As with the other tragedies in this volume, Scapegoat Carnivale took the historical moment of the 1801 Cane Ridge Revival as an aesthetic guide for the production, inspiring its costumes and music but not the script itself. The production’s abstracted nineteenth-century costumes, and choruses composed with eighteenth-century “lining out” hymns – hymns sung in the round in a call and response – created distance between the audience and

Figure 7 Alex McCooeye as Dionysus.

the play’s action without imposing a precise reading of when and where it might be taking place. In contrast, the production drew the audience in by using the theatrical space to envelope them within the action. The seating’s rake became the slope of Mount Cithaeron, the mountain just outside of Thebes where Dionysus had sent the city’s women – so trips to and from the mountain involved walking through the audience. This made for memorable moments like the harrowing sight of Dionysus watching from downstage left as Pentheus, dressed in his mother’s clothes, makes his way “up the mountain” (960–75). But Agave’s entrance used this spatial mapping to fullest tragic effect. Agave, played by France Rolland, runs into the playing space, shouting triumphantly from “the mountain,” from behind most of the audience, forcing them to turn and see the dreaded sight – there she stands in a spotlight, bloodied and ecstatic as she carries Pentheus’s severed head upon her thyrsus. This raked seating also enveloped the audience sonically, separating the production’s two choruses: there was a singing, dancing five-actor chorus on stage, representing the maenads who had followed Dionysus from abroad

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and then there was a second chorus of women – members of Choeur Maha, Montreal’s feminist choir – at the top of the raked seating, representing those Theban women already up on the mountain, those who await Pentheus and carry out his terrible fate. This combination of choruses, particularly coupled with their lining-out singing style, created an echo-chamber through the house – two sets of voices, calling and responding to one another from either side of the audience, in devoted service to their god. This hymnal mode of choral music, evoking an earlier Christian worship, stood out against most contemporary productions’ reliance on rock ’n’ roll or pop-infused song23 and gave a clear religious tone to the action. The costumes of the chorus contributed as well, rejecting any notion of “sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll,”24 with the first chorus of maenads dressed in dappled (but not fawn-skin) orange tops, over chartreuse pants and pleated silken skirts. The second chorus was dressed even more modestly in simple dresses and long, hooded capes; they stood at the back of the theatre so that all could see that they were acting “modestly, not as you said, drunk from wine, / hunting Aphrodite in the woods” (686–7). Perhaps the eeriest choral moment comes in the fourth choral stasimon, where, after a building strophe and antistrophe full of stomping, verve, and thrusting thyrsi, the epode returns to still, clear, high notes, as though a moment of religious relief had come to the Bacchae as they finally urge their god, fatally, against Pentheus (1016–24).

Figure 8 Bacchae’s onstage chorus (Gitanjali Jain, Jessica B. Hill, Holly GauthierFrankel, Delphine Bienvenu, and Melissa Trottier).

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Scapegoat Carnivale’s Bacchae rejected rock ’n’ roll and instead sought religiosity in an interpretation that holds both terror and beauty. As Montreal Gazette reviewer Pat Donnelly said of the show: “With a musical nod to the Protestant Great Awakening of the early nineteenth century, Scapegoat director Andreas Apergis has delivered a production which beguiles the ears with a cappella harmonies from the chorus while the actors keep us on the edge of our seats with tales of bizarre happenings offstage. The staging is simple, ritualistic, with canvas sails and hanging light bulbs setting the scene … As we used to say in the ’70s, this is a happening.”25 notes 1 For the original religious performance context of Greek tragedy, see Marshall, this volume. For religious themes in Bacchae, see Fletcher, this volume. 2 See Kozak, this volume, “Medea,” 33–4. 3 Extract of a Letter from Colonel Robert Patterson, of Lexington, Kentucky to the Reverend Doctor John King, 25 September 1801, New York Missionary Magazine and Repository of Religious Intelligence for the Year 1802, III (1802), 121. 4 For Christian readings of Dionysus, see Friesen, “Reading Dionysus,” and Shorrock, “The Myth of Paganism.” 5 For Christus Patiens and Bacchae, see Pollman, “Jesus Christ and Dionysus.” See also Kovacs, this volume, 294. 6 Haagensen, “The Bacchae.” 7 Dalton, “Bakkhai.” 8 For a full accounting of Dionysus narratives and the American 1960s, see Carlevale, “Dionysus Now.” 9 See also Kovacs, this volume, 299. 10 Hall, “Introduction: Why Greek Tragedy?,” 1. 11 Kovacs, this volume, 299. 12 Isherwood, “A Greek God.” 13 Solís, “Review: The Greeks.” 14 Dalton, “Bakkhai.” 15 Moyer, “Jeremy Seghers.” 16 Deuchler, “The Bacchae.” 17 For more on Soyinka’s version, see Kovacs, this volume, 000. 18 Bishop, “A Nigerian Version,” 70. 19 McConnell, “Postcolonial Sparagmos,” 148. 20 Bishop, “A Nigerian Version,” 72. 21 Fletcher, this volume, 188. See also Medea 1378–83. 22 Soucy, “Sons and Songs of God.” 23 I include the gospel-tinged pop choruses of the 2007 National Theatre of Scotland’s production here. 24 Dalton, “Bakkhai.” 25 Donnelly, “Wild Women.”

 Bacchae eur ipides

Adaptation by Joseph Shragge Literal translation by Andreas Apergis with contributions from Lynn Kozak Scapegoat Carnivale’s Bacchae was selected as part of the Centaur Theatre’s Brave New Looks series by artistic director Roy Surette, with a production run from 12 to 22 October 2012. The production was supported by the Conseil des arts et lettres du Québec and the Conseil des arts de Montréal, and won nine Montreal English Theatre Awards, including Best Independent Production. Crew Adaptation/Assistant Direction Joseph Shragge Direction/Literal Translation Andreas Apergis Composition Brian Lipson Music Direction David Oppenheim Stage Direction Todd Bricker Set Design Francis Farley Costume Design Susanna Vera Lighting Design Erwann Bernard Choreography Leslie Baker Sound Design Peter Cerone Cast Chorus Delphine Bienvenu Cadmus Hugo Dann Chorus Holly Gauthier-Frankel Messenger Karl Graboshas

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Chorus Jessica B. Hill Chorus Gitanjali Jain Tiresias Greg Kramer Dionysus Alex McCooeye Agave France Rolland Chorus Melissa Trottier Second Messenger Paul Van Dyck Pentheus Brett Watson Note on the Text: Joseph Shragge adapted Andreas Apergis’s literal translation for performance, often cutting redundant lines and streamlining sections, particularly in the choral odes. These odes were then further cut when Brian Lipson set them as lyrics to his choral compositions. For the purpose of this volume, we have restored the majority of the cut lines, as well as all the excised choral verses. Throughout the script, {} indicates lines that were cut for Scapegoat Carnivale’s production; [] indicates lines that have been cut from the ancient Greek by editors judging from different manuscript traditions; notes on the text throughout also indicate missing lines. Many sections remain streamlined in their expression when compared to the ancient Greek text; please note that the line numbers refer to the Greek text. All stage directions represent Scapegoat Carnivale’s choices, as surviving Greek plays do not contain any such directions.



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Characters dionysus, god of wine and the son of Zeus chorus of Bacchae, worshippers of Dionysus from Asia Minor tiresias, a seer cadmus, the founder and former leader of Thebes pentheus, Cadmus’s grandson and the current leader of Thebes guard, one of Pentheus’s men messenger second messenger agave, Cadmus’s daughter and Pentheus’s mother

Prologue Enter Dionysus. dionysus 1 I’ve come, Zeus’s son, to Thebes.2 Dionysus, who Cadmus’s daughter,3 Semele, carried in her womb, miscarried in a flash of lightning.4 1 Please note that throughout the play, the name “Dionysus” is interchangeable with “Bacchus” and “Bromius.” 2 Thebes is a city in Boeotia, in central Greece, just over fifty kilometres from Athens, and is the setting of many Greek tragedies including Sophocles’s Oedipus Tyrannus, also in this volume. See also Fletcher, this volume, 182. 3 Cadmus came from Tyre (in modern day Lebanon) to search for his sister Europa. He founded Thebes after the Delphic oracle advised him to follow a cow and build a city where it sat down. There he sacrificed the cow to Athena, killing Ares’s dragon that guarded the water he needed for the sacrifice. Athena advised him to sow the dragon’s teeth in the soil, and from the ground the noble houses of Thebes sprouted. For killing the dragon, Cadmus had to serve Ares for a year and marry his daughter, Harmonia. Cadmus and Harmonia both eventually turned into serpents, as lines 1330–5 foretell. 4 Dionysus was born when Zeus turned himself into lightning while with Semele, incinerating Semele and throwing Dionysus out of her womb into the river Dirce (88– 98); Zeus then sewed Dionysus into his own thigh until he was ready to be “born.”

Bacchae I changed my form to appear mortal. Came here to the river Dirce and the waters of Ismenus.5 I see the memory of my mother, thunderstruck. Near the palace, the cinders of her house still smoulder with Zeus’s flame – Hera’s eternal insult against my mother.6 I praise my grandfather Cadmus for preserving his daughter’s house, making it a place where no one walks. I covered it with vines. I left Lydia and Phrygia,7 with all their gold; left Persia’s8 sun-burnt plains and Bactria’s walls; crossed the frozen land of the Medes9 to Arabia’s smiling fortune and Asia’s salty shore where Greeks and barbarians mix.10 The mortals in those lands danced and established my rites so that I’d appear as a god among men. Of the Greek cities, I have come here first, to Thebes,

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5 Both the Dirce and the Ismenus are rivers near Thebes associated with water nymphs. 6 Zeus’s wife Hera was famously jealous of his philandering, and often sought vengeance against mortals whom Zeus slept with. 7 Lydia and Phrygia were Anatolian cultures of Asia Minor, in modern-day Turkey, famous for their natural resources. 8 At the time that Bacchae was produced, the Persian Empire ruled over most of Asia Minor, the Levant, and some of Egypt. The Persians originated from what is now the Fars region of modern Iran. 9 The Medes lived in an area which ranged across western and northern modernday Iran. 10 “Barbarian” refers to any non-Greek speaker; this culturally “mixed” region may refer to the west coast of Asia Minor, which had long been settled by Greeks.

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wrapped in my fawn-skin, holding my spear of ivy11 for one reason – my mother’s sisters, of all people, denied that I’m Zeus’s son. They said my mother Semele carried the child of a mortal and that she was told by her father to fabricate an affair with Zeus to hide what she’d done. This lie, they claimed, was the reason Zeus killed her. I sent those sisters from their homes to live in the mountains, frenzied and possessed. Now they dress for my secret rites. And I sent every woman in Thebes to join them under pines, and on the tops of cliffs. The city must learn, even against its will, that it’s uninitiated in my Bacchic rites. And I’ll defend my mother, showing I’m born of her and Zeus. Cadmus has passed on his throne to his other grandson, Pentheus. He fights against me, makes no offerings to me, and never mentions me in prayer. He’ll see me soon – as a god –

11 The thyrsus was a giant fennel stalk covered with ivy, and often topped with a pinecone – Dionysus and his followers are regularly depicted carrying it in Greek art.

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along with all of Thebes. Then I’ll move on. And if he tries to take back my worshippers from the mountains, I’ll join the madwomen and lead them into battle. {This is why I have changed to mortal form, appearing as a man.} Women who left Tmolus,12 Lydia’s barricade – 13 my fellow travellers, whom I brought with me from among the barbarians as helpers and attendants, lift your Phrygian drums. Surround Pentheus’s royal home. Beat them loud so Cadmus’s city will hear, while I return to the Bacchae on Mount Cithaeron14 to join the dance.

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Parodos15 Enter Chorus. chorus (sung) I left Asia. I left divine Tmolus quickly for Bromius.16 There’s no pain,

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12 Mount Tmolus is Mount Bozda in modern-day Turkey. 13 Lydia’s capital city, Sardis, sat at the base of Mount Tmolus, providing it with natural defence. 14 A mountain whose range acts as the natural boundary between Thebes’s geographic area of Boeotia and Athens’s geographic area of Attica. See also Oedipus, this volume, note 24. 15 The choral entrance song, here consisting of a prelude, two pairs of strophe/antistrophe metrically paired verses, and an epode, “the after song.” 16 An epithet of Dionysus, signifying “roaring” from the Greek verb bremein, “to roar.”

120 work is easy, I’ll never weary, honouring Bacchus with our song – Who’s on the road? Who’s on the road? Get under roofs. Quiet your mouths. We sing of Dionysus. (strophe a) {O he’s blessed who knows the mysteries of the god! He purifies his life. Purified in the fury of the mountain dance, he pleases Cybele, the great mother.17 He takes a thyrsus wreathed in ivy. Shakes. Worships Dionysus.} Come Bacchae, come Bacchae, lead Bromius, the god, the godchild, Dionysus, down Phrygia’s mountains into the broad streets of Greece. (antistrophe a) Before he was born Zeus’s thunder flew upon his mother. She tore him from her womb, launched him into the air, then died, struck by lightning. Zeus sewed him into his thigh,

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17 Cybele was the Anatolian goddess of the wilderness and fertility who became assimilated in some Greek cities with Greek goddesses Rhea and Demeter, and also appeared with Dionysus, as here.

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Bacchae held him there with gold pins, hidden from Hera. When the Fates had perfected him, Dionysus was born with bull horns, a god. Zeus made him a crown of snakes. That is why we braid our hair with the snakes we catch. (strophe b) O Thebes, nourisher of Semele, crown yourself with ivy bursting with leaves and berries. Rage, wreathed in oak and pine – in fawn-skins spotted with white wool. Take the thyrsus; become holy. Soon the whole world will dance as Bromius leads the revellers to the mountain. There awaits a throng of women, who left their homes for Dionysus. {(antistrophe b) O secret Cretan caves18 where Zeus first walked,19 where triple-plumed Corybants20 first pulled the drum’s hide taut and mingled with the beating drum

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18 This ode links Dionysus with Cybele, citing both her Cretan version, Rhea, and her Cretan worshippers, the Curetes (in line 120 in the Greek), as well as her worshippers from Asia Minor, called Corybantes. 19 One myth places Zeus’s birthplace in Crete, where his mother Rhea hid from Cronus to give birth to him in a cave of Mount Dicte. The Curetes helped hide the infant, masking his cries with their drums. See Pseudo-Apollodorus, Bibliotheca 1.1.5–7. 20 See note 17.

122 the sweet notes of Phyrgian flutes.21 They gave the drum to Mother Rhea, and sounded with Bacchic shouts while the raving satyrs22 acted out the mother goddess’s rites. They joined in the triennial dances in which Dionysus delights.} (epode) In the mountains he is sweet, collapsing from running, hunting, eating goat meat raw. He rushes up the mountains of Phrygia, the mountains of Lydia. Bromius, the leader – he cries evoe.23 The earth flows with milk, and flows with wine; it streams with bees’ nectar. He holds a branch of flaming pine burning bright as Syrian incense, breaks into a run, into dances, rousing his wanderers to fight, to and fro with his shouts, throwing his blonde curls, his voice shouting: “Come Bacchae, come Bacchae, with the splendor of golden Tmolus. Celebrate Dionysus

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21 Phrygia, in Asia Minor, speaks to Cybele’s origins there. 22 Satyrs were hybrid creatures who had the bodies of men but the ears of donkeys and the tails of horses – they are often associated with Dionysus as well as RheaCybele, and vases frequently show them in Dionysian revelry with maenads. 23 Evoe is the worship cry of the maenads.

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with your loud-rolling drums, shout his evoe with your Phrygian cries whenever the holy melody leads the wild ones to the mountain, to the mountain.” Delighted like a foal beside its grazing mother, she swiftly moves her limbs and feet with the Bacchae.

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Episode One Enter Tiresias, dressed as a bacchant. He approaches the palace door. tiresias Who’s at the door? Call Cadmus from his home, child of Agenor,24 who left Sidon city25 and built Thebes’s towers. Someone go in and announce that Tiresias calls. He knows why I have come around – our agreement, from an old man to an even older one, to hold the thyrsus, wear the fawn-skin, and crown our old heads with ivy.

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Enter Cadmus, also dressed as a bacchant, from the house. 24 Agenor, a Phoenician king of either Tyre or Sidon in various myths (both cities were located in what is now Lebanon), descended from Greek Io, sent his sons Cadmus, Phoenix, and Cliix to find Europa after Zeus abducted her. When they didn’t find her (Zeus having taken her to Crete), they all founded cities rather than returning to Agenor having failed in their quests. Cadmus founded Thebes. 25 See Bacchae note 67 for Cadmus’s origins in Tyre, another Phoenician city just thirty-five kilometres south of Sidon in modern-day Lebanon.

124 cadmus My dear friend, I heard you from inside my house – a wise voice from a wise man. I’m ready – I have the god’s dress on. We need to honour him well, as much as we can. He is my grandson. Dionysus has revealed himself a god to men. Where do I dance? Where do I put my foot down and shake my grey skull? Lead on, old man, old Tiresias, for you are wise. I’ll pound my thyrsus night and day, and never weary. We’ll forget our old age! tiresias I must be similarly afflicted, for I too feel young and want to dance. cadmus Should we take the chariot up the mountain? tiresias It’s not respectful enough to the god. cadmus Then this old man will lead you, old man. tiresias God will lead us – it’ll be effortless.

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cadmus Are we the only ones to leave Thebes? {To join the Bacchic dance?}

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tiresias We’re the only ones thinking straight. cadmus We’ve delayed enough. Take my hand. tiresias Yes, let’s join hands. cadmus [I don’t look down on gods, being born mortal. tiresias We don’t try to be clever with the gods. Our traditions are old as time – no logic can strike them down, not even if the mind reaches the height of wisdom.]26 They will say it’s strange but I’m not embarrassed at my age to go dancing, head wreathed in ivy. The god makes no distinction. He wants honour from everyone. Whether young or old, we must dance. cadmus Since light you do not see, Tiresias, I’ll be your eyes. Pentheus, in haste, comes toward the house – Echion’s child, to whom I gave the rule of this land – he’s distraught. What news will he bring?

26 Diggle deletes these lines. See Diggle, Euripides 3 ad 199.

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Enter Pentheus with guards. He speaks to the guards without seeing the old men. pentheus I happened to be away from this land, but I’ve heard of new evils in the city – our women have abandoned their homes to go dance in the mountains, honouring the latest god, Dionysus, whoever he is. I heard they cluster around wine bowls, then retreat to private places – men’s beds – pretending they’re maenads, but they follow Aphrodite before Bacchus.27 Those I’ve caught are in jail, arms tied, guarded. And those still missing, I’ll hunt down from the mountains – [even my own mother, Agave, {who bore me to Echion,} and her sisters Ino and Autonoë, {Actaeaon’s mother.}]28 Binding them in iron chains will quickly end this Bacchic nonsense. They say some stranger has come, a sorcerer from Lydia, with blonde curls, perfumed hair, and the dark-eyed charms of Aphrodite. He’s with them night and day, offering them his pleasant mysteries.

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27 Pentheus suggests that the women have left the city to sate their sexual desires, “to follow Aphrodite,” rather than following Dionysus. See also lines 232–6 and 458–9; the messenger disavows this notion at line 688, but he also suggests that “Aphrodite” (sex) will be no more without Dionysus’s wine (772–4). 28 Actaeon, Pentheus’s first cousin, was torn apart by his own hunting dogs as punishment for an offence against Artemis. Lines 338–40 claim the offence was his boasting to be a better hunter than her, though many versions say his crime was seeing the virgin-hunter goddess bathing. Some versions also claim the goddess turned him into a stag before his dogs devoured him. Some editors delete these two lines: see Diggle, Euripides 3 ad 229.

Bacchae If I catch him in this house, I’ll stop his thyrsus pounding, his curls won’t shake. I’ll separate his head clean off his body! He’s the one who says Dionysus is a god, that Zeus sewed him into his thigh. But he was burned by lightning along with his mother for lying about her marriage to Zeus. Is this not worthy of being hanged, the insolence of this stranger, whoever he is? (Sees Cadmus and Tiresias) And yet here’s another spectacle, Prophet Tiresias in a multi-coloured fawn-skin and my grandfather – this is laughable – celebrating Bacchus with a fennel stalk. I refuse to see you acting so senselessly at your age. Toss the ivy! My mother’s father, drop the thyrsus from your hand. You convinced him of all this, Tiresias: but then again you want to bring a new god to humanity so that you’ll get money to contemplate feathered creatures and fires. If you weren’t grey with age, you’d be tied up with the bacchants for promoting base rites. As for these women drunk on wine, I proclaim it unhealthy. chorus What disrespect! O stranger, don’t you fear the gods and Cadmus, who sowed this land? You would disgrace your own family?

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tiresias When there is reason and occasion, a wise man speaks well – it’s no big accomplishment. Your tongue is nimble, but what you’ve said has only the appearance of thought. Speaking boldly, without understanding, makes for a bad citizen. This new god you mock, I can’t tell you of the greatness he’ll soon have in Greece. There are two things, young man, of importance to humankind: Goddess Demeter, she is earth, but call her whatever name you wish. She feeds mortals with dry food. But he who came after, Semele’s son, discovered wine. Wine allays grief and lessens suffering, brings sleep and the forgetting of everyday sorrows. There’s no other cure for pain. {He is poured out as an offering to the gods – through him, humans can have all that’s good.} And you ridicule him – {how Zeus sewed him in his thigh? I’ll tell you what happened. After Zeus grabbed him from the lightning fire, he carried the fetus up to Olympus. Hera wanted to throw him out of heaven but Zeus contrived against this, ripping a part of the ether that surrounds the world and moulding it into the form of the baby. This he gave to Hera, protecting the real Dionysus from her hostility. Over time people confused this fake, this “hostage” – “homēros” with the word “thigh,” “meros,” and created around that word the myth of Dionysus being sown into Zeus’s thigh.}

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Bacchae This god is a prophet – there’s magic in his frenzy – and when he possesses your body completely you can see the future. He shares in Ares’s domain. Before a single spear is raised, armies flee, panic-stricken – {this, too, is the madness of Dionysus.} You’ll see him yet, on the rocks of Delphi, bounding across the twin-peaked plateau, flashing between the pines, torch and thyrsus held high, and all of Greece worshipping him. Listen to me, Pentheus: don’t boast that men have power over gods. If you think so, hallucinations have diseased your mind. Fancy yourself wise, welcome the God into your land, pour libations, dance the Bacchic dance, and crown your head. Dionysus doesn’t hold women back when it comes to sex – [moderation is in one’s nature, in all things, always.]29 A moderate woman won’t be corrupted by Bacchic revelry. Don’t you see? You, yourself, like it when they throng the gates, honouring the name “Pentheus.” And I believe he too is pleased when honoured. So Cadmus and I, whom you laugh at, go, crowned in ivy, to dance. A grey-headed couple, yet we must dance. I won’t fight the god because you say to. You are mad in the most painful way: there’s no drug that can cure you, and without drugs you are ill.

29 Some texts delete this line: see Diggle, Euripides 3 ad 316.

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chorus Old man, {you do not shame Phoebus30 with your words – and} you are wise to honour Bromius. cadmus My child, Tiresias advises you well. Live with us, do not stand outside the law. You seem confused and lacking in foresight. Even if, as you say, he’s not a god, call him one – it’s a divine lie. Semele will be known as the mother of a god and it will bring honour to me and all my family. Remember Actaeon’s miserable fate in the mountain, ripped apart and devoured by hounds he raised for bragging he was a better hunter than Artemis. Please don’t suffer a fate like this. I’ll put the ivy on your head. Honour the god with us. pentheus Don’t touch me. Go. Join the Bacchae. I won’t let your stupidity rub off on me. I’ll punish Tiresias, teacher of your folly. (To guard) You – go quickly to the place where he sits and watches birds. Pry it with levers, turn it over, scramble all his things. Set loose his wreaths to the winds and storms – this is how I’ll hurt him most. (To other guard) And you, go through the city, ferret out this effeminate stranger, who has brought sickness to our women and dishonour to our beds. 30 Apollo’s most common epithet, “bright,” standing in for his name here.

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Seize him, bind him, and march him to me, so that I can stone him to death. His Bacchic party in Thebes will be bitter.

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Exit Pentheus. tiresias Hard man! You’ve no idea where your words will take you. Before you were simply out of your mind; now you’re also enraged. Let’s go, Cadmus, and beg the god on his behalf – though he’s savage – and on behalf of the city, so no misfortune befalls us. Hold me up and I’ll hold you up, so we don’t fall. It’s shameful when old men fall. Onward. We must serve Bacchus, son of Zeus, and hope Pentheus doesn’t bring pain into your home. That’s not prophecy, it’s fact. Fools speak only foolishness.

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First Choral Stasimon chorus (strophe a) Holiness, mistress of the gods, with holy wings above the earth, do you hear Pentheus? His voice of unholy hatred against Bromius, son of Semele – first at the gods’ feasts. He starts the Bacchic dance and laughs along with the flute, and stops worries whenever wine’s delight appears at the god’s feast, or whenever the mixing-bowl

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at the festival festooned with ivy brings sleep to men. (antistrophe a) Brash tongues and lawlessness lead to disaster. A quiet life and a careful mind sustain a house. Far in the ether, gods are watching. Being clever is not wise, nor is thinking too much. A lifetime is brief. The one who pursues great things does not live in the present – they follow the way of madness. (strophe b) Take me to Cyprus,31 island of Aphrodite, where Eros32 charms mortal hearts and green Paphos33 needs no rain. Take me there, Bromius, leader of the Bacchae, to Piera where the Muses sit,34 Olympus’s hallowed slope, there to the Graces,35

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31 The third-largest island in the Mediterranean, south of modern-day Turkey, and just over 100 kilometres from the shores of modern-day Syria and Lebanon, often said to be where Uranus’s genitalia fell into the sea and Aphrodite emerged (Hesiod, Theogony 188–206). 32 Eros, the god of sexual love. 33 Paphos is a coastal city in southwest Cyprus, home to several holy sites associated with Aphrodite. 34 The Muses were most commonly said to be the daughters of Zeus and Mnemosyne (Memory), born in Pieria, at the foot of Mount Olympus (Hesiod, Theogony 52, 915–17; Homer, Iliad 2.491; Odyssey 1.10; Pseudo-Apollodorus, Biblotheca 1.3.1). 35 The Graces were three daughters of Zeus and the nymph Eurynome, a daughter

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there to desire, there where we can praise Bacchus.

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{(antistrophe b) The god, son of Zeus, rejoices in feasts, loves the goddess Peace, who gives riches and nourishes the young. He gives wine to the fortunate and to the deprived. He takes away their grief. But he hates the one who doesn’t care, who won’t live life happily day and night and won’t stay away from clever men. I prefer what the common, poorer men think, what they proclaim.}

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Episode Two Enter guards with Dionysus, chained. Enter Pentheus from the house. guard Pentheus, we caught the prey you sent us to hunt; we didn’t fail. 435 But the beast was gentle, he didn’t flee. Willingly he gave himself into our hands. His wine-dark cheeks didn’t blanche. He laughed, waiting for me to tie him up, making my work easy. 440 And so, out of shame, I said, “O stranger, not of my own will do I lead you away; Pentheus commands me.” And now the bacchants, whom you locked away in prison, are gone, bounding their way to the meadow, 445 of Ocean. They were known for their beauty and charm and often linked to the Muses: their names were Aglaea, Euphrosyne, and Thaleia (Hesiod, Theogony 907–10).

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calling for their god Bromius. The chains broke off their feet on their own; keys turned in locks and doors opened. This man who’s come to Thebes is full of marvels. What to do with him now is up to you. pentheus Unbind his hands: he’s in my net and he’s not fast enough to escape me. Your body isn’t badly formed, stranger; at least a woman might think so, which is why you’ve come to Thebes. Your hair dangles down, not stretched out from wrestling. It falls over your cheeks, full of desire. Your skin is white, you must stay out of the sun – hunting after Aphrodite in the shade with your beauty. Tell me, where’s your family from?

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dionysus Nowhere to boast of. Have you heard of flowery Tmolus? pentheus I know it: it surrounds the city of Sardis.36 dionysus I’m from there – Lydia is my fatherland. pentheus Why do you bring these initiations into Greece? dionysus Dionysus, Zeus’s son, made me. pentheus Is there another Zeus who lives in Sardis, giving birth to new gods? 36 Lydia’s capital city.

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dionysus No, it’s the same Zeus who married Semele right here. pentheus Did he come to you in the dark or did you see him face to face? dionysus I saw him look at me when he gave me the rites.

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pentheus What form do these rites take? dionysus They cannot be spoken of to uninitiated mortals. pentheus How does it benefit those who are initiated, who offer up meat to the god? dionysus That’s not right for you to hear, but worth it to know. pentheus You’re trying to entice me so I’ll want to know. dionysus The god hates one who practises his rites without believing. pentheus You say you saw the god clearly – what was he like? dionysus Whatever he wanted to be. I had nothing to do with it. pentheus You say nothing. Again, you avoid my question.

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dionysus I would seem not to be thinking well, speaking wisdom to an ignorant man.

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pentheus And you chose to bring your god here first? dionysus No, barbarians everywhere dance these rites. pentheus Because they don’t have the good sense of Greeks. dionysus In this, they’re better than Greeks; their laws are different. pentheus Do you fulfill your holy rites by night or by day?

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dionysus Night. There’s reverence in the dark. pentheus It’s a deception meant for women. It’s unwholesome. dionysus There’s ugliness during the day as well. pentheus You’ll be punished for such sophistry. dionysus And you for your ignorance and disrespect. pentheus How boldly speaks the bacchant. You’re well-trained with words.

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dionysus Tell me what I must suffer. What terror are you preparing for me? pentheus First I’ll cut off your dainty curls. dionysus These locks are sacred. I grow them for the god. pentheus Then you’ll give over that thyrsus from your hand.

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dionysus Take it from me yourself. I carry this for Dionysus. pentheus I’ll guard your body in prison. dionysus The god will release me whenever I want. pentheus Yes, whenever you call him from amidst the Bacchae. dionysus Even now he stands near us, seeing what I suffer. pentheus Where? He’s not visible to my eyes. dionysus He’s beside me. You don’t see him because you’re unholy. pentheus (To guards) Take him! He looks down on me and all of Thebes.

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dionysus I, being of sound mind, say to those unwise – don’t bind me. pentheus I, being more in charge than you, say – bind him.

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dionysus You don’t know why you live, what you do, or who you are. pentheus My name is Pentheus – child of Agave, son of Echion. dionysus “Pentheus” – the name is made for pain and misfortune.37 pentheus Go! Lock him up near the horse barn. It’s dark there, so he can dance and gaze into darkness. As for those you’ve led here, your accomplices in evil, I’ll put an end to their handclapping and hide-beating. I’ll sell them off or enslave them to the loom.38 dionysus I’ll go. I won’t suffer what it is not my fate to suffer. For your insults, Dionysus won’t leave you unpunished. Dionysus will pursue you. He who you say does not exist. Chain me, you chain him.

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37 “Pentheus” is close to the Greek word for “grief ” or “pain,” penthos. 38 Elite women in Athens were expected to stay in the house, with their primary responsibilities being weaving clothes, childcare, and household finance.

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Second Choral Stasimon chorus (strophe a) Virgin river Dirce, you once felt Zeus’s unborn child in your waters when Zeus pulled him from the fire, put him in his thigh crying out – come Dithyramb,39 into my womb. I unveil you to Thebes, and name you Bacchus. But you, blessed Dirce, push me away and push away my crowned followers. Why do you reject me? Why do you leave me? I swear by the grace of Dionysus’s vine, soon you will care about Bromius. (antistrophe a) Rage blazes from the earth-born race, from Pentheus, born of a serpent and earth-born Echion, who fathered a savage monster,

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39 Dithyramb is another epithet for Dionysus, referring to the song genre that honoured him. The City Dionysia, the festival where these tragedies debuted, also figured dithyramb contests. For more, see Marshall, this volume, 14, and Fletcher, this volume, 182.

140 like a giant wrestling the gods.40 Soon he’ll put me in chains like the other worshipers hidden away in a dark prison. O Dionysus, child of Zeus, don’t you see that your prophet is about to be chained? Come lord, down from Olympus,41 shake your golden thyrsus, stop this murderous man. {(epode) O Dionysus, where do you lead your revellers? On Nysa,42 home of wild things? On the Corycian peaks?43 In the trees of Olympus where Orpheus44 played the lyre, surrounded by the trees and beasts? On blessed Pieria45 Bacchus worships you, coming to lead the Bacchic dance,

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40 The Giants, or Gigantes, were a race of beings born from Earth and the castrated genitals of Uranus who fought and lost against the Olympian gods (Pindar, Nemean 1.67–9). 41 Mount Olympus, the highest mountain in the Greek peninsula, was traditionally thought to be where Zeus and the other gods lived. 42 A mountain where Dionysus was said to have been raised; authors give a variety of possibilities for its location off the Greek mainland, in “exotic” countries. Some texts personify Nysa as a nurse for Dionysus. 43 Corcyra is modern day Corfu, a mountainous island in the Ionian Sea to the west of the Greek mainland. 44 Orpheus was the most famous of Greek mythology’s musicians, and often said to be the son of the Thracian king Oegreus and the Muse of poetry, Calliope (Pindar fr. 126, line 9). 45 The birthplace of the Muses; see note 34.

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crossing the fast Axius46 river, bringing the maenads spinning, leaving Lydia, father of prosperity, giver of bliss to mortals, showering the land of horses with his loveliest streams.}

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Episode Three Dionysus’s voice comes from offstage. dionysus Io,47 hear me, hear my shout, Io Bacchae, Io Bacchae! chorus Who’s here? Who’s this? Where is the voice of Bromius calling from? dionysus I speak again, the son of Zeus and Semele.

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chorus Master, master, join us! Bromius, Bromius! dionysus Shake the ground, spirit.48

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46 The modern-day Vadar River that flows through Northern Macedonia and Greece. 47 Io, like evoe, is a Bacchic revel-cry. 48 This scene often poses the problem of how to stage an “earthquake” which “crushes the palace”: for Scapegoat’s minimalist production, large canvas sheets that made up the halls of the “palace” dropped while the lights flickered.

142 chorus Ah! Ah! Soon Pentheus’s halls will be shaken to pieces. Dionysus is inside – worship him. We worship him. Did you see how the columns sway? Bromius cries out victory, within. dionysus Thunder, strike his house! Burn, burn the halls of Pentheus! chorus Ah, ah, look at the fire on Semele’s tomb, do you see it? Throw your trembling bodies to the ground. Down, maenads! Our master, son of Zeus, is attacking the palace.

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Enter Dionysus from the house. dionysus Barbarian women, have you been so struck with fear that you’ve fallen to the ground? You felt Bacchus shake Pentheus’s house to pieces. Be courageous. Lift up your trembling bodies. chorus O light of my Bacchic revelries, how glad I am to see you – I was alone.

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dionysus Did you despair when I was carried away, locked in Pentheus’s dark prison?

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chorus How could I not? Who would be my keeper if misfortune befell you? How did you free yourself from this unholy man? dionysus I saved myself. Easily, without pain. chorus Didn’t he bind your hands with rope?

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dionysus I made a mockery of him. He thought he was tying me, but he never touched nor handled me, feeding himself on false hope. Near the prison where he was going to lock me up, he mistook a bull for me. He threw his rope around it, tying its knees and feet, gasping, dripping sweat, his lips trembling. 620 I was sitting nearby, calmly watching. At the same time Dionysus arrived,49 shook the palace, and lit a flame on his mother’s tomb. Pentheus, seeing the flame thought his halls were on fire and scrambled here and there, calling to his slaves to bring water from the river – 625 the slaves went to work, toiling in vain. Then Pentheus, seeing I’d escaped, gave up his labour, grabbed his dark sword and rushed into the palace. Then Bromius, so it appeared – it is only my impression – created a phantom in the yard. Pentheus charged the phantom, stabbing at the shimmering air, 630 as if he was slaughtering me.

49 Dionysus speaks about himself in the third person often through this speech, taking on the role of tragic messenger, or, as Dodds suggests ad loc. 623, of choral leader.

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Then Bacchus humiliated him further. He crushed his palace into rubble for putting me in chains. Pentheus dropped his sword, succumbing to exhaustion. All this because a mortal wanted to fight a god. 635 Quietly, I stepped out of the palace and came to you, not minding Pentheus, though I hear the heavy sound of boots from inside. He’ll be at the door shortly. What will he say? I’ll bear him calmly, even if he’s fuming. 640 It’s wise to practise a mild temper. Enter Pentheus from the house with guards. pentheus I’ve suffered terribly: the stranger, who I chained, escaped. Ah! Here he is. How is it you’re in front of my house?

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dionysus Stop. And stop your anger. pentheus How did you escape? dionysus Did I not say – or did you not hear – someone would release me? pentheus Who? You continue to speak in strange words. dionysus He who brings the vine to man. pentheus He who I have yet to see, and who corrupts women.50

50 This line has been lost from the Greek text and was added by Shragge.

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dionysus Do you insult the virtue of Dionysus? pentheus Shut all the gates around the tower. dionysus Gods can’t step over towers? pentheus You’re very wise, except for when you should be.

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dionysus I was born with all the wisdom I need. But first, listen to this man’s words and learn. He comes from the mountain with a message for you. I’ll be here, by your side. I won’t try to escape. Enter Messenger. messenger Pentheus, master of Thebes, I come from Cithaeron, where white snow shines year-round.

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pentheus Why have you come in haste? What news do you bring? messenger I saw the Bacchae, the ones who were driven mad, and barefoot fled this land. I’ve come to tell you and to tell the city, my master, they are doing terrible things, beyond wonder. But I need to know whether I can speak freely. I’m afraid, my master, of your quick temper. pentheus Speak, you won’t be punished.

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[It’s not right to be angry with a just man.]51 The more fearsome your report about the Bacchae, the more I’ll punish this one, who taught the women their skills. messenger Our herd of cattle was beginning to climb the hill as the sun was sending out its rays, warming the earth. I saw three groups of women. The first was led by Autonoë, the second by your mother, Agave, the third by your aunt Ino. Their bodies were relaxed, some resting their backs on pine leaves, others with their heads on oak leaves, but modestly, not, as you said, drunk from wine, hunting Aphrodite in the woods. Then your mother, hearing the bellowing of the approaching cattle, stood in the midst of the Bacchae and cried out. They awoke, wiping away thick sleep from their eyes and sprung up in a marvel of order, together, young and old. They let their hair fall down their shoulders, secured their fawn-skins, and those whose straps had fallen loose girdled their fawn-skins with snakes whose tongues darted along their jaws. Some women cradled deer or wolf cubs, feeding them with breast milk as their breasts were still swollen from giving birth and having left their babies behind. They crowned themselves with ivy, with oak and flowers. One grabbed her thyrsus and struck a rock, water gushed. Another struck the ground with her thyrsus 51 Some editors have deleted this line: see Diggle, Euripides 3 ad 673.

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Bacchae and the god let loose a fountain of wine. Those who were thirsting clawed the earth with their fingertips, and rivers of milk flowed from the ground – ivy thyrsi dripped with sweet-flowing honey. If you had been there witnessing these things, you would honour in prayer the god you now insult. We herdsmen and shepherds came together to exchange our thoughts and debate [these strange activities, worthy of wonder,]52 when a man, a vagabond, who’s often seen roaming the city, who’s skilled with words, said to us – “You who dwell on this mountain’s hallowed ground, shall we hunt Agave, the mother of Pentheus, away from the Bacchic revelries and win favour from our lord?” We thought he’d spoken well, so we hid ourselves in the foliage of the bushes and lay in ambush. Then their time of revelry came and they shook their thyrsi, together calling on Bromius, son of Zeus; all celebrating Dionysus. Everything on the mountain, even the beasts, was moving. Agave leaped near me and I sprung up from where I was hiding, wanting to seize her, but she cried out, “O my running dogs, we are being hunted by these men – follow me, armed with the thyrsus in your hand.” We fled the Bacchae and escaped being torn to shreds. But then some of the band of women attacked the grazing cattle. I saw one of them pull apart a bellowing heifer with her bare hands, while others ripped the calves to pieces. Ribs and hoofs tossed in the air caught on pines, and hung there, dripping blood. Bulls, who had been aggressive moments before, were thrown to the ground and carried away by myriad women’s hands. Faster than you could blink your royal eyes, 52 Some editors delete this line: see Diggle, Euripides 3 ad 716.

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they stripped the flesh from the dead bulls. Then, like birds lifting off the ground into flight, they descended to the plains below the streams of Asopus,53 where Theban grain grows in abundance. 750 Like an enemy army they fell upon the towns, grabbing children from their homes, and whatever they hoisted onto their shoulders, iron or copper, stayed without fastening, 755 or falling to the black earth. The villagers, under siege from the Bacchae, furiously took up arms. And then we witnessed a terrifying spectacle. 760 My king, the spears thrown by the villagers couldn’t bloody the bacchants, but, with the help of the god, the thyrsi launched from their hands made men turn their backs and flee. Then they withdrew 765 to the fountains the god had opened. They washed the flecks of blood from their faces, snakes licked their cheeks clean. This god, whoever he is, O master, accept him into our city, for he is great. 770 As they say, and as I heard, his vine ends mortal pain, If his wine is no more, Aphrodite will also be no more, and there will be no more pleasure for anyone. Exit Messenger. chorus I’m afraid to speak my thoughts to the tyrant, but I will speak – Dionysus is inferior to no god.

53 A small river that formed the boundary between the territories of Thebes and Plataea.

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pentheus The insolence of the Bacchae spreads like fire, getting closer, shaming Greece. (To guard) No more hesitation – go to the Electran54 gates. 780 Order all the armoured warriors and all the riders of swift-footed horses who carry shields and bows to march against the Bacchae. 785 There’s nothing worse than suffering at the hands of women. dionysus You’re not persuaded. Even though you cause me to suffer I’ll tell you – don’t take up arms against a god! Bromius won’t let you hunt the Bacchae from the mountain.

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pentheus Don’t give me advice. Remember your escape from bondage. Or do I have to punish you again? dionysus I would offer him a sacrifice, instead of raging against him, a mortal against a god. pentheus My sacrifice will be a slaughter of the women, as they deserve; I’ll rout them in the glens of Cithaeron. dionysus You’ll run away, ashamed. Their thyrsi will send back your bronze shields. 54 The Electran gates, one of the famous seven gates of Thebes, led to Athens, and there are fourth-century bce remains that survive today.

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150 pentheus It’s like I’m entwined with this stranger and no amount of suffering will silence him.

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dionysus My friend, you can save this situation. pentheus By doing what? Becoming a slave to my slaves? dionysus I’ll bring the women here unarmed. pentheus What new trick are you planning?

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dionysus No trick. I want to use my skills to save you. pentheus You planned this with them, so you can revel forever. dionysus I did plan it. But with the god. pentheus (To guard) Bring my armour. (To Dionysus) Stop talking. dionysus 55 Would you like to see them gathering in the mountain?

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55 Dionysus’s speech here starts with an extra-metrical “a,” which some suggest might mean simply “stop,” but which might be causal in enacting “a kind of telepathic charm” with which “Dionysus begins to take over the king’s very faculty of will.” See van Schoor, “ΚΑΙ ΚΑΤΑΨΕΥΔΟΥ ΚΑΛΩ,” 16.

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pentheus Yes. Very much. I would give immeasurable gold for it. dionysus But why do you desire it so much? pentheus It might hurt me to see them drunk. dionysus Yet you would happily see what hurts you?

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pentheus Yes, quietly sitting under the pines. dionysus They’ll track you even if you come in secret. pentheus You’re right. I’ll go out in the open. dionysus I’ll bring you. Are you ready for this journey? pentheus Take me now, quickly. dionysus Get ready – put on a linen dress. pentheus What? Appear as a woman? dionysus They’ll slay you if they see you as a man.

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pentheus Again, you speak well, as if you were wise all along. dionysus Dionysus has taught me these things.

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pentheus How should I do it? dionysus I’ll dress you – let’s go inside your house. pentheus In what dress? A woman’s? I’d be ashamed. dionysus You’re no longer excited to watch the maenads? pentheus How will you dress me?

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dionysus I’ll make your hair flow down. pentheus What else? dionysus A robe to your feet – upon your head, a maiden’s band. pentheus What else will you put on me? dionysus A thyrsus in your hand and the spotted hide of a fawn.

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pentheus I cannot dress in women’s clothes. dionysus Blood will run if you battle the Bacchae. pentheus Yes, first I need to spy on them. dionysus A better idea than hunting them with cruelty. pentheus How will I go through the city of Cadmus without being seen?

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dionysus We’ll take an isolated path – I’ll lead you. pentheus Anything is better than the Bacchae laughing at me. Let’s go into the house and I’ll decide what to do. dionysus Good. I’m ready. pentheus Either I’ll march on them, bearing arms – or I’ll follow you.

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Exit Pentheus and guards. dionysus Women, the man has fallen in our net. He’ll come to the Bacchae, where death awaits. Dionysus, it’s your work now – you’re near. Put him out of his mind –

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as long as he’s sane, he won’t wear a woman’s dress. Drive him mad, and he’ll dress up. I want Thebes to laugh at him, walking through the city in women’s clothes after making so many threats against us. Now I’ll go to his house and put him in costume, dressing him for Hades, to be slaughtered by his mother. Then he’ll know Zeus’s son – Dionysus, born a god, the most terrible to man, but also the most gentle.

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Exit Dionysus.

Third Choral Stasimon chorus (strophe a) When again will I move my white foot in the all-night dance? Throwing back my head in the dewy air like a fawn playing in the green pleasures of the meadow because she’s fled the fearful hunt, and fled the watchers’ woven nets, and the dog handlers’ shouts and the racing dogs. Tired but swiftly running like a stormy wind, springing along the plain of the riverbank, delighted to be alone; delighted among the shoots of the shady woods.

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Bacchae What is wisdom? What gift of the gods to man is beyond the beauty of holding your hand above the head of your enemy? What is beautiful is dear forever. (antistrophe b) Divine strength is slow to wake but does not waver. It punishes mortals who honour ignorance and in their madness don’t exalt the gods. The gods hide in long strides of time, hunting the unholy. Never should we consider our thoughts stronger than their laws. It takes so little to believe in the power of the divine, and the laws that come from nature. What is wisdom? What gift of the gods to man is beyond the beauty of holding your hand, above the head of your enemy? What is beautiful is dear forever. (epode) He’s happy who escapes the storm and makes it to the harbour. He’s happy who rises above despair, and rises above hardship. Some surpass others in wealth, some in power.

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There are countless hopes for countless men. Some achieve while others fail, but those who are happy every day are blessed.

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Episode Four Enter Dionysus. dionysus You who are eager to see what you shouldn’t, and chase what shouldn’t be chased, Pentheus, come out of the palace so I can see you dressed as a bacchant ready to spy on your mother and her company! (Enter Pentheus from the house, dressed as a woman) You look like a daughter of Cadmus. pentheus It seems to me I see two suns – and double the seven towers of Thebes56 – and it looks like I’m being led by a bull. On your head you’ve grown horns – were you a beast before? You look like a bull.

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dionysus The god walks with us. He wasn’t kind before, but now he’s made peace – now you see what you should. pentheus How do I look? Am I standing like Ino or like Agave, my mother?

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56 Thebes famously had seven gates. Aeschylus’s play Seven Against Thebes tells of the civil war that erupted between Oedipus’s sons, where a mortal battle took place between two warriors of each side at each of the seven gates.

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dionysus When I look at you I see them. But this curl is out of place, it’s not under your band where I put it. pentheus It must have fallen out of place when I was inside, dancing, shaking back and forth.

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dionysus We’ll set it right – we who care to help you. Keep your head straight. pentheus Arrange me. I’m in your hands. dionysus Your girdle is loose and the pleats of your robe don’t fall below your ankles the way they’re supposed to.

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pentheus On my right leg, the cloth doesn’t reach my foot, but the robe fits next to my other heel. dionysus You’ll think of me as your best friend, when, counter to your expectations, you see that the Bacchae are modest. pentheus With which hand shall I hold the thyrsus, to resemble a bacchant? dionysus In the right. At the same time, raise your right foot. I praise you for changing your mind.

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158 pentheus Am I strong enough to carry Cithaeron’s folds with its bacchants on my shoulders?

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dionysus Strength you’ll have, if you want it. Before your mind wasn’t healthy, but now your mind is well. pentheus Should we bring levers? Or should I rip down the mountain with my hands and carry it on my shoulders?

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dionysus Don’t destroy the nymphs’ temples and the spaces where Pan sits, playing his flute. pentheus Well said! I won’t conquer the women with force – I’ll hide in the pines. dionysus You’ll hide, as you should – remember, you’re a cunning spy.

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pentheus I can imagine them in the bushes like birds coupled in their love nests. dionysus You set off to guard against this very thing. Maybe you’ll catch them, if they don’t catch you first. pentheus Steer me through Thebes. I’m the only man here who dares go.

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Bacchae dionysus You alone in this city will toil, alone. The struggle that awaits befits you. Follow – I’ll be your guide and I’ll protect you. But another will bring you back.

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pentheus My mother. dionysus You will be distinguished before all. pentheus This is why I’m going. dionysus You will be carried back. pentheus What comfort. dionysus In your mother’s arms. pentheus You force softness on me. dionysus Such softness. pentheus I’ll have what’s worthy of me. Exit Pentheus. dionysus You’ll come to suffer such terrible things,

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your fame will reach the sky. Stretch out your hands, Agave, and daughters of Cadmus. I bring a young man into this battle where Bromius and I will win. The rest will reveal itself.

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Exit Dionysus.

Fourth Choral Stasimon chorus (strophe a) Come quick, raging dogs – go to the mountain, where the daughters of Cadmus dance. Goad them to frenzy against this false, spying woman. Soon his mother will see him from a rock and roar, “Who seeks the women on the mountain? Who comes to the mountain, Bacchae? Who bore him? He’s not of woman’s blood, but the offspring of a lioness, or some Libyan Gorgon.”57 Come justice, go with sword and cut his throat, kill the godless, lawless, unjust child of earth-born Echion.58

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57 The gorgons, of whom Medusa was the most famous, were, according to Hesiod (Theogony 270–83), three daughters of the sea gods Ceto and Phorcys in Libya, which was what the Greeks called the whole North African coast. 58 Pentheus.

Bacchae (antistrophe a) He rages against your rites, Bacchus; against the rites of your mother. He comes in frenzy to destroy what’s invincible. Death will humble him. Live the life of a mortal and there’s no pain. I don’t covet wisdom. I rejoice hunting after what is great and clear, which makes life flow toward the good day and night being pure and pious, throwing out unjust ways to honour the gods. Come justice, go with sword and cut his throat, kill the godless, lawless, unjust child of earth-born Echion. (epode) Go as a bull, a many-headed dragon, a fiery lion. Go, O Bacchus, with your smiling face, cast your noose around the man who hunts us – so he falls to the crowd of maenads.

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Episode Five Enter Second Messenger. second messenger O house, once most fortunate in Hellas,59 house of old Cadmus, how I wail for you. I am but a slave, [but a good slave shares his master’s pain.]60

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chorus What happened? What news do you bring from the Bacchae? second messenger Pentheus, child of Echion, is lost.

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chorus Lord Bromius, you reveal yourself a great god. second messenger What are you saying? Do you rejoice at my master’s misfortune? chorus I am foreign and sing the barbarian songs – no longer do I fear being chained. second messenger Do you think Thebes is lacking men? chorus Dionysus, Dionysus is my ruler – not Thebes. 59 Hellas simply means Greece. 60 Some editors have deleted this line: see Diggle, Euripides 3 ad 1028.

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Bacchae second messenger You may be forgiven for saying that. But it’s wrong to rejoice in misery.

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chorus Tell me how the unjust man died. Speak. second messenger We left Thebes, crossed the stream of Asopus, and climbed the pebbled slope of Cithaeron, Pentheus, and me – for I followed my master – and the stranger who was guiding us to the sight. We sat in a grassy thicket, quietly watching without being seen. They were there in a valley surrounded by streams, shaded by pine trees. They were sitting, working happily with their hands, some winding ivy leaves around their thyrsi while others, as if freed from their yokes, sang in small choruses back and forth. But unhappy Pentheus said: “Stranger, from where we’re sitting, my gaze can’t reach these supposed maenads. If I were higher up in a towering tree I could better observe the women’s shameful conduct.” There and then I saw the stranger perform a miracle. He reached up and grabbed the pine’s most skyward branch, and bent it down, down to the earth like a giant bow, a deed no mortal could accomplish with his hands. He placed Pentheus on the branch and steadily released it. The tree righted itself with my master seated on top. The maenads saw him up there, alone, better than he could make them out. Then the stranger was gone. Out of the sky a voice, I guessed it was Dionysus himself,

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called out: “Women, I bring the one who laughed at you and me, laughed at my rites. Take vengeance upon him.” As he spoke a divine fire erupted from the earth and sky at once. The air went quiet. No sound from the trees, the leaves, or the animals. The maenads, not having heard his order clearly, stood up and looked around. Again he cried out to them, and this time they understood his command. They darted like doves – his mother Agave, her sisters, and all the Bacchae – through the storm-swollen valley, leaping over cliffs, frenzied by the breath of a god. When they saw my master up in the pine tree they began hurling rocks at him, climbing onto outcroppings on the mountain, throwing tree branches like javelins, sending thyrsi sailing toward Pentheus – Pentheus, my master – a poor target. But he was higher than their frenzy could reach, sitting there, trapped and helpless. Finally, with lightning speed, they tore off oak branches and used them as levers to uproot the tree. When this didn’t succeed, Agave said, “Come, place yourselves in a circle. Take a branch, maenads, let us seize this beast, mounted on high, so he can’t report the god’s secret rites.” Countless hands grabbed hold of the pine and tore it up from the earth. Pentheus fell from his lofty seat, panicked and screaming, knowing how close he was to danger. His mother, the priestess, fell upon him. He threw off the band from his hair, so wretched Agave would recognize him and not kill him.

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Bacchae He touched her cheek and said, “Mother, I’m your son, Pentheus. You brought me into the world, into the house of Echion. Mother, pity me! Don’t kill me, your child, because of my mistakes.” Foam spewed from her mouth and her eyes rolled in her head, not understanding what she needed to understand. Possessed by Bacchus, she couldn’t be swayed. She grasped his left forearm with both her hands, planted her foot on his side and ripped off his arm at the shoulder. The god made it easy for her. His aunt, Ino, went to work on his other side, tearing away his flesh. Autonoë and the whole Bacchic throng pressing in on him while Pentheus moaned with what breath he had left. They raised the war cry. One carried off his arm – another, his foot with his boot still on it. His ribs were stripped bare of flesh and all of them, hands bloodied, tossed Pentheus’s remains back and forth like a ball. His body lies there in pieces, parts of him on the jagged rocks hidden deep in the woods. His mother lifted his pitiful head – stuck it on top of her thyrsus, bearing it like a mountain lion through the heart of Cithaeron, leaving her sisters behind among the chorus of maenads. She’s coming here, inside the walls, with her unfortunate prey, full of pride, calling Bacchus “her fellow hunter,” “ally in the chase,” “the great victor” – but his victory brings only tears. I want to leave this tragedy before Agave reaches these halls. Be moderate. Revere the divine. For mortals who listen, I believe this is the wisest counsel. Exit Second Messenger.

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Fifth Choral Stasimon chorus Dance the Bacchic dance. Shout out the fate of dragon-born Pentheus! Dressed as a woman, thyrsus in hand, the bull guided him to death. Bacchae of Cadmus, you’ve accomplished a glorious victory! Through sighing, through tears, a beautiful victory – to have your hands drip with your child’s blood. chorus I see Agave, Pentheus’s mother, wild-eyed, rushing toward the palace – receive the god’s joyful reveller.

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Enter Agave, running, breathless, carrying Pentheus’s head on top of a thyrsus. agave 61 (strophe) Bacchae – chorus Why do you want us? agave I bring from the mountain a freshly cut tendril, a blessed prey.

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61 In its original performance context, Agave’s exchange with the chorus would have been sung in lyrical strophe and antistrophe.

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chorus I see and accept you into our band. agave I caught him without a net, this young wild lion. Look!

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chorus From what wilderness? agave Cithaeron – chorus Cithaeron? agave Slaughtered him! chorus Who struck him down? agave The honour was mine, first. I’m called blessed Agave of the Bacchic revel. chorus Who else? agave The daughters of Cadmus – chorus Who?

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agave Ino and Autonoë – after me, only after me, did they strike the beast. This was a lucky hunt. (antistrophe) Come now, share in the feast. chorus What? Share? Sad woman! agave This animal is young – his soft hair had only begun to grow under his jaw.

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chorus Like a beast of the field. agave Bacchus, the wise hunter, urged the maenads upon this beast.

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chorus The lord is a hunter. agave Do you praise me? chorus I praise you. agave Soon the Cadmeans – chorus And your child Pentheus –

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agave He will congratulate his mother, for catching this lion. chorus {Extraordinary. agave And caught extraordinarily!} chorus Are you proud? agave I rejoice. I accomplished a great feat in the hunt. chorus Poor woman, show the citizens your trophy. agave You who dwell in Thebes, the land of beautiful towers, come see this prey, the beast the daughters of Cadmus hunted. Killed without spears, without nets, but with the fingers of our white hands. Who needs to boast of owning the spear-maker’s tools when they own them in vain? I caught him with these hands, tore apart the beast’s limbs. Where’s my old father? Let him come to me. Where’s my child Pentheus? Let him raise a ladder to our house, climb up and fasten this lion’s head to the roof.

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Exodos Enter Cadmus with Pentheus’s remains. cadmus Follow me, carrying this miserable burden of Pentheus – follow, attendants, to my house. I found his body with much labour in the folds of Cithaeron, scattered in the woods, almost impossible to find. I heard of my daughters’ shameless actions as I was walking inside the city walls with old Tiresias after we’d been with the Bacchae. I turned back to the mountain to carry home my grandchild – murdered by the maenads. For I saw Autonoë, {who bore Actaeon to Aristaeus,} together with Ino in the forest, still stung with madness. Someone told me Agave was marching here, possessed. I didn’t hear wrong, for I see the awful sight. agave Father, you have reason to be proud. Your daughters are the best of mortals. They’ll say it for all – but especially for me, leaving my loom for greater things, hunting beasts with my own hands. Look, I’m carrying my prey! Look at my prize! I’ll hang it in your house. Father, take it in your hands and tell me how proud you are. Invite your friends to a feast! Be happy! Be happy for what I’ve done! cadmus O grief beyond measure. I can barely look. Slaughtering him with your own hands –

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Bacchae making him into a beautiful sacrifice thrown down for the gods, then offered as a feast to me and all of Thebes. O pain, first yours, but mine too. How the god, Lord Bromius, justly, but so severely, destroyed us, and a member of our own family. agave Old age has made your face sour. I hope my child becomes a hunter, and follows in his mother’s ways with all the young men of Thebes to strive after the hunt. But all my son does is fight with gods. You must warn him, father. Who will call him here before my sight so he can see how I’ve been blessed? cadmus When you realize what you’ve done, you’ll suffer terrible pain. But if you stay like this, you’ll never understand.

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agave What’s wrong? What’s painful? cadmus First, look up at the sky. agave All right. Why do you tell me to look up? cadmus Is it the same sky or has it changed?

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agave It’s brighter and clearer. cadmus Do you still feel tremors racing in your heart? agave I don’t know what you mean – but I do feel more myself, somehow; my mind is calmer.

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cadmus If you hear me, can you answer me clearly? agave I’ve forgotten what you said before, father. cadmus Into whose house did you go after your wedding? agave You gave me to the dragon-born, as they say: Echion. cadmus What’s your child’s name? agave Pentheus, born of my union with Echion. cadmus And then whose head do you hold in your arms? agave A lion’s – the hunters told me. cadmus Look closer – it’s not hard to see.

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Bacchae agave What do I see? What am I holding in my hands?

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cadmus Look and you’ll understand. agave I see only pain, the greatest grief. cadmus It doesn’t appear to you like a lion? agave No, I’m holding Pentheus. cadmus We lamented him before you recognized him.

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agave Who killed him? How did he come to be in my hands? cadmus Terrible truth, you arrive too late. agave Tell me, my heart is beating so fast. cadmus You and your sisters killed him. agave Where? At the house? Where was he killed? cadmus Where Actaeon was torn apart by dogs.

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agave But why did poor Pentheus go to Cithaeron? cadmus He was coming to insult your god and the Bacchae. agave Why were we there? cadmus You were driven mad. The entire city was in a Bacchic frenzy.

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agave Dionysus has destroyed us. Now I understand. cadmus You denied he was a god. agave Where is the dear body of my child, father? cadmus I’m carrying what I could scarcely find. agave Is that all of him? Joined back together? Why did Pentheus have to suffer for my mistake?

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cadmus Like you, he didn’t honour the god. For this he brought you both to ruin – you and Pentheus. And so destroyed me and my house, since I have no male heir, seeing the son of my daughter so shamefully and brutally slain – he was the one we looked to. You were the foundation of the palace, child of my child. You were feared by this city –

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Bacchae nobody would dare insult me in my old age. The way you ruled, {they knew they would receive just penalty. Now I’m thrown out of my home, Cadmus the great, who sowed the Theban race, and reaped its fruit. My boy, even though you live no more, you are to me the most dear.} My child, you’ll never touch my beard, holding your grandfather in your embrace, saying, “Who wrongs you? Who dishonours you, old man? Who troubles your heart and causes you pain? Tell me and they’ll be punished.” Now I’m miserable and you’re gone. Your mother lives only to be pitied – her sisters are pitiable, too. If anyone denies divine power, let him look and believe in the gods.

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chorus Though this is painful to you, Cadmus, your grandchild’s punishment was deserved. agave O Father, my life is upside down …62 Who is this? Who do I hold in my hands? A corpse? How can I, wretched, protect him, let him suck at my breasts? What dirge will I sing? For me, I’ll treat every one of your limbs lovingly, child, so that I can kiss all your limbs. Kissing the flesh I nourished. In what tomb will I place your body? 62 Here starts the lacuna, a large missing part of the text that Scapegoat’s version restores using lines from Christus Patiens. See Kozak, this volume, “Bacchae,” 108, and Kovacs, this volume, 294, for more on the relationship between that play and Bacchae.

176 With what robes will I cover your corpse? How will I celebrate you with our songs? Come, old man, let’s fit his blessed head right, and carefully put his body how it should be. O dearest face, O young cheek, look, I cover your head with this veil. Your gashed limbs and parts I cover in new robes, and your sides, pierced and bloodied. cadmus Courage – I will do the difficult work. I’ll carry the slashed limbs of Pentheus. I’ll care for them well. Enter Dionysus on the mezzanine (on top of the house). dionysus Mortals! Learn this – Dionysus is a god, born of Zeus. Recognize me by what was wrought. Many said words about me – that I was born of Semele and a mortal. Pentheus was the worst of all. It wasn’t enough that I was slandered, But he – a mortal – stood against me, put me in chains and insulted me. And then, intent on ruin, he dared to go spy on the maenads’ secret rites. For this, he died by the hands of his mother. This man suffered justly; there’s no need to cast him out, dishonoured. But as for the daughters of Cadmus who killed him, Ino and Agave who bore him, And Autonoë, mother of Actaeon – I say leave this city! Pay the price with exile!

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Bacchae You are unholy and polluted for killing him. Never again will you look upon your fatherland. (To Agave) You, wretched woman, holding a miserable corpse in your hands – Agave, you planned this in your madness, your pollution will keep you from ever returning home.63 (To Cadmus) You will transform into a serpent – {and your wife Harmonia, Ares’s daughter, too,} as Zeus’s oracle predicted. You will drive in an ox-drawn carriage, leading barbarians, sacking cities with an army countless in number.64 But when they plunder Apollo’s oracle, their return will be tragic, {but Ares will protect you and Harmonia, and settle you in the land of the blessed.} I, Dionysus, born not of a mortal father but of Zeus, say this. If you had made me an ally, you would have thrived.

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cadmus Dionysus, we wronged you, but listen. dionysus You’ve come to know me too late.

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cadmus We know, but this punishment is too much.

63 The lacuna ends here. 64 Most myths follow Cadmus and Harmonia to Illyria, a region of the Balkans, where Cadmus fought with the Enchelei people and is said to have founded Lychnidus (modern-day Ohrid, North Macedonia) and Bouthoe (modern-day Budva, Montenegro).

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dionysus You insulted me: a god! cadmus The anger of gods should not be like that of mortals. dionysus Zeus, my father, sanctioned this long ago. agave It’s been decided, old man – miserable exile.

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dionysus Then why delay what must happen? cadmus O my child, what a terrible evil has come upon us. You and your sisters are wretched and me miserable, bound for barbarian lands, an aged immigrant, the oracle decreed, leading an army against my own people, {me and Harmonia, Ares’s daughter,} turning over their altars and graves. Afflictions unending, without even the quiet {of Acheron.}65

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agave O Father, I go without you. cadmus Why do you throw your arms around me, my poor child, a young swan to its old, worn-out parent?

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65 Acheron is the river that flows through Hades, the implication being that Cadmus’s troubles will not find an end in death. Scapegoat cut this reference, ending simply “with no quiet.”

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agave What road do I take to leave this land? cadmus I don’t know, child. Your father failed to protect you. agave Farewell house. Farewell my father’s city. I leave in misery, {an exile from my halls.}

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cadmus Go now, O child. agave I cry for you, Father. cadmus I cry for you, child – I cry for you, sisters. agave The lord Dionysus has brought this terrible suffering to your house.

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dionysus I also suffered terribly at your hands, my name without honour in Thebes. agave Farewell, my father. cadmus Farewell, unhappy daughter. How harshly you go into these things.

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180 agave Come, my guides, lead me to my sad sisters, so I can take them with me into exile. I hope I go where blood-stained Cithaeron will never see me nor I, with my eyes, Cithaeron, nor ever the memory of thyrsi. Leave that to other Bacchae. chorus [{The gods appear in many forms.} We never know what the gods will do. What we expect is never fulfilled. There ends the action.]66

66 Some editors delete these lines; see Diggle Euripides 3 ad 1388.

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 Dissolving Boundaries and the Liquid God in Euripides’s Bacchae judith fletcher Euripides’s long career ended with Bacchae, produced by a relative (probably his son) in 405 bce, the year after his death, along with Iphigenia at Aulis and the now lost Alcmaeon, at the City Dionysia in Athens, where the tetralogy won first prize.1 In the dramas of this last decade, the poet had experimented with bold escapes conceived by heroic women, complex plots turning on unexpected reversals, and joyful reunions between family members. Contrasting with the busyness and surprise twists of later plays such as Orestes, Helen, or Ion, his Bacchae has an archaic feel. Its plot is elegantly simple, with a subject that hearkens back to the earliest productions of tragedy. Apparently, the first Greek actor, Thespis, had produced a Pentheus in the sixth century; only a scant few lines are preserved. Other playwrights had treated Dionysiac themes, but with the exception of Aristophanes’s comedy, Frogs, the god does not feature in extant Greek drama. It is difficult, therefore, to determine what original elements Euripides brought to the myth. In his version, Dionysus, offended that the city of Thebes refuses to recognize his divinity and practice his cult, has arrived to display his powers and secure his honour. Like others of his Olympian family, he is a vindictive god. His vengeance manifests as the most precisely engineered human suffering imaginable. The contours of a familiar type-scene are shockingly distorted in the exodos, when a woman recognizes her son. This is not the happy recognition between long-lost kinfolk represented in plays such as Euripides’s Ion (when Creusa, an Athenian princess, is reunited with her adult son), but rather an exquisitely horrific moment. Agave now realizes that the quarry she so proudly holds is the head of her dismembered son, Pentheus, ripped asunder by Theban maenads on Mount Cithaeron. Agave is sister of Semele, mother of Dionysus, blasted by Zeus’s thunderbolt at the prompting of Hera. Among those who would deny his godhead, Agave and her sisters are infected

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by the maenadic frenzy that this son of Zeus inflicts on the impious Theban women. Their city, famously described by Froma Zeitlin as the anti-Athens, is a negative paradigm for the democratic polis that embraced the god of wine, festival, and theatre.2 Pentheus resists the rituals that celebrate and contain these essential pleasures of polis life and is consequently compelled to participate in a savage version of them beyond the city’s walls. Like all Greek tragedies, Bacchae was composed as an offering to Dionysus, whose worship was an important facet of Athenian religion, including the two late winter festivals where tragedy, satyr plays, and comedy were performed. The later of these festivals, the City Dionysia, began with a procession carrying the wooden statue of the god to the theatre; a second procession culminated with the spectacular sacrifice of a hundred animals in the god’s sanctuary.3 Second only to celebrations for Athena, it featured one of the most lavish processions in the city’s sacred calendar. In Bacchae the opposition of the Thebans, particularly their young king Pentheus, to the worship of Dionysus is thus profoundly at odds with Athenian civic religion, which included the festival where Bacchae was produced. As if to emphasize the impiety of the Thebans, Euripides embeds familiar aspects of Dionysus’s worship in the text: the parodos (first choral ode) resembles the dithyramb, an ancient hymn that led to the invention of tragedy, still performed at the City Dionysia.4 The next two odes likewise reflect cultic hymns. Indeed, it has been argued that the entire drama embeds elements of hymns to the god by celebrating his nativity and powers.5 The fundamental nature of Dionysus involves his arrival or epiphany among mortals – hēkō (“I’ve come”) is the first word of the play. According to Walter Otto he is “the god of epiphany, whose appearance is far more urgent, far more compelling than that of any other god.”6 His mythology often treats his arrival among a resistant population whom he punishes with frenzy, for instance the Thracian king Lycurgus, who killed his own son, mistaking him for a tree trunk (Hyginus, Fabulae 132). Although such tales problematize the newness of his cult, Dionysus was most likely an ancient god: his name appears in Linear B documents produced a thousand years before Euripides’s play. Traditionally Thebes was the first city to worship the god – not without opposition, as Bacchae dramatizes. For the fifth-century bce Athenians, religious matters, including the acceptance of new gods, required some form of official approval by the democratic assembly. In contrast, the

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head of the Theban state, Pentheus, despite the obvious power of Dionysus – even his grandfather Cadmus and the aged prophet Tiresias embrace the new religion – resists, and in doing so becomes ineluctably trapped in the god’s cunningly orchestrated revenge. The tension between Pentheus and Dionysus is at the heart of the play, so it is worth noting that the man and the god are cousins. This mortal dimension of a divinity, conceived by a Theban woman, is unusual. While Zeus had numerous children with women, their offspring were seldom divine. Heracles achieved a privileged place among the immortals, but only after his death; Helen likewise existed in the mortal realm until she died. But the birth of Dionysus is the first of many miracles in his life. Rescued from the womb of Semele, he is born from the thigh of Zeus, and installed among the Olympian pantheon (Bacchae 89–102, 242–7, 286–97, 519–25). His extraordinary birth confuses categories: human and divine, male and female. This effacement of boundaries is intrinsic to his nature. He is, as the prophet Tiresias explains to Pentheus, the god who “is poured” (284). The god of wine, who can make honey, milk, and wine spring from the earth for the maenads in the mountain, liquefies boundaries. He is appropriately paired with his older brother Hermes, for example in a fourth-century bce sculpture by Praxiteles. Hermes is the god who protects boundaries and presides over passages through them; Dionysus destroys those boundaries. Individual identities – divisions between self and other – are subsumed in the thiasos, the Bacchic collective, an idea consonant with Athenian democratic ideology, which valorized the unified identity of the polis. Pentheus – obdurate, insolent, and officious – strives to contain the uncontainable, to retain his individuality, and resist absorption. New to his position of authority, he is singular in his blasphemy, struggling to maintain control in a city gone mad. The chorus emphasizes his earth-born lineage, his descent from Echion (540–4, 991–6, 1011–16), one of the Spartoi (“the sown men”), progeny of the dragon’s teeth sown by Cadmus.7 Their language evokes a theomachy – a violent, elemental battle between the Olympian gods of the sky and giants born of the earth. The Olympian prevails, of course, over the foolish human, and he does so by means of clothing, that civilized convention that distinguishes us from animals. Yet even this distinction is destabilized in the Bacchic cult. To worship Dionysus is to adopt the maenadic costume and accessories: the fawn-skin, the ivy crown, and the thyrsus,

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a fennel stalk topped with a pinecone, all elements from the natural world. The maenad is immediately recognizable in artistic representations, especially ceramic vases, by these items. Dionysus may be portrayed wearing the Bacchic costume himself, thereby identifying with his devotees, yet another breakdown of categories. In Bacchae, clothing is an important signifier, and the text is remarkable among extant tragedy in how much it tells us about the costumes and props of its characters. The god asserts that he has caused the city of Thebes to dance and wear the fawn-skin (24–5); towards the end of their entrance song, the chorus of Lydian maenads exhorts the Thebans to “decorate your garments of dappled fawn-skin” (112, adapted by Shragge as “fawn-skins spotted with white wool”). After the vigorous ending of the ode – with the image of the leaping bacchant – the entrance of two elderly men, the prophet Tiresias and Pentheus’s grandfather Cadmus, in the prescribed Bacchic regalia, seems anticlimactic, if not faintly ridiculous, but this play ignores the demarcation between comedy and tragedy at times – another boundary dissolved. Pentheus rejects his grandfather’s offer to crown him with ivy, but will fail both in his resistance and his eventual attempt at a corresponding maenadic performance. The text’s insistent emphasis on clothing is appropriate. In no other Greek cult is costume so central to religious practice: it immediately transforms the wearer into a worshipper of Dionysus. And for those who put on these emblems, divisions between culture and nature, human and animal, disintegrate. This is illustrated most tellingly in the capitulation of Pentheus who, betrayed by his own prurient curiosity to spy on the maenads, agrees to wear the long woman’s robe associated with them (a peplos reaching to his feet, 821), and their signature accessories, the fawn-skin and thyrsus (825). He initially demurs at the prospect of putting on feminine apparel (826), but the god’s charm is overpowering. There is a dark humor to the scene, and perhaps even a sly dig at Aristophanes’s Thesmophoriazusae or Women at the Festival, produced at the City Dionysia six years earlier.8 That comedy had begun with Euripides dressing a relative in feminine attire to infiltrate a woman’s festival. In Euripides’s rejoinder, the god of theatre mirrors the comic version of Euripides, a mimesis that only intensifies the awfulness of Pentheus’s demise. But the episode reverberates more deeply than mere professional rivalries. The dressing scene may allude to the ritual cross-dressing associated with the god and his cult. Various sources, including the epic poet Nonnus’s

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Dionysiaca (fourth or fifth century ce), recount a myth in which young Dionysus dresses as a girl to avoid detection by a vindictive Hera. The androgyny of the god is obvious from vase paintings that show him wearing maenadic gear. Pentheus comments on the effeminacy of the Lydian stranger in Bacchae (455–9). Likewise, in a fragment of Aeschylus’s Edonoi, the impious Thracian king Lycurgus is similarly derisive, asking, “where does this man-woman [yunnis] come from?” Although an older, bearded Dionysus is sometimes featured on vase paintings, his youthful gender fluidity is consonant with coming-of-age rites throughout ancient Greece.9 Moreover, there is evidence from ceramic vase paintings earlier in the fifth century that show cross-dressing older men singing and dancing at the processional street party known as the kōmos, the final stage of the symposium.10 Such evidence suggests that worshippers of Dionysus would voluntarily emulate his vestments. When Pentheus emerges in women’s garb from the skēnē building (where actors changed costume), still primping, Dionysus makes the final touches and leads him off to the mountains to spy on the festivities. His transformation and capitulation, signified by his costume change, have been rapid and complete. It is a dramatic reversal. The young man who had rebuked his elders for wearing the fawn-skin and carrying the thyrsus is now eager to do exactly the same. In the second episode, he had sneered at the girlish appearance of the Lydian stranger with his long flowing locks, which he cuts off, ignoring his captive’s warning that they are sacred to the god (494). In the short but pivotal fourth episode, however, the situation is reversed with the god arranging his victim’s coiffure (928) and finessing his womanly robes. The scene has also been read as a moment of self-reflexivity: Dionysus, god of the theatre, whom this production honoured, stage-manages his actor who, like all Athenian actors, is a man, now playing a woman.11 The effacement of the actor’s identity is essential to any theatrical production, but it has a special resonance in this drama. Dionysus, the god who melds self and other, plays the role of a Lydian wizard, but with only three actors in the original production, the protagonist would have to take another role in the first episode. The actor playing Pentheus, who emerges from the stage building clad as a maenad, will return to play in the role of his mother in the exodos, but he is already halfway costumed now as Agave, and only needs to change his mask for his return to the stage.12 While masks and costumes facilitated these transformations in the ancient theatre, James Macdonald’s 2015 production at the Almeida Theatre in London allowed for no such

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concealment.13 The roles were divided between three actors, so that Ben Whishaw played Dionysus, Tiresias, and the messenger. Bertie Carvel, who played Pentheus as a strait-laced, Tory-like prime minister, returned as his mother Agave in the exodos. A different kind of blurring of categories occurs when Pentheus, whose thinly disguised voyeurism is disastrously overturned, becomes a spectacle himself. His hallucinations – he sees two suns, and his divine dresser appears to be a bull (918–22) – suggest the conflation of animal, human, and divine attributes of Dionysus. All three levels of existence are interdependent in the ritual of sacrifice. The sacrificial code is based on a hierarchical relationship in which mortals establish reciprocity with the gods by offering bestial victims. The original audience of the play had witnessed generous sacrifices to Dionysus before this performance, and would have been acutely aware of the distortion of the sacrificial rituals implied by the drama. In Iphigenia at Aulis, produced on the same day as Bacchae, Euripides dramatized the sacrifice of the virginal daughter of Agamemnon, who sent Iphigenia to the altar in exchange for winds to hasten his ships to Troy.14 The playwright exploits a similar anxiety about the possibility of human immolation in the robing scene of Bacchae. Sacrificial animals would have been decorated, perhaps with gilded horns, prepared for slaughter, and then led in a pompē or public procession. Correspondingly, Dionysus adorns Pentheus, and leads him through the streets of Thebes to the mountain where he will be a victim in a gruesome perversion of sacrifice in which Agave, according to the messenger’s report, is a “priestess” (1114).15 The sparagmos – the act of tearing Pentheus to pieces – accomplished without sacrificial implements, and uncontained by anything resembling an official religious rite, is the complete antithesis of communal public sacrifice. In plays of his last seven or so years, Euripides seems to have been fascinated with women’s religious activity. His Iphigenia in Tauris, for example, features a heroine who behaves much like the venerated priestess of Athena Polias.16 In Bacchae, however, the religious identities and ritual actions of the women are more dangerous. In keeping with the gender fluidity of the god and his victim, the women (including the chorus) have extraordinary potency and are at several points referred to by military language, a rebuttal to Pentheus’s futile attempt to militate his army against the maenads on Mount Cithaeron. There are two groups of women celebrants, but it is the Theban thiasos upon which Pentheus fixates. While not entirely oblivious

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to the foreign maenads arriving with Dionysus from the East, he is more interested in those beyond the city that include his mother. The chorus prescribe the Bacchic rites in the parodos: oreibasia (running in the mountains); sparagmos (ripping apart an animal); and omophagia (eating raw flesh). The first messenger recounts the Theban maenads’ enactment of these rites on the mountain. In contrast to Pentheus’s fantasy, the women are chaste and peaceful, but when interrupted by a farmer they are struck by Bacchic mania, and descend en masse upon a herd of cattle, ripping them apart. The second messenger recounts a similar scenario, although now gruesomely enacted on Pentheus. Historians of religion debate whether Euripides is describing real maenadic behaviour in the parodos and first messenger-speech. An inscription from the Greek city of Miletus, on the coast of Asia Minor, dated around a hundred and fifty years after Euripides’s play gives instructions for a band of maenads and the proper distribution of raw meat, but it is regulated and orderly, hardly the feral behaviour described in Bacchae. The Greek historian Plutarch, writing in the second century ce, recounts the rescue of a band of maenads stranded in the mountains during a snowstorm, and another that arrives exhausted from their activities in Amphissa, where they are protected by local women when they collapse in the centre of the city. The anecdotes obviously correspond with the ritual of oreibasia described in Bacchae. Whether the original Athenian audience had witnessed, or knew of, such activities is a matter of debate. One scholar, in an extremely literal understanding of the play, argues that Euripides represents a wilder form of ecstatic women’s worship in fifth-century Athens in order to show his audience “just how shocking were the rituals to which they had become accustomed.”17 The historical accuracy of the rites described in Bacchae notwithstanding, the personality of the chorus of Lydian maenads is an important element of the play. Although they initially advocate for the quiet peace and wisdom of moderation, they grow increasingly more ferocious, and the rhythms of their songs more agitated, as Dionysus closes in on his prey.18 This development was stunningly visualized in the 1993 Stratford, Ontario, production directed by David William. The chorus arrived clad in veils, as if imported from an Eastern harem, but dropped an item of clothing for each ode until, by the fourth stasimon, they had stripped down to animal-print bodysuits.19 The staging imaginatively captured their mercurial character as a projection of the god’s ever more vicious intentions.

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The chorus’s complete identification with their god and his increasing ferocity are evident from the two thematically related choral odes that bracket the robing scene. When Pentheus exits for his costume change, they sing their third stasimon likening themselves to a fawn escaping the hunters’ hounds into a verdant forest free of mortals. Shortly afterwards, as Dionysus leads his victim to the mountains, the chorus sings its final ode reversing that image. Intensifying the bestial themes of the play, they invoke “hounds of madness” (978, adapted as “raging dogs” by Shragge) as they fantasize about the Theban maenads’ response to the interloper. But perhaps the most obvious index of their total commitment to Dionysus occurs when they celebrate the carnage described by the second messenger. Their malice as they mockingly congratulate the delusional Agave, triumphant with the head of her son, is unmitigated by even a tinge of pathos, although even they are repelled by her invitation to partake in cannibalism (1183–4). The final moments of the tragedy are a bleak exemplification of the Aristotelian recommendation that the anagnorisis (tragic recognition) should coincide with the peripeteia (reversal of fortune, Poetics 1452a22–3). Up to this point the audience has only heard about Agave, who has not been physically present in the theatre, although she played a prominent role in the messenger’s account of the sparagmos of Pentheus. Yet the tragic rhythm of recognition and reversal is hers to perform. This is unusual because these plot elements otherwise focus on the central character, or tragic hero. Throughout the drama Pentheus embodied the blasphemy that insulted Dionysus. His demise and final words are represented in a narrative of an offstage event, in which he pleads for his life to Agave, and acknowledges his “mistakes” (hamartiaisi, 1121). But the essential tragic recognition is, by deferral, enacted by his mother, in all likelihood played by the same actor. After the excitement of her time in the mountain, she is brought back to sobriety by her father’s therapeutic intervention, doomed to live the rest of her life in exile, isolation, and remorse. In other Euripidean finales, a god pronounces the foundation of a cult or ritual to ameliorate the tragic events: Artemis appears at the end of Hippolytus (another play about a blasphemous young man) to promise a maidens’ ritual to commemorate his life. But Dionysus appears only to remonstrate with his Theban relatives, dispersing them to their respective, separate fates. For a god who had taken such umbrage at the denial of his divinity to depart without any prescription for redemptive ritual seems the ultimate gesture of disdain.

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On the other hand, the original performance of this tragedy was a form of devotion to a god who, if sufficiently provoked, could cause chaos and destruction, a contrast to the regularity of the annual festival where it was first performed. The text that has survived for two and a half millennia can be animated for different audiences by different players in infinitely variable performance conditions, but it nonetheless preserves the uncanny quality of a god who presides over illusion and paradox.

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

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11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19

notes See also this volume, Hurley and Kozak, 4; Marshall, 20; Yoon, 98; and Kovacs, 298. Zeitlin, “Thebes: Theater of Self.” On the City Dionysia, see Marshall, this volume. For more on dithyrambs, see Marshall, this volume, 14. Damen and Richards, “‘Sing the Dionysus.’” Otto, Dionysus, 79. See Bacchae note 67. See also Kovacs, this volume, 288. For example, second-century bce Greek poet Nicander of Colophon, in his Heteroeumena (“Transformations”), refers to the Cretan ekdusia, in which young men divested themselves of feminine clothing worn for the occasion. Also relevant is the Athenian wine festival of the Oschophoria held in the autumn. It involved a procession from a temple of Dionysus to the temple of Athena at Phalerum, led by two young men dressed as women and carrying vine branches (oschoi). Miller, “Reexamining Transvestism in Archaic and Classical Athens.” The practice persisted for centuries: the Syrian writer Lucian describes a festival of Dionysus held by one of the Greek rulers of Egypt, the Ptolemies, at which his generals were required to wear feminine party clothing. For discussion of the kōmos in the festival context, see also Marshall, this volume, 13–15. For a discussion of the metatheatric, or “metatragic,” elements of the play in general, and the robing scene in particular, see Segal, Dionysiac Poetics, 215–68. See also Marshall, this volume, 22–3. See also Kozak, this volume, “Bacchae,” 108, for discussion of this production. See also Kovacs, this volume, 294. Foley discusses the perversion of sacrifice in Bacchae in Ritual Irony, 205–58. McClure, “Priestess and Polis.” Osborne, “The Ecstasy and the Tragedy,” 403. See also Goff, Citizen Bacchae, 271–9. See the analysis of this development in Arthur, “The Choral Odes,” 145–79. Another Stratford Ontario staging of the tragedy in 2017 (dir. Jillian Keiley) acknowledged this aspect of their character by portraying the women’s singular devotion to the god as a form of sexual libido, as if they were groupies following a charismatic rock star. For other productions framing Dionysus as a rock star, see Kozak, this volume, “Bacchae,” 108–9.



Oedipus Tyrannus

 Scapegoat Carnivale’s Oedipus Tyrannus lynn kozak

Oedipus Tyrannus is probably the best-known Greek tragedy,1 though it comes in between Medea and Bacchae in terms of how often it’s performed. This disparity perhaps results in part from Freud’s use of the play to model perceived psychological patterns,2 in part because of Aristotle’s discussion of it as a paradigmatic tragedy in its combined moment of anagnorisis (recognition) and peripeteia (reversal, Poetics 1452a32).3 Aristotle’s centring of Oedipus Tyrannus has kept it alive in curricula all over the Anglophone world,4 though even he didn’t think you actually had to see the play, claiming that its story was so powerful that anyone just hearing it would feel the appropriate emotions (Poetics 1453b). The way both Freud and Aristotle used the play – which is, in some respects, not as a play at all – might account for why Oedipus is less regularly performed than its popularity might suggest. In Montreal, only one production had ever been mounted in English before Scapegoat Carnivale’s, by Gravy Bath in 2005.5 Nonetheless, in the twenty-first century, Oedipus has enjoyed about twice the number of productions as Bacchae. Despite the gods’ presence in Oedipus through oracles and seers, there’s no clear divine intervention in events, unlike in Bacchae, making Oedipus’s actions, and their consequences, feel more relatable. Also, as with Medea, Oedipus Tyrannus occupies an intersection of the private and the public, the domestic and the political, in a way that allows contemporary adaptations to lean into one or the other, or both. There’s an interesting trend in recent receptions incorporating incarceration as a key plot point: these adaptations range from Luis Alfaro’s 2013 Latinx-American Oedipus El Rey to Sergio Blanco’s 2013 Uruguayan Thebes Land, but also include many of the play’s recent filmic adaptations such as Panos Koutras’s 2009 Greek trans adaptation, Strella, and Denis Villeneuve’s 2010 Québécois Incendies, adapting the script from Wajdi Mouawad’s play of the same name, with its tragic action moving between the Middle East and Canada.6 These

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prison-dramas (and we might even place Park Chan-Wook’s 2003 South Korean revenge thriller Oldboy among them if we loosen the definition of “prison”) break the play out of the psychodrama mode, as they all look at cycles wherein carceral interventions into violence often result in perpetuating more violence within both the family and the community. Scapegoat Carnivale also approached Oedipus with an intense interest in the public over the personal, and the steps that finally led to their 2017 workshop production are, in themselves, rife with the kind of Sophoclean irony that Sampson addresses in his essay in this volume. Scapegoat began with an interest in the Oedipus’s unusual prologue. The play opens with a large assembly gathered outside the Theban royal house – priests and petitioners all begging for the protagonist to save them from a plague. Sophocles apparently innovated the Oedipus myth by setting it during a plague, possibly in response to Athens’s own epidemic at the time.7 Scapegoat was interested in how this setting affected our understanding of the play, and so met with local historians Jarrett Rudy and Magda Fahrni to learn more about Montreal’s urban history during the 1918 Spanish flu pandemic,8 since in 2016 few people living had any experience of a global pandemic. This initial plague setting became more of an abstract backdrop, with a tighter focus on the play’s representation of the relationship between city and leader during a time of crisis. Scapegoat also wanted to explore the Greek chorus, because the power of communal singing as a social bond connected ancient practices around tragedy with the contemporary urban space, where choirs represent varying demographics expressed through diverse musical styles. First grant applications aimed to have five virtually connected venues throughout the city pair with the Centaur Theatre so that live choruses would be sung simultaneously and streamed, in different neighbourhoods, by diverse types of choirs. This integration of local choirs built on Scapegoat Carnivale’s inclusion of Montreal’s Choeur Maha as their Bacchae’s second chorus of maenads, while the idea of streaming came from a mixture of Eric Whitacre’s virtual Skype choirs, Ragnar Kjartansson’s multiple-screen installation The Visitors, and live-feed presentations of the Metropolitan Opera. But this ambitious project of digitally connecting the city through Oedipus and its Greek choruses wasn’t awarded funding, so Scapegoat had to modify their concept to fit a much tighter budget, offering a staged reading rather

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Figure 9 The Oedipus cast sits down for a “table read.” (Chip Chiupka, Marcel Jeannin, Bret Watson, Alison Darcy, Mike Payette, David Oppenheim, Harry Standjofski, Gitanjali Jain, France Rolland, Leni Parker, Melissa Trottier, and Janet Warrington.) (Photo by Emilio Espinosa.)

than a full production. The solution came through bringing community choirs into the theatre, which the production did in a very clever way, under Andreas Apergis’s direction. Rather than having the play’s prologue open on that crowd in front of Oedipus’s palace, Scapegoat set up a table centre-stage as though the audience really was going to see just a table read between actors, under the house lights. Then suddenly, at the priest’s command to “stand up!” (147), all the actors stood and backed away from the table, and people began pouring into the theatre space, each one putting a lit candle on the table. Those entering were members of three different choirs, in a clear parallel to the ancient choral parodos: Choeur Maha, Montreal’s feminist choir; the Zakynthines Phones, a local Greek men’s choir; and the Montreal Artists’ Choir, an ad hoc choir made up mostly of Montreal theatre and performing artists. Once all the choirs were in their places on raked bleachers framing the space, there was a full black-out, leaving only the table in front, now covered in candles, before theatrical lighting resumed and all three choirs began the rousing parodos’s prayers, the first of composer Brian Lipson’s choral odes, under David Oppenheim’s musical direction and live guitar accompaniment. Soloist Gitanjali Jain’s heart-rending rendition of

Figure 10 Oedipus’s parodos, with community choir members. (Photo by Emilio Espinosa.)

the second strophe sticks in the mind, detailing the never-ending deaths in Thebes, as “men fly away like birds / faster than unquenchable flame / one by one / to the god of the evening shore” (175–8). Having this huge chorus all around the actors changed the dynamics of the play – as Oedipus’s personal quest for knowledge becomes seemingly more and more focused on himself through the script, Scapegoat Carnivale’s audience could never forget how high the stakes were for everyone else. This play is about Oedipus but not only about Oedipus: this play is about a city in crisis where one man’s decisions affect all. Scapegoat gave their presentation the title Oedipus, Part One: Assembly, which signalled both the notion that this staged reading would be the first part of a process moving towards a massive, full production, as well as the company’s interpretive focus on the power of public assemblies in affecting change. But despite the short run completely selling out and garnering wildly positive reviews in the local press, a full production is yet to happen, reflecting the real challenges that companies face in bringing these plays to the stage. Still, Scapegoat Carnivale achieved something special with its presentation, with one critic calling it “a beautiful adaptation” and “a must-see,”9 while Montreal Gazette theatre critic Jim Burke tweeted that the production “reminded [him] of what a devastatingly effective play Oedipus is” (@Funhousetheatre, 21 October

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Figure 11 Choeur Maha in Oedipus. (Photo by Emilio Espinosa.)

2017). Burke later included the play in his “Best Montreal theatre of 2017” round-up, noting the production’s lack of funding: “Having lost out on funding for a proposed multimedia production, they went ahead anyway with a script-in-hand version that, with the help of three local choirs, managed to be both compelling and darkly funny.”10 There is irony, too, that

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Figure 12 Zakynthines Phones, with chorus members Gitanjali Jain, Melissa Trottier, and Janet Warrington behind them, in Oedipus. (Photo by Emilio Espinosa.)

Scapegoat’s “compromise” of having those three choirs, with over sixty people on stage facing a house of 240, began to feel like it was the impossible production in the streaming-performance years of the covid-19 pandemic. Since the outbreak of the pandemic, Oedipus’s popularity as a plague play has re-emerged. In addition to Bryan Doerries’s pandemic Zoom readings of the play with The Oedipus Project,11 Alfaro’s Oedipus El Rey also saw livestreaming performances (along with the rest of his tragic trilogy) from Los Angeles’s Center Theater Group, while Robert Icke’s 2018 Oedipus received a 2021 streaming presentation from the Internationaal Theater Amsterdam. Viet Nam also saw its first-ever production of the play, with Oedipus the King performed by students from the Hanoi Academy of Theatre and Cinema at the Sixth Asian Theatre Schools Festival, virtually hosted from Beijing, China. If streaming versions marked the peak of the pandemic, live shows also began to mark its end, or at least the beginning of “living with the virus,” with Los Angeles Opera re-opening after more than a year with a version of Stravinsky’s Oedipus in June 2021, and the Athens-Epidaurus Theatre

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Figure 13 Montreal Artists’ Choir, with musical director David Oppenheim playing guitar, in Oedipus. (Photo by Emilio Espinosa.)

festival hosting the German company Schaubühne’s new version of the play written by Maja Zade and directed by Thomas Ostermeier, in September 2021. If it seems the end of the covid-19 pandemic will bring an end to this explosion of Oedipuses, an interview with Ostermeier gives us clues to the play’s relevance moving forward, as the desire to “rid the land of pollution” becomes more obvious in a time of climate crisis: “The drama is set in Thebes at the time of the plague. The gods tell Oedipus that the pandemic will end once he reveals who murdered his father. And as we all know, Oedipus himself is the origin of the plague, because he killed his own father. That is not only true of the pandemic; we are also the origin of an even bigger drama, the drama of our time: global warming.”12 Scapegoat Carnivale’s presentation chose the local over the global and avoided mapping any larger real-life crisis onto its stage. But the choice of having large numbers of Montreal community members onstage throughout Oedipus’s journey of self-discovery made that journey all the more harrowing. The onstage crowd held a mirror up to the audience, the chorus

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suggesting that the plague that was afflicting them could, one day, afflict you, too. That is, in the end, the most successful expression of Sophoclean sentiment: “If you’re mortal, look to your final day / and don’t say you’re happy until you’ve crossed over, free from pain” (1529–30).13 notes 1 See also Kovacs, this volume, 288. 2 See also Kovacs, this volume, 297–8. 3 Aristotle, Poetics 1452a32. See also this volume, Fletcher, 188; Sampson, 274; and Kovacs, 290. 4 See Hurley and Kozak, this volume, 5. 5 Ibid., 8. 6 Ibid., 7. 7 See Knox, “The Date of the Oedipus”; Mitchell-Boyask, “Reopening Old Wounds.” 8 See Fahrni and Jones, Epidemic Encounters. I’d like to dedicate this chapter to the memory of the late Jarrett Rudy, who contributed enthusiastically to these conversations with Scapegoat Carnivale and who was a great supporter of the performance of ancient Greek texts in Montreal. 9 Segal, “Oedipus Part One.” 10 Burke, “Best Montreal Theatre.” 11 See also Kovacs, this volume, 300–1. 12 As quoted by Oltermann in “‘It has been a sort of nightmare.’” 13 See also Sampson, this volume, 278.

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Adaptation by Joseph Shragge Literal translation by Lynn Kozak Scapegoat Carnivale Theatre’s presentation of Sophocles’s Oedipus Tyrannus was selected for the Centaur Theatre’s Brave New Looks series by artistic director Roy Surette, and ran from 20 to 22 October 2017. The workshop production was supported by the Conseil des arts de Montréal, and featured three community choirs: Choeur Maha, Zakynthines Phones, and the Montreal Artists’ Choir. Crew Adaptation Joseph Shragge Direction Andreas Apergis Literal Translation Lynn Kozak Composition Brian Lipson Musical Direction David Oppenheim Assistant Musical Direction Gitanjali Jain Dramaturgy Anthony Kennedy Stage Management Danielle Skene Set Design Patrice Charbonneau-Brunelle Costume and Lighting Design Cathia Pagotto Assistant Stage Management Nikita Bala Production Assistance Trevor Barrette Technical Direction Catherine Fournier-Poirier Cast Corinthian Chip Chiupka Second Messenger Alison Darcy

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Chorus Gitanjali Jain Oedipus Marcel Jeannin Musician David Oppenheim Tiresias Leni Parker Priest Mike Payette Jocasta France Rolland Shepherd Theoharris “Harry” Standjofski Chorus Melissa Trottier Chorus Janet Warrington Creon Brett Watson Note on the Text: Joseph Shragge adapted Lynn Kozak’s literal translation for performance, often cutting redundant lines and streamlining sections, particularly in the choral odes. These odes were then further cut when Brian Lipson set them as lyrics to his choral compositions. For the purpose of this volume, we have restored the majority of the cut lines, as well as all the excised choral verses. Throughout the script, {} indicates lines that were cut for Scapegoat Carnivale’s production; [] indicates lines that have been cut from the ancient Greek by editors judging from different manuscript traditions; notes on the text throughout also indicate missing lines. Many sections remain streamlined in their expression when compared to the ancient Greek text; please note that the line numbers refer to the Greek text. All stage directions represent Scapegoat Carnivale’s choices, as surviving Greek plays do not contain any such directions.



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Characters priest oedipus, ruler of Thebes creon, brother of Jocasta, part of Thebes’s ruling family tiresias, seer jocasta, wife of Oedipus, sister of Creon corinthian, a messenger from Corinth shepherd, a shepherd who used to be one of Laius’s men messenger The setting is the steps in front of a great house with a single entrance to it.

Prologue People sit in front of the house, along with a priest. Oedipus enters from the house to address them. oedipus My children, the new generation of old Cadmus,1 why do you sit before my throne crowned in suppliant branches?2 As I speak, our city fills with incense smoke, prayers and lamentations. It wouldn’t be right to address you by messenger or any other person, so I’ve come outside myself – Oedipus – whom you all know.

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1 See also Bacchae line 132, note 67. Cadmus came from Tyre (in modern-day Lebanon) to search for his sister Europa. He founded Thebes after the Delphic oracle advised him to follow a cow and build a city where the cow sat down. There he sacrificed the cow to Athena, killing Ares’s dragon that guarded the water he needed for the sacrifice. Athena advised him to sow the dragon’s teeth in the soil, and the noble houses of Thebes sprouted. For killing the dragon, Cadmus had to serve Ares for a year and marry his daughter, Harmonia. Cadmus and Harmonia both eventually turned into serpents. 2 Suppliants are those involved in ritual supplication, or begging, and are here marked by their dress (elsewhere we see supplication associated with ritual gestures, such as grabbing the knees at Medea 496–7, and here in Oedipus at 327).

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(To priest) Speak, old man – give them voice. Why have you come? Is it out of fear or need? I’ll help care for you. Only the most unfeeling of men wouldn’t pity these who’ve gathered. priest Oedipus, ruler of this land, look at the generations kneeling at your altars – some not yet grown enough to fly from home, others weighed down by age, the youth who’ve yet to marry, and priests like myself, a priest of Zeus. The rest sit garlanded, in the markets, in front of Athena’s twin temples, and at the shrines along the river Ismenus.3 The city, as you yourself can see, tosses, unable to lift her head from the depths, such are the waves that waste the bud before it blooms, the ox herd in the field, and the unborn child in the womb. This fiery god, the hated plague, bears down on us, devastating our city, emptying the house of Cadmus, and filling dark Hades4 with groans and cries. The children and I bow before your hearth, not because we think you’re above the gods – we deem you the best of mortals in all of life’s dealings. You arrived at the city of Cadmus and freed us from the Sphinx.5 3 See also Bacchae 132n5. The Ismenus was a river flowing through Thebes. 4 Hades was the god of the underworld and became shorthand, as here, for the underworld itself. 5 This passage in Greek refers to the Sphinx not by name, but in describing the Thebans’ “hard tribute to the singer” that Oedipus freed them from. The Greeks

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Oedipus Tyrannus You didn’t have any special knowledge; we didn’t teach you. But, as was said, with a god’s help, you lifted up our lives. Now again, King Oedipus, strongest of men – everyone here, bowing, implores you – defend us, whether with a prophecy you hear from the gods or learn from a man. For as I see it, lived experience is always our best council. You are the best of men – lift up our city! Preserve your reputation as the saviour of this land, and don’t let us remember you as one who raised the city up only to let it drop – restore the state so it never falls. {With a good bird-sign you gave us luck before – be that same man again. For if you will rule this land, as you now rule,} it’s better to reign over a populated city than an empty one. Neither ship nor tower is worth anything without men. oedipus My poor children, I know well why you’ve come. I know you’re sick, but there’s no one here more stricken than me. The pain you feel is for yourselves, no one else, while I suffer for the whole city, for you and for myself at once. You haven’t woken me from sleep – know that, in my anxious state, I’ve wept countless tears, wandered on many roads of thought,

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usually depict the Sphinx as having a woman’s head, a lion’s body, and wings. Later texts claim that Hera sent the Sphinx to guard the gates at Thebes, asking the Thebans riddles and gobbling them up when they could not answer. Only Oedipus was able to solve the riddle. See Sampson, this volume, 277–8; Pseudo-Apollodorus, Bibliotheca 3.5.8.

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and, after much consideration, I found one remedy, which I put into practice. I sent my brother-in-law, Creon, son of Menoeceus,6 to Apollo’s oracle7 to learn what action will best protect us. Now, as I count the days since he left, I’m troubled – he’s been gone too long. But when he arrives, I’ll follow the god’s orders. I’d be among the lowest of men not to do as the god commands.

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priest What you’ve said is apt – I see the people signalling Creon’s arrival. oedipus Lord Apollo, let him come with saving fortune, bright like your eyes.

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priest He must have a good omen – he’s wearing a crown of laurel, abloom with berries. Enter Creon. oedipus {We’ll know soon – he’s in earshot.} (To Creon) My kinsman, child of Menoeceus, what message do you bring us from Apollo?

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6 Not to be confused with the Corinthian Creon in Medea, this Creon is the brother of Jocasta and brother-in-law and uncle to Oedipus. His father, Menoeceus, was Cadmus’s grandson and Pentheus’s son, meaning that the action of this play takes place three generations after that of Bacchae. “Creon” in ancient Greek means “ruler,” which might account for the multiplicity of Creons in Greek mythology. 7 Apollo’s oracle was at Delphi, a religious sanctuary in central Greece, and was known as the Pythia, a priestess who served for life and gave consultations to both individuals and cities (poleis) on matters of war, pollution, and colonization, among others.

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creon A good one: even the worst troubles can turn out well, if we follow the right course. oedipus Yes, but what’s the oracle’s prophecy? {Your words so far give me reason neither to fear nor rejoice.}

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creon Do you want to hear in front of everyone? I’m ready to speak; otherwise, we can go inside. oedipus Speak to us all. I care more for these people than I do for my own life. creon Then I’ll speak. Our master, Apollo, commands us to rid the city of a pollution that has been cultivated in this earth before it grows incurable.

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oedipus How can we root it out? What’s the nature of the pollution?8 creon “Banishment or blood will redress the murder whose bloodshed brought the storm on our city.”

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oedipus Who was murdered? Whose fate did the god reveal?

8 Ancient Greeks thought of pollution as a natural part of their civic-religious space. Birth, death, murder, and sacrilege, among other things, could all result in pollution, and only ritual action could purge it.

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creon Laius, my lord. He ruled before your reign. oedipus I’ve only heard of him. I’ve never seen him.

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creon He was slain, and now the god commands us to punish his murderers, whoever they are. oedipus But where on earth can they be found? How can we uncover the tracks of an ancient crime? creon In our own land, the god said. What’s searched for is captured – what’s ignored escapes.

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oedipus Where was Laius killed? In his house, or in a foreign land? creon Before he left, he said he was going to see the oracle, but then he never came home.

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oedipus Was there no witness, no fellow-traveller we could question? His knowledge may be useful to us. creon They were all killed, except one who fled. In his fearful state, he could only tell us one thing. oedipus What was it? One small clue could lead to more, and give us hope.

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creon He said many robbers fell upon the king – there wasn’t a single killer. oedipus How could a thief act so boldly? – unless someone from our city bribed him.

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creon We thought that too, but after Laius died, no one sought justice for him, amidst our troubles. oedipus What trouble could prevent you from investigating a king’s murder? creon The arrival of the Sphinx forced us to look no further than our own feet. Everything else stayed in the dark. oedipus Then I’ll begin again, and return this matter to the light. It’s worthy of Apollo and worthy of you to turn our thoughts to the man who died. And right to see me as an avenging ally to this land and to the god. Not on behalf of some faraway friends will I rid this land of the pollution – whoever he was who killed the king may turn his hand on me, so by helping the slain, I’ll benefit myself. (To people) Come, quickly, children, off the steps. Raise your suppliant branches. Summon the people of Cadmus. I will do everything I can.

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Either we’ll see revealed our fortune or our fall.

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priest Stand up, children, the favour we came for this man has granted. May Apollo come as our saviour and end this sickness.

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Exit priest and people.

Parodos9 Enter Chorus. chorus (strophe a) O sweet-voiced oracle of Zeus what message will you bring from golden Pytho10 to shining Thebes? My body trembles. O Delian Paean – 11 I’m afraid. Are you here to collect a new debt or one come round from long ago? Tell me, child of golden Hope, eternal Voice. (antistrophe a) First, I call on you, Athena, immortal daughter of Zeus,

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9 Choral entrance song. 10 Another name for Delphi, the sanctuary where the Pythian priestess of Apollo would give oracles. See also note 7. 11 Paean is the god of healing, but the name can also serve as an epithet for Apollo. The epithet “Delian” confirms that this refers to Apollo, as the island of Delos was traditionally Apollo’s birthplace.

Oedipus Tyrannus and on your sister Artemis, protector of our earth, who sits on the glorious throne of the marketplace, and on far-shooting Apollo. My three death-defenders, shine for me. If ever before you drove pain from our gates, come again now and banish ruin from our city. (strophe b) I carry with me so much sorrow. My people are sick, and there’s no weapon to protect us. Nothing grows from the land. Babies die in the womb. Men speed away like birds, faster than unquenchable flame, one by one to the god of the evening shore. (antistrophe b) In the city, countless die – their bodies on the ground, unmourned. I hear lamentation at altars, wives and mothers, praying for healing. For these, O golden daughter of Zeus, send us your bright face as courage. (strophe c) And pray that Ares,12 who burns me now without war’s bronze shields – pray he flies back to Amphitrite’s chambers,13

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12 The invocation of Ares is odd, as the city has been struck by plague, not war. This might reflect Athens’s struggles against Sparta around the original date of production; see Knox, “The Date of the Oedipus,” 139. 13 Amphitrite was the wife of Poseidon, the god of the sea, and the name often served as a shorthand for the sea itself.

212 down into the sea, down into the dangerous waters below the Thracian waves.14 For the destruction that goes undone by night will surely be accomplished by the day. O Zeus, possessed of lightning, kill him with your thunder. {antistrophe c) Lycean lord,15 O that your gold-stringed bow, bent back, could scatter unbreakable arrows against the enemy’s ranks, with the torches of Artemis flashing through the Lycian mountains.16 I call on him too, the one with golden hair named after this land, wine-cheeked Bacchus17 whose maenads18 cry to come near his flaming torch – } go against the god of death dishonoured among the gods.19

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14 Thrace was a kingdom north of Greece which stretched between the Aegean and the Black Seas. Herodotus understood the Thracians as particular worshippers of Ares (5.7.1; 7.61.1). 15 Another name for Apollo, which can either relate him to Lycia or simply mean “the god of the light.” 16 Lycia was in the southwestern corner of Asia Minor, modern-day Turkey, and was the home of the oldest known cult site for Leto, the mother of Apollo and Artemis, who are often linked as siblings associated with the bow and arrow. 17 Bacchus, or Dionysus, was a native of Thebes, as Bacchae details. 18 Maenads were the women who worshipped Dionysus. 19 In the Iliad, Zeus names Ares as the “most hateful of all the gods who hold Olympus / because conflict and wars and battles are always dear to you” (5.890–1).

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Episode One oedipus You pray, and for your prayers, if you listen, and agree to battle this disease, you’ll have renewed strength and relief from pain. I’m a stranger to this story – a stranger to this deed. I wouldn’t get far on this trail alone, without a sign. But now, as I am a citizen among you, I declare to all Cadmeans:20 whoever knows who slayed Laius, Labdacus’s son,21 make it known. If he’s afraid, understand – by speaking out, he’ll receive no other punishment than to leave this land, unharmed. And if you know the murderer is a foreigner, don’t be silent; you’ll profit from my gratitude. But if you stay quiet, and out of cowardice reject my orders, listen well: No one shelter the killer or call him by name. No one pray with him or make sacrifices together. No one share with him holy water. But drive him from your homes, for he is the pollution Apollo’s oracle revealed. This is how I will ally myself to the god and the man who died. As for the murderer, whether he acted alone or with others, I say, may he, in misery, wear out his unholy life. Even if I were to knowingly allow him into my house then I should suffer my own curse.

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20 Thebans, the people of Cadmus. 21 Labdacus, Laius’s father, was the son of Polydorus and Nicteis, and followed directly in the royal lineage of Thebes from Cadmus.

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I call on all of you to fulfill it – for myself, the god, and this desolate land. Even if a god had not commanded us, you would still be unclean, because a good man – and a king – has perished. You should have investigated, but since I hold the powers he once held, possessing his bed and wife – which would have made our children siblings had he any, {had not fate rushed down upon his head –} I’ll take up this cause and fight for him as if he were my own father. I’ll use every means to find the killer on behalf of Labdacus’s child, and the son of Polydoros and Cadmus before him, and for Agenor22 of old. For those who don’t obey, may the gods not give them harvests from the earth nor children from their women, but destroy them by the present fate, or by one worse. Cadmeans, to all whom this pleases, may justice be your ally, and may you find favour forever with the gods.

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chorus As you’ve placed me under oath, my king, I’ll speak. I’m not the killer and I don’t know who is. But since Apollo bade us search – shouldn’t he also expose the killer? oedipus Justly said, but no man is strong enough To force the gods to act when they don’t want to.

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chorus Then may I say what I think is the next best course. 22 Agenor, Cadmus’s father, a Phoenician king descended from Greek Io, sent Cadmus and his brothers Phoenix and Cliix to find Europa after Zeus abducted her. While they didn’t find her (Zeus had taken her to Crete), they all founded cities. Cadmus founded Thebes. See also Bacchae line 132 and note 24.

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oedipus You can say it even if you have another course after that. chorus Tiresias is a seer like Apollo – whoever searches for the killer would learn most from him.

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oedipus I haven’t neglected this either. On Creon’s advice, I sent a messenger to Tiresias – twice in fact – and was beginning to question why he hasn’t come. chorus Apart from him, all that we know are faint rumours.

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oedipus What rumours? I’ll investigate every story. chorus They say he was killed by travellers. oedipus So I’ve heard, but no one can find the witness. chorus If the killer’s capable of fear, he’ll come forward when he hears your curse. oedipus He wasn’t afraid of the deed, so I doubt he’ll fear my words. chorus Here’s the one who can help – the prophet is being led to the palace, the only man in whom dwells the truth.

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Enter Tiresias, led by a boy. oedipus Divine Tiresias, knower of all that’s said or unspoken, of all things heavenly and earthbound, though you can’t see, you must know a plague ravages our city. You’re our sole protector and saviour. If you haven’t heard from the messengers already, Apollo said deliverance can only come when Laius’s murderers are killed or exiled. Don’t begrudge us the sayings of the birds, or any form of divination. Rescue yourself and the city, rescue me and everything from this plague. We depend on you – giving aid when you’re able is the most beautiful of all labours.

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tiresias Wisdom is a terrible thing when it doesn’t serve the one who has it. I know this well, and yet I must’ve forgotten, or else I wouldn’t have come here. oedipus What is it? Why do you sound discouraged? tiresias Let me go home. If you trust me, bear your burden till the end, as I will mine. oedipus To rob us of prophecy isn’t customary, lawful, or loving to the city that nurtured you. You deprive us of the god’s voice.

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tiresias I see you speak against the order of the cosmos. So spare me grief and say no more.

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oedipus Don’t turn away, by the gods, we are all suppliants, begging, prostrate. tiresias None of you knows anything. I won’t speak of our misfortunes. oedipus What do you mean? You know, but won’t say? Do you intend to betray me and, in turn, the city?

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tiresias I won’t bring grief to you or to myself. Why ask these futile questions? You won’t learn anything from me. oedipus How dishonourable, how base – you’d anger a stone. Why won’t you speak to us? How can you stand there so hard-hearted?

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tiresias My disposition troubles you, but that’s because you can’t see the wrath inside yourself. Instead, you blame me. oedipus Who wouldn’t be provoked, hearing you dishonour the city? tiresias Things will come on their own. Even if I keep quiet.

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oedipus But if they’re to come, you must tell me. tiresias I won’t speak further. Rage all you wish. oedipus Angry as I am, I won’t stop from uttering my thoughts. I’m beginning to think you conspired and did the act – perhaps not with your own hands, though if you had sight, no doubt the deed would have been yours alone.

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tiresias Truly? Then follow your own decree, and from this day, don’t speak to them or to me, because you are the unholy pollution in this land. oedipus How shameless. Where do you think you can escape to? tiresias I have escaped. I have the truth and I’m strong. oedipus Who taught you the truth? Surely it was not acquired by skill. tiresias You, by urging me to speak against my will. oedipus And say what? Say it again so I better understand.

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tiresias You didn’t understand it before? Or are you testing me?

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oedipus Speak it again so I understand. tiresias You murdered the man you seek to avenge. oedipus You won’t rejoice, having said these injurious words twice. tiresias Should I continue and risk more of your anger? oedipus Say as much as you want, your prophecies are all in vain.

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tiresias I say you live a life of shame without knowing, with those close and dear. You don’t see the ruin you’re in. oedipus Do you think you can continue gleefully spouting these things? tiresias If there’s any strength in truth. oedipus There is, but not for you – your ears and mind are as blind as your eyes. tiresias A poor struggling wretch, saying the same insults that you’ll soon hear yourself.

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oedipus You live in one long, dark night. You can never harm me or anyone else who sees in the light.

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tiresias It’s not your fate to fall at my hands – what’s soon to happen is in Apollo’s care. oedipus Is this ploy yours or Creon’s? tiresias Creon won’t harm you. You’ll do that yourself. oedipus Is it for wealth? Leadership? A life of admiration? What jealousy, if for my rule – with which the city entrusted me, that I didn’t ask for – my friend, Creon, my friend from the beginning, conspires to overthrow me, manoeuvring in secret, hiring a scheming charlatan, a tricky, oily vagabond who looks only to profit, but is blind to his own ineptitude. Where did you prove yourself a seer, again? When the sphinx appeared? Why didn’t you say anything to save the citizens then? The riddle couldn’t be solved by any man, but needed prophetic power. Which, it turned out, you didn’t have, neither from the birds nor from a god. But I, ignorant Oedipus, stopped her, solving her riddle by using my own judgment,

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Oedipus Tyrannus which doesn’t come from the birds – me, whom you’re trying to overthrow, believing you’ll sit beside Creon’s throne. You and your conspirator will lament when we drive out this curse. If you weren’t an old man, you’d be in agony for your treason. chorus These words were spoken in anger, both his and yours. Oedipus, there’s no need. {We must look for whatever will resolve the god’s oracle.} tiresias Even though you’re king, I have the same right to speak. I’m not a slave to you but to Apollo.23 I won’t be described as Creon’s patron. And, since you mock my blindness, I’ll say – you have eyes, but can’t see the evil hanging over where you live and who you live with. Do you know who your parents are? You’ve yet to notice you’re an enemy to your own family, to those below ground and above. The double curse from your mother and father will strike, and send you limping from this land, a shadow on your now-seeing eyes. What harbour will you sail to then? What port? What corner of Cithaeron24 won’t echo with your cries when you recognize that after your good sail, the marriage where you moored your ship was no safe harbour? Then you will perceive a host of other evils,

23 The Greek calls him “Loxias” here, an epithet that connects him to his oracular power. 24 A mountain whose range acts as the natural boundary between Thebes’s geographic area of Boeotia and Athens’s geographic area of Attica.

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222 levelling you and your children. So scorn these things, denounce Creon, ignore the words out of my mouth – you’ll be battered worse than any mortal. oedipus Am I to listen to this unbearable speech? No. To your ruin. Go. Go faster. Turn away from this house and leave!

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tiresias I wouldn’t have come if you hadn’t called for me. oedipus How was I to know you’d speak such foolishness? {Otherwise, I’d have scarcely summoned you to my house.} tiresias To you I’m a fool, but not to those who bore you.

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oedipus Who? Which mortals bore me? tiresias This day will bear it out as you fall to ruin. oedipus You’re speaking in obscure riddles. tiresias Aren’t you the best at solving riddles? oedipus Despite your sarcasm, you’ll see how great I am. tiresias It’s the very same luck that will destroy you.

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oedipus As long as it saves the city, I don’t care. tiresias Then I’ll go. (To boy) Boy, lead me away. oedipus Yes, lead him. Because while you’re here, you’re an annoying impediment – once gone, you’ll pain me no more.

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tiresias Since I’ve spoken, I’ll go, but not because I’m afraid; you can’t hurt me. I’ll tell you – this man you seek, whom you’ve proclaimed as Laius’s murderer, 450 is right here. A foreigner for now, but soon to be shown as part of the Theban race, a joyless discovery. Blind when he could see, impoverished when he was rich, 455 he will make his way to a foreign land, feeling for the road with a stick. He’ll reveal himself as his children’s father and brother, his mother’s son and husband, and his father’s fellow planter and killer. 460 So, go inside and brood on this, and if you still think I’m a liar, tell yourself it must be because I have no understanding of prophecy. Exit Tiresias and boy

First Choral Stasimon chorus (strophe a)

224 Who was named at the rock of Delphi? Who did the unspeakable thing? Whose hand is stained with blood? Now it’s time for him to run, faster than storm-swift horses. For Zeus’s son pursues him with fire and lightning, followed by the spirits of death. (antistrophe a) The message flashed from snowy Parnassus25 – track the unknown man who wanders through the wild woods hidden by caves and rocks. Like a bull forlorn on a joyless path, he walks with idle feet away from the oracle, fleeing the fate that hovers over him forever. {(strophe b) Terrible, terrible things; the prophecy has left me shaken. I can’t confirm or deny it. I don’t know what to believe – I flutter and can’t see the present or the future. I’m a helper to the house of Labdacus and not then or now have I learned of any reason to suspect Oedipus in this murder.}

25 The largest mountain that looms over Delphi.

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(antistrophe b) Zeus and Apollo are wise, and know much about earthly matters, but there’s no way to know for sure if the seer knows more than me. 500 A man may surpass another in cleverness, but until I see the word made good, I’ll never side with those who blame him. 505 Before all eyes, he defeated the Sphinx – 26 because of this test, we saw he was wise, and the city loved him. 510 So in my mind he can’t be evil.

Episode Two Enter Creon. creon Citizens, I heard Oedipus’s terrible accusations, {so I have come, because I can’t accept them.} If he thinks he’s suffered some harm because of me either in word or deed, then I no longer crave a long life carrying this charge that makes me a villain to this city, to all of you, and to all my friends.

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chorus He rashly jumped to this conclusion, perhaps more from anger than from rational thoughts. creon Does he think I counselled the seer to utter falsehoods?

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chorus That’s what he said.

26 The Greek doesn’t mention the Sphinx by name but refers instead to the “winged girl.”

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creon He accused me with clear eyes and a clear mind? chorus I don’t know.

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Enter Oedipus from house. oedipus What are you doing here? Are you that boldfaced to come to my house where you killed the master and looked to usurp my reign? 535 Say it, before the gods – you saw in me some cowardice or stupidity and so devised this plot. Did you think I wouldn’t notice your manoeuvring or that I wouldn’t defend myself when I found you out? You’ve made a pitiful attempt 540 to take my crown without crowds or friends – a coup that can only be accomplished with masses of support and wealth. creon Allow me a fair response, and then, knowing the truth, make your judgment. oedipus Clever, but I’m not inclined to learn from a would-be usurper. creon Hear what I have to say. oedipus Don’t say you’re blameless.

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creon If you think being adamant without reason is virtuous, you’re unwise.

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oedipus If you think you can wrong your kinsmen without punishment, you’re insane. creon {I agree with you there,} but what have I done to make you suffer? oedipus Did you persuade me to send for the seer?

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creon I did, and I would offer the same advice again. oedipus And how long has it been since Laius – creon Since he what? I don’t understand. oedipus – was swept away in a deadly assault. creon Long ago. oedipus And was the seer practising his craft back then? creon He was. He was wise then, too, and as equally honoured as he is today. oedipus And did he ever mention me at that time?

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creon Not when I was near.

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oedipus And was there any inquiry after Laius died? creon Of course we held one. But didn’t learn anything. oedipus Then why didn’t this wise man say something then? creon I don’t know. And since I didn’t know, I thought it best to stay quiet. oedipus But this much you do know, and so might admit it. creon Admit what? What do I know? If I know it, I won’t deny it. oedipus That if he hadn’t conspired with you, he wouldn’t have named me Laius’s killer. creon If he said this, you yourself know. But I can learn about it from you just as you can learn it from me now. oedipus Learn your fill – because I’ll never be guilty of this murder. creon Answer this – are you married to my sister?

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oedipus I won’t deny it. creon And you rule this land together, giving her equal authority? oedipus I give her whatever she wishes.

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creon And I’m an equal third party to you two? oedipus Yes, but your friendship is false. creon Not if you try to see it the way I do. Ask yourself why someone would seize power only to face constant fear, rather than have the same authority without a care. I much prefer getting to act like a king to being one – anyone else who’s sane would want the same. I have everything from you without worry, but if I ruled, I’d have to do much against my will. How can leadership be sweeter than what I already have – political power without pain. I’m not so self-deceiving as to want more than what’s good and profitable. Now, I’m greeted with kindness by everyone, because when citizens need your favour they come to me first. Why would I toss that away? [No mind turns to evil thoughts when thinking wisely.]27 I hate treason and could not endure taking part in it. If you need proof, go to the oracle; 27 Some editors delete this line: see Lloyd-Jones, Sophocles ad 600.

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ask if I accurately reported her divination. With respect to what I’ve been accused of – if you catch me plotting with the prophet, 605 don’t kill me with a single vote, but two, both yours and mine. Based on conjecture alone, you mustn’t accuse me. It’s not just to believe bad men are good without reason, nor good men bad. 610 28 [Throwing away a friend you love is throwing away your own life.] I’m sure in time you’ll know, since only with time do we realize a man is good, though it only takes a moment to know a man is evil. 615 chorus He speaks well, my lord – those who are rash can’t be too certain. oedipus When someone’s plotting, quickly and in secret, I must counter with equal speed. If I wait, quietly, he’ll achieve his ends and I’ll have erred.

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creon What do you want? To exile me? oedipus I want you dead, not banished, to show what happens to jealous men. creon You won’t yield and you won’t believe me? You’re not thinking.

28 Some editors delete this line; ibid. ad 611.

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oedipus I’m thinking about myself. creon Then think of me, too. oedipus You’re false. creon What if you don’t understand? oedipus I must continue to rule all the same. creon Not when you’re ruling badly. oedipus O city, city. creon This city is mine, too – not yours alone.

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Enter Jocasta from the house. chorus Stop, my lords. Jocasta leaves the house. She’ll help you end this feud. jocasta Miserable, misguided men, to raise discord, and stir up private ills, when the land is sick. Are you shameless? (To Oedipus) Go inside.

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(To Creon) Creon, go home before this petty dispute escalates into something worse. creon My sister, your husband is determined to punish me in one of two ways – banishment from our fatherland or death.

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oedipus It’s true, my wife, I caught him working his immoral craft against me. creon May I derive only curses, if I’ve done any of what I’m accused. I should die for it.

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jocasta In the name of the gods, Oedipus, believe him. For the sake of this oath and for me, and for all who stand by you. chorus Be persuaded, my lord, I beg you. oedipus What would you have me do? chorus Respect him. He wasn’t frivolous before and now he’s sworn an oath. {oedipus Do you even know what you want? chorus I do.

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oedipus Explain it to me. chorus Never use rumour to dishonour a friend who has sworn a curse on himself.} oedipus You understand this may result in my exile or my death. chorus No, not by the sun, Helios, god of gods! Let me die in the worst way, unfriended and unblessed for thinking that! This wasting land wears out my soul – to think you two should pile new evils onto old.

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oedipus Let him go, and if necessary, I’ll die, dishonoured and driven from this land. Your words make me pity you, unlike this man I hate. chorus 29 I see how intolerable it is for you to give way – a heaviness falls upon your heart. This kind of nature carries the most pain. oedipus (To Creon) Why won’t you leave? creon I’ll make my way, since I have found you ignorant. I know these men all agree. 29 Most texts attribute these lines to Creon.

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chorus My lady, why don’t you bring him into the house? jocasta I’ll wait until I know what’s happened.

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chorus Rumours led to wild, stinging accusations. jocasta On both sides? chorus Yes. jocasta And what was the story? chorus I’ve had enough – I care so much about this wounded land – better we let the matter rest.

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oedipus Do you see what you’ve done with all your good intentions? You’ve put me off track and weakened my resolve. chorus Lord, as I’ve said before, I’d be robbed of sense, to turn my back on you – who guided our beloved land on a course away from trouble – and who will again guide us to prosperity. jocasta By the gods, tell me, what business has so inflamed your wrath?

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oedipus I’ll tell you, as I respect you most. Creon was plotting against me.

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jocasta What exactly brought about such strife? oedipus He accused me of Laius’s murder. jocasta Does he know this or did he hear a rumour? oedipus He sent a seer to speak for him so that whatever he himself said would seem innocent. jocasta Then absolve yourself, and listen to me: no mortal is truly a seer. I’ll give you a quick anecdote as proof. An oracle once came to Laius – I won’t say from Apollo himself, but from one of his “helpers” – and said fate had it that Laius would die by the hand of his own child, whoever was born to us. But it’s said Laius was slain by robbers at the crossroads of three highways. Whereas when our baby was three days old, Laius pinned together the infant’s feet and had him thrown off a remote mountainside so Apollo couldn’t fulfill the prophecy that this child would slay his father. This is the stuff of predictions – this is what seers achieve. Don’t pay it any respect. Whatever the god wants will be revealed by the god.

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oedipus Hearing this, my dear Jocasta, sends my soul wandering and my thoughts racing. jocasta Why? What did I say? What are you turning over in your mind? oedipus I thought I heard you say Laius was killed at the crossroads of three highways?

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jocasta That is what I said. It’s an old rumour. oedipus And where exactly did this happen? jocasta A place called Phocis,30 where the road splits in one direction to Delphi and the other to Daulis.31 oedipus And how much time has passed since it happened? jocasta It was made known in the city shortly before your rule. oedipus O Zeus, what have you planned for me? jocasta What is it? Oedipus, what troubles you?

30 A mountainous region in central Greece. 31 A city on a foothill of Mount Parnassus in eastern Phocis.

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oedipus Don’t ask me yet, but tell me, what did Laius look like, how old was he?

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jocasta Tall, his hair starting to grey – the way you look now. oedipus What misery! It seems, without knowing, I’ve flung myself into a terrible curse.

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jocasta What do you mean? It frightens me to look at you. oedipus Now I’m afraid the prophet sees truly. Can you answer one more question? jocasta Even though I’m trembling, I’ll answer whatever you ask. oedipus Was he travelling in a small group or was he leading a company of armed followers?

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jocasta Five in all, with a herald. He rode in a horse-drawn carriage. oedipus Oh – it’s clear now. My wife, who told you this story? jocasta A servant, the only survivor.

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oedipus Is he still part of this house? jocasta No. When he came back and saw you ruling with Laius dead, he begged me, clutching my hand, to send him to the fields where sheep pasture, far away from the city. So I sent him. He was worthy as a servant; it was the least we could do. oedipus Can he return quickly?

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jocasta It’s possible. But why send for this man? oedipus I’m afraid, my dear wife, that I’ve spoken rashly. I want to see this servant. jocasta I’ll summon him. But surely I have a right to know what weighs so heavily upon you, my husband.

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oedipus Now that I’ve come to this point of uneasy expectation – whom else would I tell such a fortune? My father was Polybus from Corinth,32 my mother, Dorian Merope.33

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32 The city which lies near the isthmus joining central Greece to the Peloponnese, about 70 kilometres west of Athens and about 100 kilometres southwest of Thebes by road. 33 The Dorians were one of the four main Greek ethnic groups during the fifth century bce, along with the Aeolians, Achaeans, and Ionians. Their origins are unknown, but they widely inhabited the Peloponnese and they spoke the Doric dialect.

Oedipus Tyrannus I was perceived as one of the best citizens in that town, until something happened to me, warranting my surprise, but not how I reacted. At a banquet, a man, quite drunk, told me I wasn’t my father’s son. This troubled me all day, and it took all my being to restrain my anger. But the next day, I gave in and went to interrogate my mother and father. Furious, they reproached the man who insulted me, who let this jibe slip. And I was calmed by what they did, but I never stopped worrying, as the rumour continued to spread. Without my parents’ knowledge I made my way to Pythia, the Delphic oracle, where Apollo sent me away disappointed. He didn’t answer my questions, but instead said the most terrible and unhappy things – I was fated to dishonour my mother’s bed, and make a family unbearable to look upon. He said I would murder my real father. Hearing this, I fled, and used the stars to find a route far away from Corinth, to where I’d never see the evil prophecies fulfilled. I settled in this land, where now you say its leader was killed. My wife, I’ll tell you the truth. When I reached the place where the three roads crossed, a herald came toward me, and an old man in a horse-drawn carriage. The herald and the old man forced me off the road, so I struck the driver in anger. The old man, watching from the carriage, waited till I was close, and then brought his sharp whip down onto my head – for which he paid an unfair price. I swiftly struck him with my staff,

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240 so that he rolled from the carriage, laid out on his back. I killed them all, together. If Laius was somehow related to this stranger, who would be more miserable than me? Who would be more hated by the gods? No citizen or foreigner could accept me into their homes or speak to me. I put this curse upon myself, staining the dead man’s bed with the same hands that killed him. Was I born evil? Am I unholy? If it’s necessary to flee, I still cannot step foot in my own nation or else I’ll marry with my mother and kill Polybus, who fathered and raised me. Then who wouldn’t be wrong to pronounce that Oedipus’s cruel sentence came down from a god? Please, O holy one, don’t let me see that day. I’d rather be invisible than painted with a stain of misfortune. chorus For us too, O lord, this makes us fear, but have hope until you hear the witness’s full account.

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oedipus Yes, I may, while I wait for the servant from the field. jocasta What do you hope to hear from him? oedipus If his account matches yours, I’ll escape suffering.

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jocasta What was it in my story that struck you? oedipus You said Laius was killed by robbers. If the herdsman confirms there were several, I couldn’t have slain him – one isn’t the same as many – but if he says it was a man alone, the scale will sink in my direction. jocasta Rest assured – he can’t alter the story. The whole city heard it, not just me. And even if he were to change it slightly, he’ll never, my lord, show Laius’s murder aligns with Apollo’s prophecy, which clearly said Laius’s death would come from my child. How is it that my poor child killed him when my child died long ago? {From now on, I wouldn’t look here nor there for the sake of a prophecy.} oedipus You’ve thought well on it – nevertheless, send for the servant from the field, and don’t neglect this matter. jocasta Without delay. But let’s go into the house – there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to please you. Exit Jocasta and Oedipus into the house.

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Second Choral Stasimon chorus (strophe a) May the Fates34 find me holy in all my words and deeds, living by the laws born by heavenly ether, whose only father is Mount Olympus,35 whose natures aren’t made by men, and no oblivion can make them sleep – the gods are great in them and ageless. {(antistrophe a) Hubris breeds tyranny, hubris, vain and overfed – even reaching the highest heights it rushes towards fate where no sure foot can keep its tread. But I’ll never ask a god to stop this fight, when the struggle is for the city – the god is my protector, always.} (strophe b) Let fate take the one who scorns the seats of the gods, who’s not afraid of justice, and who makes unlawful gains – {who doesn’t resist unholiness, touching the untouchable or speaking in vain. Which man among them

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34 The Fates, or the Moirae (the Portions), were three goddesses responsible for people’s destinies: Clotho (Spinner), Lachesis (Giver of lots), and Atropos (Unturnable). 35 Mount Olympus, the highest mountain in the Greek peninsula, was where the gods lived. Zeus is often referred to as the father of all gods, but Hesiod’s Theogony makes him and Themis (Rightness) the parents of the Fates (904).

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can hope to ward off the gods’ arrows?} If he’s rewarded, why should I worship? Why must I dance?

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(antistrophe b) I will no longer go to the earth’s untouched centre to pray, not to the temple at Abae36 nor to Olympia37 until all mortals see the prophecies fulfilled. O Zeus, O leader, if that’s what you are, don’t let this escape you in your deathless rule. They already dismiss the old, fading prophecies about Laius. Nowhere is Apollo honoured. The honour of the gods is gone.

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Enter Jocasta from the house. jocasta Lords, I’ve decided to go to the god’s temple, carrying with me offerings of wreaths and incense. Oedipus is so unsettled. He can’t judge between then and now, and accepts whatever anyone says, especially if it scares him. Since I can do nothing to advise, I come to you, Apollo, for you are nearest. I arrive as a suppliant with these symbols, that you may cleanse us from pollution, because we’re all afraid, like passengers who’ve glimpsed terror in the eyes of our ship’s captain.

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36 While the first line of this antistrophe again refers to Delphi (see 67n32), this line also invokes Abae, a town in the northeastern corner of Phocis, home to the famous oracle of Apollo Abaeus. 37 A small town in Elis on the Peloponnese, famous for its sanctuary to Zeus which hosted the Olympic games.

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Episode Three Enter Corinthian Messenger. corinthian Can you tell me, strangers, where is the house of Oedipus? Or better, where he is himself? chorus These are his halls. He’s inside, stranger. But this woman is the mother of his children.

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corinthian May she ever be blessed with happy things, since she is the perfect queen to his king. jocasta To you too, stranger. You deserve it for such a greeting. But say, what message do you bring? corinthian Good things for your household, and for your husband, my lady. jocasta What sort? And where are you from? corinthian Corinth. I’ll tell you right away and you’ll be pleased. Though you may also be grieved. jocasta What is it? What message can have such double powers?

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corinthian The citizens of the Corinth proclaimed Oedipus their new leader.

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jocasta What? The elderly Polybus no longer rules? corinthian Death holds him in the tomb. jocasta What have you said, old man? Polybus is dead? corinthian If I don’t speak the truth, then I deserve to die. jocasta Servant, go quickly and tell your master. O oracles of the gods, Where are you now?! This is whom Oedipus fled, fearing he would kill him, and now this man here says Polybus died by his own fate. oedipus My dearest wife, why have you sent for me? jocasta Listen to this man and see what the god’s oracles have come to. oedipus Who is he?

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jocasta He’s from Corinth. He comes with a message that your father, Polybus, has died.

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oedipus What did you say, stranger? corinthian Since I’m the first to give you the message, I’ll do it plainly – that man is dead and gone. oedipus How? From treachery or because of an illness?

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corinthian It takes little to weigh down an old body. oedipus He died from illness, it seems. corinthian And the measure of his long years. oedipus O why, my wife, should anyone look to the oracle or up at the crying birds who foretold I was to kill my father? The man is dead, asleep in the ground, while I’m here, having not touched a spear! Unless he died of longing for me, then maybe you could say I caused his death – but Polybus lies in Hades and so do the worthless oracles. jocasta Haven’t I told you all this before?

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oedipus You did, but I was too afraid to believe you. jocasta Then take none of it to heart anymore.

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oedipus But shouldn’t I still fear for my mother? jocasta Why should any mortal fear when supreme fate rules all and premonition is fruitless? Live the way we can, however we can. Don’t dread you’ll marry your mother. Many mortals lie with their mothers while they dream. For those who put it from their minds, life is easy. oedipus Well said, except my mother’s alive, which necessarily makes me uneasy, no matter how well you speak.

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jocasta But your father’s passing is of such great comfort. oedipus Great, I know, but I’m afraid of the woman who lives. corinthian Who is the woman you’re scared of? oedipus Merope, old man, the wife of Polybus. corinthian What about her moves you to fear?

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oedipus A terrible prophecy, a direful omen from the god, stranger. corinthian Can it be said out loud? Or is it improper? oedipus Of course. Apollo once told me my destiny – sharing my mother’s bed and shedding my father’s blood. Which is why I left Corinth long ago and travelled far away. Fortunately, to be sure, though the sweetest thing is seeing the faces of our parents. corinthian You really became an exile to avoid this?

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oedipus And because I didn’t want to murder my father. corinthian Then why, lord, haven’t I released you from this fear, given I came with good tidings? oedipus To be certain you’ll receive much-deserved thanks. corinthian And to be certain, this is my reason for coming, so I might be rewarded for bringing you home. oedipus I can never return to my parents. corinthian My child, it’s clear you don’t know what you’re doing.

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oedipus How is that, old man? By the gods, teach me. corinthian If it’s for these reasons you won’t go home –

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oedipus I fear Apollo’s oracle may come true. corinthian That you’d acquire this stain from your parents? oedipus Yes, old man, I feel constant foreboding. corinthian But don’t you know your fear’s unfounded? oedipus How? I was born to those parents.

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corinthian Because Polybus is not your kin. oedipus What did you say? Polybus didn’t father me? corinthian No more than the one talking to you. oedipus How can my father be as much a stranger to me as you are? corinthian Because neither he nor I fathered you.

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oedipus Then why did he give me his name? corinthian You were a gift, taken from my hands. oedipus How could he have loved me so much when I was something given to him? corinthian His former childlessness must’ve affected him. oedipus Did you buy me or find me, before you gave me to him?

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corinthian I found you in the woods of Mount Cithaeron. oedipus Why were you wandering in that place? corinthian I worked in the pastures, tending sheep. oedipus So, you were a shepherd, roaming for work? corinthian I was your saviour. At least in that moment. oedipus What was wrong with me that you took me in your arms? corinthian Surely your ankles testify to that.

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oedipus Why bring up that old wound? corinthian I freed you. The edges of your feet were pinned together. oedipus I’ve carried the shame of that defect from birth. corinthian So much you’re named for it.38 oedipus Who named me after it, was it my mother or my father? Tell me. corinthian I don’t know. The person who gave you to me would know better. oedipus You took me from someone else – you didn’t find me? corinthian No. Another shepherd gave you to me.

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oedipus Who? Did you know him? Can you tell me? corinthian One of Laius’s men, I think. oedipus The ruler of this land from long ago? corinthian Exactly. One of his herdsmen. 38 Oedipus in Greek means something like “swollen foot” – see Sampson, 275–7, in this volume for further discussion.

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oedipus Is he still alive? Can I see him?

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corinthian You’d know best; you all are his countrymen. oedipus Is there anyone here who knows the herdsman he speaks of? Has anyone seen him in the fields or the city? Come forward – it’s time for these things to be known.

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chorus I believe it’s the servant from the fields whom you already summoned, but our lady Jocasta would be best to tell you. oedipus Lady, do you know the man we sent for? Is that whom he’s talking about?

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jocasta Why do you ask about him? Don’t pay it any attention. Don’t waste a thought on it. oedipus But with these clues, I must bring my real birth to light. jocasta No, by the gods, if you care about your life don’t seek it out. I am sick enough. oedipus Courage. Even if I’m the son of a third-generation slave-mother, it won’t make you low-born.

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jocasta All the same, listen to me, I beg you. Stop. oedipus I won’t listen if it means not learning the truth.

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jocasta I’m speaking only in your interest, as one who wants what’s best for you, as one who only thinks kindly of you. oedipus These kind thoughts are trying my patience. jocasta O ill-fated man, may you never know who you really are! oedipus Go, someone, fetch the servant. Let this woman relish her nobility. jocasta Poor, poor man – that’s all I can say, and nothing else, ever again. Exit Jocasta into house. chorus Oedipus, why has she gone, darting away in horrible grief? I’m afraid – what evils will cut through this silence? oedipus Whatever it is, let it break through. No matter how lowly my ancestry, I’ll know my origin. Maybe her highness, the great lady, is ashamed of my low birth.

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But I hold myself a son of generous Fortune,39 and will not be dishonoured. Fortune is my mother – the months, my brothers, who’ve seen me great and small. With such a nature, I wouldn’t want another – I must seek out my family.

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Third Choral Stasimon chorus (strophe a) If I were a seer, or someone wise, by boundless Olympus,40 I’d say by moonrise tomorrow, Oedipus will praise you, Mount Cithaeron, as his countryman, nurse, and mother. And we’ll celebrate with song and dance because you were kind to him, our king. O Phoebus,41 I hope this pleases you! (antistrophe a) Who bore you, child? Who of the long-lived? Did she marry Pan42 who roams the mountain? Was she a bride to Apollo who loves the wild plains? Were you a gift to the lord of Cyllene?43

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39 Fortune here is the goddess Tyche. 40 Here the chorus offers an oath sworn on Mount Olympus, the highest mountain in the Greek peninsula, where Zeus and the other gods lived. 41 The most common epithet for Apollo, which often stands in for his name, and literally means “bright.” 42 Pan, half-man, half-goat, was the god of herding, and often associated with bucolic spaces. 43 This refers to Hermes, the god of passage, thought to have been born in a cave in Mount Cyllene (Homeric Hymn 3; Pindar, Olympian 6.77).

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Or did Bacchus receive you from a Helicon nymph44 with whom he often played?

Episode Four Shepherd enters oedipus (to Corinthian Messenger) Old man, if it’s right for me to guess, having never met him, I think I see the servant from the field – at least he looks the right age. I also recognize those leading him as my own servants. But you’d know better since you knew him. chorus I know him. He was one of Laius’s men – trustworthy as any shepherd. oedipus I ask you first, Corinthian stranger, is this the man you spoke about? corinthian He is; the one you’re looking at. oedipus Then you, old man, look here and answer all my questions. Were you one of one Laius’s men? shepherd I was. I wasn’t bought a slave but raised in his house. oedipus What work did you do? 44 While it’s unclear whom this might refer to, Mount Helicon was a mountain in Boeotia, near Thebes; Hesiod claimed that he met the Muses who inspired his poetry there.

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256 shepherd Tending flock, most my life.

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oedipus Where did you stay? shepherd Sometimes Cithaeron, sometimes the land nearby. oedipus Did you ever notice this man here? shepherd Doing what? What man are you talking about? oedipus This man here. Have you ever come across him?

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shepherd I couldn’t say from memory. corinthian That’s no shock, master. I’ll remind him. I know he’ll remember me. In Cithaeron he had two flocks, I had one. I accompanied him for three years, from spring to fall. In winter, I’d drive my flock into the folds and he’d drive his flock into Laius’s pens. Did this happen as I describe it, or not? shepherd You speak the truth, though it’s been a long time. corinthian Come, you know you gave me a boy to take care of as my own child?

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shepherd Why do you ask me that? corinthian This is him, my friend. He was a lot younger then.

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shepherd Are you hurrying us to our doom? Won’t you stay quiet? oedipus Don’t chastise him, old man. What you’ve said deserves chastising. shepherd How, my master, have I erred? oedipus Not answering him about the boy.

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shepherd He doesn’t know of what he speaks. oedipus If you won’t speak by grace, you’ll speak through pain. shepherd No, by the gods, don’t hurt an old man! oedipus Someone come and tie his hands! shepherd O misery, wretched me; what for? What do you want to learn? oedipus Did you give this man the boy?

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shepherd I gave him the child. I wish I’d died that day. oedipus You’ll come to that end if you’re not honest. shepherd If I am, I’ll be destroyed all the same. oedipus This man, it seems, persists in delaying.

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shepherd I’m not. I told you what I gave him. oedipus After getting him from where? Your house, or from some other? shepherd Not from my own, I received him from another. oedipus From what citizen, from what house? shepherd No, by the gods, master, don’t ask me more. oedipus You’ll die if I have to ask you again. shepherd It was a child of the house of Laius. oedipus Born to some slave or to Laius himself?

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shepherd Oh, I’m on the threshold of saying the horrible thing. oedipus And I’m on the threshold of hearing it. Yet, I must hear. shepherd It was said that the child was descended from that man. But the lady inside could tell you best. oedipus Did that woman give him to you? shepherd Yes, my lord. oedipus For what purpose? shepherd To throw him away. oedipus Her own child? shepherd For dread of evil prophecies. oedipus What were they? shepherd That he would kill his father. oedipus But then why did you give him to this old man?

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shepherd I felt pity, master, and thought he would carry the baby to wherever he was from. But he saved him for the worst, the saddest, fate. If you’re the man he says you are, you were born so unlucky. oedipus All these things brought to pass, all true. O light, now I’ll see you for the last time, having revealed myself born from whom I shouldn’t have been born, loving whom I shouldn’t have loved and killing whom I shouldn’t have killed.

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Exit Oedipus into house. Exit Corinthian Messenger and Shepherd.

Fourth Choral Stasimon chorus (strophe a) Generations of mortals, your lives are worth so little. Whose happiness is more than just an appearance? And appearances all fall away. Poor Oedipus, your fate tells me not to call anyone blessed on this earth. (strophe b) He never missed a mark – he had happiness and wealth. O Zeus, he destroyed the sphinx with its crooked talons and oracle-songs. He stood in my land like a tower against death. Since then, I’ve called him king,

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and honoured him greatly, as he ruled our Theban halls. (strophe b) Now whose story is unhappier to hear? Who’s more bound to savage ruin? To suffering? To life upended? Oedipus, the same house harboured you as a child, a father, and a husband. How could the furrow where you were sown stay silent so long? (antistrophe b) All-seeing time has found you out against your will – he judges the marriage that is no marriage, between who bore and who was born. Laius’s son, if only I’d never seen you. I pour this lament from my lips. I breathed again because of you, but now my eyes grow dark.

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Exodos Enter Messenger from house. messenger O, those most honoured in the land, when you hear the deeds and see the sights, you’ll feel such sorrow for the house of Labdacus. Neither the river Istrus nor Phasis45

45 Both the Istrus, the Greek name for the lower portion of the Danube, and the Phasis, the modern-day Rioni in Georgia, were Potamoi, river gods born from the Titans Oceanus and Tethys.

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could wash clean the horrors hidden in this house that will soon be brought to light – evils not done unwillingly. Grief that hurts most is pain inflicted on oneself.

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chorus Nothing we’ve seen has been easy to bear. What else is there to add? messenger Few words are enough – our royal lady Jocasta has died.

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chorus Poor woman, from what cause? messenger Herself. But you’ll be spared the most painful sight – seeing only what my memory holds, how this wretched woman suffered. She was in a frenzy, rushing down the hallway. She headed straight for her marriage bed, tearing at her hair with both hands. Once inside, she pulled the doors shut and called out to Laius, her late husband, remembering their love from long ago which gave them the child who killed his father and who left her to have ill-begotten children with her son. She wailed at her bed, where the wretched woman twice-bred a husband from her husband and a child from her child. And I don’t know how she died, because as she was crying, Oedipus entered the palace and took our attention away from the doleful creature. Oedipus paced back and forth, shouting for a sword, shouting for his wife, who was not a wife but a mother, to him and his children.

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Oedipus Tyrannus He must have been in a state of divine frenzy – no one was near him – but we could hear his terrible yells as if someone drove him on. He approached the double doors where he bent back the metal bolts, fell into the room, and saw the woman hanged, twisted up in a coiled noose. He began to bellow as he let loose the rope. And there she lay, stretched out on the ground, a prelude to even more sights. He tore from her dress two golden pins, the ones she had used to decorate her clothes and, lifting them up, he drove them into his eyes, saying, “My eyes won’t look back on my suffering or the evils I’ve done. In the dark for the rest of time, they’ll never see what I shouldn’t have seen or recognize what I should have known.” With this tragic song, not once but several times, he struck at his eyes. [And each time his sockets bled down onto his beard, not in droplets, but in a hailing storm of black blood.]46 Such evil falls on both – not through the fault of one alone but from the mixing of man and wife. Happy once, and rightly, but today – shame, ruin, death – as many words for evil as you could name belong to them. chorus And now does the poor man have any respite?

46 Some editors delete these lines: see Lloyd-Jones, Sophocles ad 1278.

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264 messenger He’s calling for the gates to be opened to show all the Cadmeans the one who slayed his father, and with his mother – too unholy for me to say. He’ll cast himself from this land, no longer staying in the house whose curse he brought. But he needs strength and a guide. This disease is more than can be borne alone. He’ll show you now. He’s opening the gates. Soon you’ll see a sight which must be pitied even by those who find it hateful.

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Oedipus enters from the house, blinded. chorus O what terrible suffering – the worst I’ve ever seen. What madness came over you? What spirit swooped down to ravage you? O wretched man, I can’t even look at you – I want to ask, to learn, to gaze upon you – but you make me shudder. oedipus O misery, to what land can I carry myself? How violently does my voice fly from me? My fate – where did you leap away to? chorus Towards a terrible place, unheard and unseen.

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(strophe a)47 oedipus A dark cloud rolls over me – unnameable, unstoppable – blown by rough winds. O me, O me, the sting of these goads and these awful memories. chorus No wonder you mourn. Amidst these pains, you bear it doubly. (antistrophe a) oedipus My friend, you’re still my stable companion, you’ll be behind me, carrying me, blind. O, O – I know you’re there. I can recognize your voice, even in the dark.

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chorus Dreadful deed! How could you blind yourself? What god made you do it? (strophe b) oedipus Apollo brought my suffering to pass. But no other than myself struck out my eyes. What’s there to see? Nothing sweet for me to look at.

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47 In its original performance context, Oedipus’s exchange with the chorus would have been sung in lyrical strophe and antistrophe.

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chorus It is as you say. oedipus Who’s there for me to see, to love or talk to – who would give me pleasure, my friends? Lead me away from here fast as possible. O my friends, lead away this great accursed ruin, the mortal most hated by all the gods.

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chorus I’m sorry for you, for what you learned of yourself and what happened. I wish I’d never known you. (antistrophe b) oedipus Let him die, whoever found me in the wild plains, and unbound my feet, and drew me out of death’s reach, and saved me. Nothing about that deed had grace. It was unkind, because if I’d died then, I’d not aggrieve my friends today.

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chorus I wish for the same. oedipus I wouldn’t have been my father’s killer, famous among mortals as husband to the woman who bore me. But now I’m a godless child to an unholy woman, 1360 sharing the bed of the man who engendered me with wretched life. If there’s sorrow beyond all sorrow 1365 then Oedipus has drawn its lot.

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chorus I don’t know if I agree that you’ve chosen well – better dead than blind.48 oedipus Don’t counsel me anymore. With what eyes might I look on my father when I go to Hades, or on my wretched mother? What I did to both deserves worse than hanging. Do you think the sight of my own children is desirable to me, born as they were? No, never for these eyes. Not even to see the city, the fortress, the holy statues of the gods, since I, the all-miserable, noblest man in Thebes, robbed myself, proclaiming to all to push away the ungodly, the one the gods showed – the son of Laius. After I’ve revealed myself as that same one, can I look the people in the eye? No. I cannot. If there were a way to staunch the flow of sound, like the eyes, I wouldn’t have hesitated from encaving all my senses, making me both blind and deaf. It’s sweet for thoughts to dwell beyond evils. O Cithaeron, why did you accept me? Why not kill me straightaway, so I’d never discover my origin? O Polybus and Corinth, what a beautiful man you raised from the outside,

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48 For a disability studies approach to blindness in this myth and in the Athenian context, see Rose, The Staff of Oedipus, 79–94. Rose makes the point that the chorus might consider death better than blindness in this instance because Oedipus will be in exile and away from those who would normally care for him (90).

268 all the while festering within. Now I’m exposed – evil, from evil. O those three roads and the hidden grove, the narrow trail where the three roads met, which drank up my father’s blood shed by my own hands – do you still remember, perhaps, what I did to you then? And after, coming here? Marriages, marriages, you bred us and bred with us again, producing fathers, brothers, children, a family of wives, and mothers, as many shameful deeds as can happen among men. But better not to speak of things that shouldn’t be done. Hide me away, by the gods, quick as possible. Murder me or drop me in the sea, so you’ll never look upon me here again. Come, stoop to touch the wretched man – and don’t be afraid, but listen – as for my bad fortune, I’m the only mortal who can bear it.

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chorus To help you with what you ask, here is Creon, left in your place as guardian of the land. Enter Creon. oedipus How can I speak a word to this man? How could he trust me, when I treated him so poorly? creon I haven’t come to mock you, Oedipus, or to shame you for your mistakes. And though you may not respect the mortal race,

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Oedipus Tyrannus at least show some reverence to Helios’s49 all-nurturing flame and quiet this display of pain, as neither earth, nor holy shade, nor light, will tolerate it. Quickly, take him into his house. Only his family should hear his woes.

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oedipus Since you’ve countered my expectations, being a most excellent man in the face of the worst, oblige my one request, for your benefit more than mine. creon What is it that you ask for so humbly? oedipus Cast me out, quickly to where no mortal knows me. creon You know well I would have done this for you already, but I want first to know what the gods command. oedipus Hasn’t the oracle made it clear? The father-killer, my unholy self, needs to perish.

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creon It was said, that’s true, but it’s only right to know what should be done. oedipus Will you find out, even on behalf of this accursed man? creon I will, for surely now you would have faith in the divine. 49 Helios is the god of the sun; see also line 660.

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oedipus Yes. And on you I lay one more charge. Give the woman inside a burial. Complete the rites on your own, correctly. And never let my paternal home be thought deserving of punishment for having me in it, while I’m alive. 1450 Let me dwell in the mountains – Cithaeron will be called my own, chosen for me by my mother and father while they lived as my appointed grave. Following their decree to kill me as a baby, I’ll die an old man. For I know this – no sickness can infect me – 1455 nor can anything else destroy me. For I wouldn’t have been saved from death except for some terrible evil. Wherever fate goes, let it go. As for my sons, Creon, don’t worry about them. 1460 They’re men who provide for themselves. But my two pitiful girls, who’ve never stood far from my dining table or from my reach, who’ve always had a share in everything, 1465 care for them. Let me touch them and weep. Come, lord, come, O noble lord. If I touch them, I’ll remember when I held them, just like when I could see. 1470 (Enter daughters of Oedipus from house) What voice? No, by the gods, do I hear my two daughters crying? Creon, did you pity me and send for my dearest children? Am I right? 1475 creon As you’ve said. Knowing the happiness they once brought you, I thought they might do so again.

Oedipus Tyrannus oedipus Bless you for this; may a god guard you better than they guarded me. Children, where are you? Come here, come to these hands, {your brother’s hands,} your father’s hands that sowed and planted, and look at my once-bright eyes. O children, I appeared as a father to you, without seeing and without knowing that I was sprung from the same seed-bed. I weep for these two, though I can’t see them, thinking of the rest of the bitter days that men will make them live. What crowd can you join? What festival won’t send you home crying? And when you come to the age of marriage, who will your husbands be? Who would take on the burden of reproach, of shame? The same for all my offspring, not just you. What evil’s missing? “Your father killed his father, then fathered you with same woman who fathered him,” that’s what they’ll say to shame you. And then who will marry you? No one, children – you’ll waste away barren and unmarried. Child of Menoeceus,50 since you’re the only father left to these two, please don’t let them become beggars, unwed and wandering, falling to my misfortune. Pity them, seeing their age, bereft of everything except you. Agree, O noble man! Touch them with your hand. Children, my daughters, 50 Creon.

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if you’d been of age, I would have advised you countless times, but now, all I’ll say is pray you live where opportunity allows – find a better life than your father’s. creon You’ve cried enough. Now go into the house.

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oedipus I must obey, though it gives me no pleasure. creon All’s good in its appointed time. oedipus Do you know on what terms I want to leave? creon Tell me and then I’ll know. oedipus Send me to live outside this land. creon You ask for what the god must grant. oedipus But I’ve become the most hateful to gods. creon Well, then, you’ll likely get your wish. oedipus So you agree to the terms? creon I wouldn’t say so lightly.

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oedipus Then lead me away from here. creon Walk, and let go of your children. oedipus Don’t take them away from me. creon Don’t wish to command all things. You’ve outlived your rule. chorus People of Thebes, do you see Oedipus, who knew the famous riddle, who was the most powerful of men? 1525 Who wasn’t jealous of his fortune? Now a wave of disaster has struck. If you’re mortal, look to your final day And don’t say you’re happy until you’ve crossed over, free from pain. 1530

 A Paradigmatic Tragedy c . m i ch a e l s a m p s o n

Sophocles’s take on the Oedipus myth was celebrated already in antiquity, and it’s easy to see why.1 Reduced to its most essential aspect, the hard-boiled plot dramatizes Oedipus’s prosecution of his predecessor Laius’s murder, an unsolved mystery that has brought a plague upon the community of Thebes. Like a MacGuffin, however, the murder-mystery element and the crisis in Thebes are gradually overshadowed by a larger, personal drama towards whose resolution the plot inevitably careens. For, in the course of his investigation, Oedipus does far more than merely solve the crime. In addition, he discovers that he is the murderer in question, that the man he killed was also his biological father, that his wife is his mother, and that he has therefore fulfilled the oracle he once sought carefully to evade. It is more Oedipus’s journey of self-discovery than the simple murder mystery that propels the tragedy and makes its climax so powerful. Sophocles’s handling of his mythological protagonist and the plot’s personal element features prominently in ancient criticism.2 To use the philosopher Aristotle’s terms, Oedipus’s anagnorisis (“recognition”) and peripeteia (“reversal”) occur simultaneously (Poetics 1452a22–3).3 At the moment he learns his true identity, Oedipus is transformed from the ruler and erstwhile saviour of Thebes into a polluted criminal – a wretched parricide and a motherfucker. Metaphorically speaking, he is the plague afflicting Thebes. Sophocles’s plot construction is so effective, Aristotle argues, that even the mere narration of the story is sufficient to inspire fear and pity in an audience (Poetics 1453b3–7).4 Part of the reason for the plot’s emotional oomph is that Oedipus is an ideal tragic protagonist. He is neither excessively virtuous nor excessively vicious, but falls into misfortune because of an “error” (hamartia) on his part (Aristotle, Poetics 1453a7–12).5 We should be careful not to misconstrue this error as some sort of tragic flaw or (more blandly) as a kind of jejune pride.

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The latter term is often mistakenly identified with the Greek hybris, a word that more properly involves “violence” or “outrage.” Aristotle’s notion of error, rather, is that Oedipus’s own choices underlie his tragedy. Whatever role Apollo and the prophecies of his Delphic oracle play in setting the stage, it is Oedipus’s determination at every step that propels him headlong into disaster – resolving to learn to the truth of his parentage, to avoid fulfilling the oracle’s prophecy, and to investigate Laius’s murder. Aristotle praises Sophocles for foregrounding this human element and for keeping irrational forces such as the oracle outside the play.6 This is not to say that Apollo is unimportant, but rather that Oedipus is not simply destroyed by some infernal machine. As Bernard Knox put it, “Oedipus did have one freedom,” namely, to pursue or not pursue the truth.7 And, to his ultimate dismay, it is the truth that Oedipus succeeds in ascertaining at the play’s climax.

Sophoclean Irony One aspect of Oedipus’s fame (in antiquity,8 as now) is its particularly effective deployment of irony – one of the hallmarks of Sophoclean dramaturgy more generally. In this play, it takes a few forms. Irony of the purely verbal sort is conveyed by puns and abundant wordplay in the original Greek, neither of which is easily captured in a translation. While the etymology of Oedipus’s name (“Swell-foot”) from the Greek elements oide- (“swell”) and pous (“foot”) is so well known that it even appears in the play (1036), oid- can also be derived from the verb meaning “I have seen (and now I know),” while pou is also the qualifying adverb “perhaps” (or “I suppose”). We could say that “Mr Swell-Foot” is also “Mr Know-Foot” and “Mr I Know (maybe),” as well. The second possibility makes one think of the Sphinx’s riddle, while the third alludes to the shortcomings of Oedipus’s knowledge and sense of self. The wordplay is rich and operates on several levels. Oedipus’s obliviousness to his identity and origins reasserts mythological reality for the play’s audience, which comes to the play fully aware that he is in fact the son whom Jocasta and Laius exposed as an infant. Thus, when Oedipus curses Laius’s murderer and those who would shelter him, the way in which he emphatically includes himself is ominous: “Even if I were to knowingly / allow him into my house / then I should suffer my own curse” (249–51). So too would no ancient audience miss the terms in which he resolves to prosecute the crime: “I’ll take up this cause and fight for him / As

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if he were my own father” (264–5). In Sophocles’s hands, the capacity of language both to obscure and to convey meaning is exploited to its full effect, and it has been rightly noted that Oedipus’s language “is both the medium and the condition of [his] alienation from himself.”9 The audience knows how Oedipus’s tragedy will conclude and yet there is remarkable suspense throughout; the play’s many clues and its rich deployment of irony are nonetheless intriguing. More important than the purely verbal irony is the dramatic irony which continually brings what seems to be the case and what actually is the case into conflict. The play as a whole is structured around Oedipus’s dogged and unwitting self-prosecution, but the smaller moments that accumulate across the episodes – such as Tiresias’s recalcitrance, Jocasta’s silent withdrawal, or the shepherd’s terrified reluctance to speak – gradually intensify the dramatic tension. At almost every point, moreover, something that purports to offer relief or a solution to the crisis only serves to disturb Oedipus and further exacerbate the situation. Creon arrives from Delphi early on with both the god’s explanation of the plague’s cause and his prescription, but it’s the pursuit of that solution that sets Oedipus’s tragedy in motion. He subsequently provokes Tiresias into revealing the murderer’s identity only to impugn the seer in outrage for doing so, asserting his own intellectual prowess over and above the divinatory craft. Oedipus fails to grasp the truth laid before him and suspects a plot – as though Laius had also been deposed unconstitutionally. His privileged self-confidence borders on delusion in the face of the prophet’s blunt rebuttal: “You have eyes, but can’t see the evil hanging over / where you live and who you live with. / Do you know who your parents are? / You’ve yet to notice you’re an enemy / to your own family” (413–16). The gap between what seems to be and what is actually the case is exposed again and again in the play. Jocasta attempts to placate Oedipus’s anger by revisiting the oracle which predicted Laius’s death at the hands of a son. Yet her revelations – that Laius died not at the hands of his child (who was exposed) but was in fact killed by robbers at a crossroads – only send Oedipus’s mind racing. So too does the arrival of the Corinthian with news of Polybus’s death bring the mere illusion of comfort to Oedipus. He may not have been involved in any way, but Oedipus’s relief in concluding that the prophecy of parricide has therefore been invalidated is promptly exploded when the Corinthian reveals that neither Polybus nor his wife Merope is Oedipus’s kin. In an instant, the folly of his flight from Corinth is exposed. Oedipus might

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once have consoled himself that the man he struck at a crossroads was not his father and that there was similarly no risk of incest outside of Corinth, but now Tiresias’s question – one which Oedipus himself asked once before – reverberates ominously: “Do you know who your parents are?” (414).

The Sphinx’s Riddle There is irony in Oedipus’s inability to solve the riddle of his own identity inasmuch as the position he enjoys as husband of Jocasta and ruler of Thebes was won by defeating the Sphinx. Her notorious question (“What walks on four legs in the morning, two in the afternoon, and three in the evening?”) had bamboozled all others, but turns out to have been particularly wellsuited to Oedipus.10 Because he was maimed as an infant, when his father pierced and pinned his ankles, Oedipus’s own physiology provides him with unique insight into the riddle’s meaning. Recall the alternative etymology of his name: “Mr Swell-Foot” is also “Mr Know-Foot.” Thus, while the answer is, strictly speaking, the generalized “a human being,” Oedipus identifies with the riddle and its meaning on a more personal level – “this human being.” In ancient art, there’s even a tradition in which Oedipus answered the Sphinx not with words, but simply by pointing to himself. Although Oedipus’s encounter with the Sphinx is not described in any detail, this episode from his past is thematically integral to Sophocles’s play. Her riddle’s significance lies in its encapsulation of the human lifespan in a single, synchronic snapshot: infancy in all its helplessness, the potential and capability of mature adulthood, and the frailty of senescence, when life is in decline. Its thematic import is established by the play’s opening vignette, in which a crowd of Thebans has assembled before the palace to supplicate their king. Their spokesman describes them deliberately: “Kneeling at your altars – some not yet grown enough / to fly from home, others weighed down by age, / the youth who’ve yet to marry, / and priests like myself, a priest of Zeus” (15–19). At the beginning of the play, Oedipus re-encounters the Sphinx in a different form – this time not in the form of an abstract riddle, but in that riddle made flesh. Against such a backdrop, the Oedipus who emerges from the palace at the play’s beginning represents one stage of life; he is the mature human animal, at the peak of his potential. He is the vanquisher of the Sphinx, an achievement on which his status in Thebes, the Thebans’ faith in him, and his self-

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confidence are all based. It is on those terms that he attempts to diagnose and resolve the crisis in the first half of the play, as his arrogant dismissal of Tiresias following the seer’s accusation makes clear: “Where did you prove yourself a seer, again? / When the sphinx appeared? / Why didn’t you say anything to save the citizens then? ... But I, ignorant Oedipus, stopped her, / solving her riddle by using my own judgment” (390–8). Faced with a new crisis, Oedipus expects that he will succeed once again and by the same means as before, as though he has always already been the saviour of Thebes. Yet the hint of the Sphinx’s riddle at the start of the play casts a long shadow over the wise, capable, and mature Oedipus who appears initially. Because the amassed Thebans and the unspoken riddle they embody invite a larger, synchronic perspective encompassing the whole of his lifespan, the present moment’s ostensible prosperity is insecure and impermanent, as an ancient audience was well equipped to appreciate. The Greeks had a saying, found in a version here in Sophocles’s play (1529–30), but most famously stated by Herodotus (32.7) – “count no one happy before he is dead” – which on one level acknowledges the vicissitudes of fortune but on another level recognizes that it is the prosperous and successful whom the gods are most likely to destroy, and that prosperity among mortals is inevitably doomed. Thus, even as the Sphinx’s riddle serves to elevate Oedipus and his intellect, its invocations of infancy and old age conjure the larger, permanent truth that is ignored in his momentary victory and illusory selfconfidence, hinting at the disastrous truth that looms over him. In this respect, the Sphinx and her riddle are a key thread in Sophocles’s tapestry of irony, revealing simultaneously the extent and the limits of Oedipus’s understanding and position.

Knowledge and the Human Condition The implications of the Sphinx’s riddle pave the way for a final survey of the play’s themes. As has been observed, the fulcrum of the play’s rich irony is the fine line between Oedipus’s knowledge and his ignorance. While Sophocles constructs the tragedy upon Oedipus’s obliviousness to his origins and identity, he is also careful to portray him as a determined and rational problem-solver. Thus, even before the crowd has congregated in front of his palace at the tragedy’s opening, Oedipus has dispatched Creon to the oracle

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at Delphi to ask about the source of the plague. And in the face of the god’s response – that the murderer(s) of Laius lurk unpunished in Thebes – he resolves to lead the investigation and rid the land of pollution. It is certainly appropriate for him, as ruler in Thebes, to shoulder the responsibility for prosecuting the crime on behalf of his community, and so too are the historical grounds for his confidence and determination clear. He is not alone in thinking so. The assembled Thebans and the play’s chorus are also repeatedly optimistic that he will once again deliver the community from peril. Victory over the Sphinx validates the confidence in Oedipus, but that is not the only historical example of Oedipus reasoning his way through a sticky situation. Take the drunken accusation of illegitimacy to which he was once subjected in Corinth (779–80). Polybus and Merope neither affirm nor deny the insult’s veracity, so Oedipus eventually seeks an answer from the gods via the Delphic oracle. There too he is disappointed in his primary objective, but the answer he obtains is nonetheless revealing for the reaction that it prompts. Faced with that famous prophecy involving “the most terrible and unhappy things” (790–1), namely, that he would “dishonour [his] mother’s bed” and “murder [his] real father” (793), Oedipus resolves to avoid Corinth, the logical setting for the prophecy’s fulfilment. A dispassionate critic might note the irony – that Oedipus went to Delphi precisely to determine whether Polybus was in fact his “real” father – and might point out that his best course of action would be simply to avoid committing murder. But we must also appreciate the reality of this character’s lived experience. From Oedipus’s perspective (as he expresses elsewhere), it was Polybus “who fathered and raised me” (827). His solution is therefore straightforwardly logical; what better way to avoid murdering the man than never again to set eyes on him? The rational decision to flee his home is echoed in the tale of Oedipus’s arrival at Thebes. As he puts it, he “used the stars” in avoiding Corinth (794– 5), a phrase that has troubled scholars for smacking of metaphor,11 but which most literally entails charting a course by the stars in the manner of celestial navigation. Oedipus applies a very specific, technical kind of knowledge, in other words, to steer clear of Corinth. Then, at Thebes, he most famously demonstrates the force of his intellect when he encounters the Sphinx, solves her riddle, and in the process liberates the city (32–6). For that meritorious service, as we have observed, Oedipus earns both the throne and Jocasta’s

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hand as a reward. In more ways than one, and as Aristotle appreciated already in antiquity, Oedipus’s intelligence has put him in the position he enjoys at the start of the play. It very much sets the stage for the tragic action. All of this is to say that, when Oedipus prosecutes the tragedy’s dramatic crisis in a thoroughly rational way, he follows his typical procedure. Nowhere is this more clearly articulated than when he summons the shepherd. Spurred by Jocasta’s remarks to remember his fatal encounter at a crossroads, Oedipus needs to ascertain whether Laius was killed by multiple robbers (as Jocasta claimed, and Creon before her) or a single individual (842–7), as his own grammar had subconsciously hinted.12 If the former, he is innocent: “One isn’t the same as many” (845). But if the latter, suspicion falls on him, a conclusion towards which he is inclined despite Jocasta’s doubts. She, after all, still recalls the oracle’s prediction that Laius would die at the hands of the son whom they exposed as an infant. Inasmuch as he succeeds in identifying Laius’s murderer, the play vindicates Oedipus’s rational approach to problem-solving. But since doing so also unearths the disturbing truth about himself, his success is also a testament to the flaws and limits of his understanding. This is the same intellect, after all, that understood imperfectly the most basic aspect of his identity – his parentage – and did so over a long period despite multiple warnings to the contrary. It is also the same intellect that presumptuously, even arrogantly, thought itself capable of forestalling the god Apollo’s oracle. It is this last aspect that is especially worth emphasizing: Oedipus is no god, and the shortcomings of his understanding emerge most starkly in comparison to the oracle’s complete and total comprehension of the situation. Sophocles’s tragedy, then, is a tragedy of human nature. That same quality which makes Oedipus outstanding – his logos (“intellect” and “speech”) – is the quality that distinguishes human beings in general from other animals. But what the play demonstrates is that no matter its prowess, potential, and even its ostensible triumphs, the human intellect remains imperfect and inadequate relative to the gods. Of all the truths learned in this play, this one is most unsettling; finely honed rationality can get you pretty far, but it’s still not enough to guarantee happiness and total success.

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notes See Kovacs, this volume, 287–92. Ibid., 290. See also Kozak, this volume, “Oedipus,” 193. See also this volume, Fletcher, 188; Kozak, “Oedipus,” 198. Oedipus is commonly referred to as Aristotle’s ideal tragedy, but that statement is not entirely accurate. Not only does Aristotle find it improbable that Oedipus would not know how Laius was killed (Poetics 1460a27–32; cf. Oedipus Tyrannus 108–32), but so too is the form of its tragic action, in which the protagonist acts in ignorance but later learns the truth, only second-best in the Poetics’ schema. The best kind, Aristotle says, is to be on the verge of doing something deadly in ignorance, but to recognize the truth and abort, as occurs in Euripides’s Iphigenia among the Taurians (Poetics 1453b27–54a9). But the Poetics’ assessment of Euripides is complicated: despite placing the aborted fratricide in Iphigenia among the Taurians – a play whose ending is undeniably “happy” – in the first rank of tragic plots, Aristotle elsewhere calls Euripides tragikōtatos (“most tragic”) because of the tendency for his plays to end unhappily (Poetics 1453a23–30). See also Fletcher, this volume, 188, on hamartia. Poetics 1454b6–8. See also Kozak, this volume, 193. Knox, “The Freedom of Oedipus,” 60. Both the verbal and the dramatic forms of irony I discuss were appreciated in antiquity: ancient commentators remark upon the ironic or riddling quality of the dialogue (e.g., Σ ad OT 137, 447, 449, 1183); and given how essential recognition and reversal are to Aristotle’s prescriptions for effective plot-construction, the influence of Oedipus’s dramatic irony on the Poetics (and, therefore, on the larger history of literary criticism) is also clear. Segal, “Time and Knowledge,” 140. While the Sphinx’s riddle never appears in Sophocles’s Oedipus Tyrannus, it must have been familiar in some version close to this to his audience; the riddle does appear in Pseudo-Apollodorus, Bibliotheca, 3.5.8, where it reads “What is it that has only one voice but that becomes four-footed and two-footed and three-footed?” For a survey and interpretation, see Fosso, “Oedipus and the Stars.” Despite the story about multiple robbers, Oedipus famously refers to the killer in the singular at 132, and repeatedly throughout the lengthy speech in which he curses the murderer and those who would shelter him (216–75).

 Reception Theory and Performance george adam kovacs

Defining Reception: Theoretical Models We will never be done with Greek tragedy, and Greek tragedy will never be done with us – and that’s a very good thing. As we learn, adapt, configure, and relearn the lessons about the humans that were, are, and will be, the reception of Greek tragedy becomes a topic of infinite reach and speculation. In this chapter, I will explore models of reception through the two and a half millennia that tragedy has been around, with a focus on Oedipus, Medea, and Bacchae. To provide a thorough survey of the reception of Greek tragedy in this short chapter is, of course, impossible. Consider that in the City Dionysia alone in the fifth century bce – to say nothing of the Lenaea – Athenian audiences witnessed approximately nine hundred tragedies.1 Time has reduced that number significantly, with only about thirty surviving tragedies attributed to three playwrights, Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides.2 This acute curtailment is important in and of itself: there’s a reason this volume focuses on Oedipus, Medea, and Bacchae and not, say, Agathon’s Aerope.3 As we shall see in the next section, the accident of survival is often directly linked to perceptions of quality and cultural value. Time presents another challenge. The plays that have survived have done so for a very, very long time. In that time, these tragedies have been reperformed, adapted, translated, and have creatively influenced artworks in scores of other media. In the sections that follow, I will focus largely on performance-based receptions throughout history. Other media will be considered only when they inform our understanding of ancient performance and its evolution throughout time. So, what do we mean when we say “reception”? We are looking at a process of reader-response, in which the position of the reader is as important as that

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of the original author. The function of this reader-response has been understood differently over time. Thus, I would like to consider three models of how a piece of antiquity – in this case, a Greek tragedy – achieves meaning today. Each is underpinned by different ideological approaches to understanding the ancient world, and each helps to define exactly what is at stake when we speak of reception. We start with the notion that each manuscript contains a fixed and retrievable meaning, understood as authorial intent. In this model of classical philology, the “goal” of reading a classical text is to discover this authorial intent. What did Sophocles “mean” when he wrote the Oedipus? Scholars pore over the text, debating and arguing this singular question. Focus is often on textual accuracy, attempting to root out and repair perceived damage to the original script.4 Though they are susceptible to error, especially early in their existence, the manuscripts that survive, first through papyrus, then in codex, then in printed and now digital editions, are the best witnesses to these ancient performances. Without them, nothing survives. By as early as the Hellenistic period, these scripts began to take on independent lives as literary artefacts: texts to be read and understood rather than scripts to be experienced and felt. More nuanced is the long-standing concept of the classical tradition. “In most of our intellectual and spiritual activities we are the grandsons of the Romans, and the great-grandsons of the Greeks.”5 This claim by Gilbert Highet in 1949 helped define a process that had been going on since antiquity. In this model, antiquity is a kind of treasure to be “handed down” (hence the Latin traditio) to successors who find new ways to use this value. Each succeeding generation strives to be worthy of this inheritance, and benefits from the wisdom conferred as they adapt it and integrate it into their own times. In the Renaissance, the classical tradition achieved a level of self-awareness, as scholars like Petrarch (1304–1374) began to see the medieval period as something that came between them and their classical heritage. Antiquity was now understood to be firmly in the past. Scholars, aware of this historical and critical gap, noticed that “the literature, art, and social structure of antiquity were handed down to successive generations, to be transformed into new institutions and cultures.”6 This tradition existed as something of a twoway street, in which the historical context of both text and reader needed to be considered. The classical tradition is therefore distinct from classical

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philology, which saw the process of understanding the text as a simple process of “unlocking” or “discerning” the authorial intent of the original creator. Meaning was no longer fixed, but dynamic. But the model of the classical tradition is not without its problems. Just as the inheritance of physical wealth is generally limited to those of a particular lineage and status, so too are the benefits of antiquity not conferred upon all. Many barriers remain in place, and are implicitly supported by its beneficiaries. One is expected to be able to read Greek and Latin, for example, and to have access to the proper education to truly appreciate the tragedies of Oedipus and Pentheus. Cultural elitism steps in too: scholars posited that the Greeks and Romans were the foundation of European civilization, and so European readers had a more direct line. This approach elides other competing avenues of transmission and reception.7 And of course, such scholars never narrowed this hereditary line down to modern-day Greeks and Italians. It was other Europeans – English, German, and French scholars especially – who saw themselves as the appropriate receivers. In the model of the classical tradition, then, reception is generally limited to one demographic – the white, European male. Notice that Highet speaks of grandsons, not grandchildren, and implies the notion of birthright rather than earned inheritance. These privileged readers become the gatekeepers of antiquity’s treasures; other demographics need not apply. The classical tradition has never been able to fully shake these conservative and elitist overtones.8 Though this model of reception may be outdated and limiting, it is nevertheless important that we understand it. After all, it is essentially how works of antiquity have survived to the present day. Greek tragedy had always enjoyed a privileged position within this model, even as different poets took prominence in the popular imagination at various points in history (see the following sections of this chapter). But consistent with the philological tradition that came before, the classical tradition continued to receive tragedy mainly as text (even if it then saw conversion to other media such as opera, painting, or sculpture) – still not scripts for performance, but calcified snapshots of antiquity to be understood and absorbed. In recent decades, however, another model has come to the fore, which we might label as classical receptions. The emphasis here is on the plurality of receptions because we no longer privilege a single demographic. As Charles Martindale noted, “meaning … is always realized at the point of reception.”9

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Though he was speaking of Latin poetry, Martindale’s hermeneutic model, which resisted singular readings by singular audiences, was something of a flashpoint,10 and it quickly found popularity in any number of areas of antiquity. Receptions studies are now a frequent cornerstone of classical studies programs everywhere. Within the plurality of the “classical receptions” model, a text does not have an absolute meaning but a meaning dependent on the conditions of its reception. Thus, any audience can be considered a legitimate one. As Hardwick and Stray put it: “By receptions we mean the ways in which Greek and Roman material has been transmitted, translated, excerpted, interpreted, rewritten, re-imaged and represented … these are complex activities in which each reception ‘event’ is also part of wider processes.”11 We may now allow for a whole array of readings to be applied to just about any text. New audiences have produced adaptations and readings as diverse as our culturally globalized present. This loosening of demographic constraints, advocating for readership in all its forms, has been theorized as the “democratic turn.”12 Of course, diverse responses to classical material existed long before Martindale’s 1993 book, but his theoretical model allows us to better identify such receptions and understand them on their own terms. Greek tragedy has proven to be quite open to this new plurality, especially when understood as (applying Hardwick and Stray’s term) a performative “event.” A performance is a dynamic experience: each iteration of a live performance varies in subtle and unpredictable ways. Actors drop or modify lines, for instance; audience responses affect live performers negatively and positively; directors continuously give notes. A performance is simultaneously available to a wide variety of viewpoints. Each audience member brings a different set of life experiences and is informed in different ways (some may have read the play before seeing it, some not).13 But equally, the performance is ephemeral. Performances happen and disappear, and we must understand that reception-oriented meaning becomes the only meaning possible. Authenticity – the “true” experience of the first performance – can never be recovered. In the modern era, corresponding documents such as playbills and programs, advertising material, active scripts, perhaps with director’s notes, and above all, audio and video recordings may help preserve elements of that original performance.14 But these face serious limitations, even in the case of a production video: anyone who has seen a per-

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formance and then watched a video of that performance can intuitively understand that these are fundamentally different experiences. A transitory performance does not survive well in the classical tradition, which relies upon stable, repeatable value to exist. It is for precisely this reason that the model of classical receptions challenges myopic readings of the classical tradition so effectively. We can still try to recover the original performance, if in constrained ways. Scholars today must rely on a wide network of ambiguous vase paintings,15 offhand references, and limited archaeological data. There is a distinct sub-field in the study of Greek drama that seeks to reconstruct the experience of the original performance, even if that original performance is understood as fundamentally unrecoverable.16 And as a final, precautionary note in this section, we must observe that the boundaries between the three models I present above are blurred and highly porous. The classical tradition relies on the stability of the text provided by classical philology. It is not always clear when a particular moment of reception – a translation, an adaptation, a new media experience – drifts out of the narrower confines into the wider world of the classical receptions model (of which the classical tradition model now exists as a sort of subset). Valuable studies continue to be produced in all three areas of study. In 2007, for instance, Wiley-Blackwell published A Companion to the Classical Tradition, and only a year later, A Companion to Classical Receptions. Both contain nuanced, careful readings of antiquity and its relationship to the modern era, and I have quoted from both above.

Ancient Reception: Re-performance, Repertoire, and Canonization The three tragedies in this volume are considered to be among the best works the ancients ever produced and among the most influential pieces in the history of Western theatre. After all, each one presents an innovative version of a particular story that goes on to become mythographic canon. Oedipus before Sophocles does not self-blind, but after Sophocles, that’s his story. Medea’s deliberate, conscious decision to murder her own children (as opposed to doing it inadvertently or losing them to murderous Corinthians) is the norm after Euripides.17 Bacchae likewise presents the definitive version of Pentheus’s demise. The elevated cultural status of these plays may seem

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preordained to us today, but was not necessarily always so. It is worth taking the time to explore how these particular tragedies achieved the fame they enjoy today. The reception of any Greek tragedy began on the day of its first performance. An audience of Athenian men, women, foreigners, and slaves gathered to experience (savour, sit through, jeer at) something new.18 Almost never do we know what they thought of what they saw. We have no eyewitness accounts other than brief, anecdotal comments that derive either from comedy (and therefore serve a joke, not our historical curiosity) or from sources too late to be trusted. Nevertheless, we do have some metrics of early reception. One is the awarding of prizes, which in fact suggests a shaky start for our three tragedies. In their three-way contests, Oedipus placed second and Medea placed third.19 These losses could be flukes – not all the judges’ votes were counted and those that were, were selected by lot20 – but are hardly auspicious beginnings. Bacchae fared better with a rare first-place finish for Euripides, but this was a posthumous production with the poet only recently buried, and one wonders if this demonstrates eulogistic influence.21 The second-place finish of Sophocles is perhaps surprising, not just because Oedipus may be the best-known Greek tragedy today, but also because Sophocles was very successful, posting at least eighteen victories out of a probable thirty or so competitions. Euripides, on the other hand, only won four times in his lifetime, and Bacchae is thus anomalous, with Medea as the norm. The other major witness of the time was Greek Old Comedy, especially Aristophanes.22 Eight of Aristophanes’s eleven surviving comedies were produced in the last two decades of Euripides’s and Sophocles’s careers, with the ninth coming shortly after their deaths. Athenian Old Comedy’s penchant for metatheatrical reference, combined with Aristophanes’s clear obsession with Greek tragedy, allowed for a great deal of commentary, though we must always be wary of taking a comic poet’s word at face value. But there is still much we can glean from Aristophanes’s jostling with comedy’s “senior” sibling. Aristophanes caricatures Euripides three times, starting with a cameo appearance in Acharnians (425 bce). In Thesmophoriazousae (411 bce), we see the origin of two key elements of Euripides’s reputation as he is put on “trial” before a council of women: that he is misogynistic and an atheist. Neither

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accusation bears out in a precise and careful reading of our texts. Euripides’s characters never question the existence of the gods, even if they reproach their behaviour. “The anger of gods should not be like that of mortals,” Cadmus chides Dionysus (Bacchae 1348), critical of what he perceives as divine overreaction, petty and uncompromising, against the city of Thebes. Likewise, his female leads can be surprisingly complex and sympathetic figures. Medea is an especially good example of this. She wins over a chorus of Corinthian women with some incisive commentary on the hardships of marriage and childbirth: “Of everyone who has breath and thought / women are the most miserable” (Medea 230–1). And yet these are lines written by a male poet and delivered by a male actor for a notionally male audience. Was Medea the hero or the villain in this tragedy? Critics remain undecided, and artistic adaptions eagerly explore all possibilities. In Aristophanes’s Frogs (405 bce), the recently deceased Euripides is pitted against the long-dead Aeschylus in a generational poetic contest in the underworld. Euripides loses badly, despite the fact that Dionysus made the trip to the underworld specifically to find him. Where is Sophocles in all of this? In Frogs, he has recused himself from the poetry contest, offering to compete with Euripides only if Aeschylus loses (788–90). This brief mention, and Sophocles’s failure to appear on stage, may be due to the timing of his death (he died after Euripides, thereby leaving Aristophanes less time to incorporate him). But Sophocles’s gentlemanly gesture may also point to his status as ethically and artistically unassailable. Only once does Aristophanes slight Sophocles: he implies that Sophocles wrote some tragedies for financial gain (Peace 697). Elsewhere, we find nothing but praise: in two surviving fragments, Sophocles is the “bee” with a mouth “daubed with honey” and “beeswax on his lips.”23 Sophocles is indisputably a master of the craft, and therefore relatively untouched by Aristophanes’s satire. But Euripides – innovative and iconoclastic – is the perfect foil. Tragedy became ever more popular in the fourth century bce. Archeological evidence indicates that larger theatres were being built all over the Greek-speaking world, and actors (now often serving as their own directors or producers) were taking tragedy everywhere.24 Visual depictions give us some clue as well. Some of our best evidence comes from southern Italy, where many elaborate vases have been found depicting theatrical scenes either explicitly (in the case of comedy) or implicitly (in the case of tragedy).

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The figure of Medea is a standout here, with three vases seemingly influenced by Euripides’s tragedy25 – Medea’s escape on the chariot of Helios is depicted in each.26 We see already at this time a longing for the “good old days” of Greek tragedy. When they wish to demonstrate a strong literary pedigree or assert cultural authority, fourth-century orators rely on tragedy of the fifth century bce rather than their own.27 These orators show a clear preference for Euripides, suggesting a reversal of the love-hate relationship with Athenian audiences of his own lifetime. In 386 bce, a category for “Old Tragedy” was established at the City Dionysia, allowing actors to restage fifth-century tragedies. Here again, Euripides prevails over other tragedians.28 We must be cautious not to overemphasize the importance of the old masters in the ongoing cultural relevance of Greek tragedy: new works were being produced all the time. But with the institution of the Old Tragedy category, a clear divide is established between perceived stages in the literary and artistic development of tragedy, and from this point on, the original big three – Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides – have a clear survival advantage.29 In the first section of this chapter, I described a slow transition in academic focus from the literary text to the dynamic but ephemeral performance tradition. In antiquity we see the opposite transition, as the performative and ephemeral art form becomes literary artifact. In the century and a half following the initial performances, there is nothing resembling our sense of copyright and therefore nothing protecting authorial legitimacy. The survival of these texts depended on a hodgepodge of personal copies, likely those kept in the family archives of the poets themselves or perhaps those purchased through the nascent book trade of the late fifth century bce.30 It is not until the late fourth century bce that we see efforts to preserve the originals. The Athenian statesman Lycurgus apparently commissioned official copies of the tragedies of the classic three, along with statues for each.31 At about the same time, we see scholarly interest in tragedy begin, with Aristotle’s Poetics being the first systematic analysis of literature in the Western world. That his study is about tragedy speaks to the popularity of the genre. Although Aristotle names several tragedians, Sophocles and Euripides are easily the most prominent, and both Oedipus and Medea serve as positive examples of the craft.32 Not much later, the Hellenistic scholars of Alexandria begin the process of canon building, collecting definitive copies

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of tragedies in the library at Alexandria and collating lists of important works and practitioners. Over the centuries, the list of plays in wide circulation crystalized to seven each of Aeschylus and Sophocles, and ten for Euripides (later manuscript finds added another nine). Wilamowitz attributed this selection of twenty-four plays to a single individual, perhaps based in Byzantium, in the third or fourth century ce. This collection may have been for use in schools, supplemented by commentaries which now survive as scholia (marginal notes added to the manuscript tradition by later scholars). Papyrus finds, however, tell us that many of these plays were already in more prominent circulation, so that any such individual’s intervention formalized, rather than inaugurated, this canon of “the big three” tragedians.33 From here on in, it is all about Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides, and of that trio, the latter two are most prominent. The Romans, through whom almost all Greek culture passed, inherited these biases from the Hellenistic period. Surveying almost four centuries of Roman writers and their Greek predecessors, Quintilian notes that “Sophocles and Euripides, however, brought tragedy to far greater perfection: they differ in style, but it is much disputed as to which should be awarded the supremacy, a question which, as it has no bearing on my present theme, I shall make no attempt to decide.”34 Both, he says, are required reading for the successful orator. Papyri finds attest to the use of Greek tragedy in schools throughout the Hellenistic and Roman periods, with a preference for the more colloquial language of Euripides.35 From the very beginning, Greek tragedy was influential in Roman writing. Livius Andronicus, thought by the Romans themselves to be the first composer of Roman drama, preferred Sophocles and Euripides.36 His successor Ennius, whom the Romans held in even higher regard, produced both a Medea and an Oedipus. Ovid apparently wrote a successful Medea, which is now lost to us (though the poet featured her in both his epistolary Heroides and his epic Metamorphoses). The epic poet Lucan began a Medea before Nero ordered his death in 65 ce. Seneca, the only Roman tragedian whose work has survived, also produced a Medea and Oedipus. Both of Seneca’s tragedies borrow their plots from the Greek originals but incorporate the grim, macabre world of Neronian-era literature. Both Medea and Oedipus betray a sense of inevitability, almost an eagerness to embrace their legendary identities: Medea nunc sum, “Now I am Medea” (910), de-

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clares Seneca’s character as she contemplates her past crimes and anticipates her final act of infanticide. Afterwards, the Emperor Nero reportedly enjoyed playing the character of Oedipus in his vanity projects, an odd choice given Nero’s own alleged complicity in the assassination of his mother. We know of fewer attempts to adapt Bacchae (but one by Accius in the second century bce). Bacchae seems to follow a slightly different trajectory, perhaps due to its close associations with cult. One clear example of the influence of Euripides’s Bacchae is in Ovid’s Metamorphoses (3.511–71, but especially 692–733, which describes the death of Pentheus at the hands of the Theban women). In this genre-bending epic, the description of Pentheus’s death closely mirrors that of the Euripidean exemplar. And we see other indications of Bacchae’s continued relevance in the Roman world. In 53 bce, the actor Jason of Tralles was performing the role of Agave in celebration of a royal betrothal in Armenia (most likely singing the excerpted scene with a chorus). When the actor required the head of Pentheus, he was handed not the stage prop intended for the performance, but the head of the recently slain Roman triumvir Crassus. A true professional, Jason continued the performance. “These things delighted everybody; but when the following dialogue with the chorus was chanted: (Chorus) ‘Who slew him?’ (Agave) ‘Mine is the honour,’ Pomaxathres, who happened to be one of the banqueters, sprang up and laid hold of the head, feeling it was more appropriate for him to say this than for Jason. The king was delighted, and bestowed on Pomaxathres the customary gifts, while to Jason he gave a talent.”37 The story is almost certainly not true, but it clearly assumes widespread relevance for Greek tragedy even in the first century ce.

Post-Classical, Pre-Modern Production Recent studies have looked at Greek tragedy in late and post-antiquity with a more nuanced approach. Starting even as early as the second century ce, we see a decline in the prominence of Greek tragedy. Theatres continue to be built and are considered a must-have for any urban centre claiming cultural relevance, especially in the Greek-speaking eastern half of the empire.38 But we have little evidence for traditional performances of tragedy, perhaps none after the second century ce. Three new types of performance now dominate the stage. Mime, which involved multiple players who spoke and

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sang, is of little consequence here, as it drew its plots from everyday life. The other two, however, are important. Pantomime, involving a solo dancer with choral accompaniment – think of ballet, which is descended from it – can be considered “a descendant of Greek tragic theatre, from an evolutionary perspective, with which it shared much of its subject matter, tone, aesthetic appeal and emotive function.”39 Pantomime was not a close or direct descendant, however: it drew material from a wide range of sources, and would presuppose little if any knowledge of its literary or performative exemplars.40 Also common was the tragoidos, a masked singer who performed excerpts from Greek tragedy. These excerpts took on a life of their own, and again demanded little contextual knowledge from their audience. Similarly, one might recognize the aria “Nessun Dorma” on a classical radio station, without ever having heard of Puccini’s 1926 opera Turandot. Literary conversions happened as well, such as Hosidius Geta’s composition of a Medea in the late second century ce. Though Tertullian calls the text a tragedy (On the Prescription of Heretics 39.3–4), it is closer to a Vergilian “cento”: the work is comprised of 461 verses repurposed from Vergilian hexameters (our oldest example of such a work).41 If it was performed, it was recited as a declamatory exercise. One critical element in this decline of theatre was the rise of Christianity. Christian intellectuals looked upon pagan myth and ritual with suspicion, but again we need to consider a broader, more sophisticated narrative.42 The campaign of Augustus to produce a new Latin-based cultural heritage had already initiated a downsizing of Greek originals, for instance.43 In the West, Latin had long been the lingua franca, and most scholars relied on translations or, more often, adaptations, as knowledge of Greek waned. Seneca often supplants Sophocles and Euripides in the medieval imagination of “classical” tragedy.44 Nevertheless, some scholars could access and read Greek texts, even in the West. Tragedy continued to be read in the Eastern Roman Empire, which spoke Greek (albeit a descendant of the Attic Greek of the tragedians – compare the reading of Shakespearean English today).45 Their mining of Greek texts often found its way into anthologies and florilegia (collected excerpts of brief moral sentiments). One such example is the author Stobeaus, writing perhaps in the fifth century ce, who left his son a large collection of extracts from ancient Greek writers. Rather than considering Greek tragedies as theatrical events, or even as complete texts, Stobaeus collated maxims

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on a wide range of topics from natural philosophy to ethical behaviour. He quotes Euripides more than any other author, over 500 times. Sophocles supplies a respectable 150 extracts as well. Other examples of this decontextualizing selection include the Christus Patiens (“The Suffering Christ”).46 This passion play, which likely dates to the eleventh or twelfth century ce but perhaps as early as the fourth, explicitly claims in its prologue to be modeled after Euripides. While some of its 1,260 verses are original compositions, many are derived from classical Greek poets. Euripides leads the way here, with over 420 verses drawn from four tragedies, Medea and Bacchae chief among them – indeed, some lines of Bacchae have been recovered through this play.47 While decontextualization is important, the parallels between Medea and Agave – women who, like Mary, witness the gruesome death of their sons – are significant to understanding this tragedy.48 The advent of the Renaissance in the fifteenth century ce saw a resurgent awareness and interest in the works of classical antiquity – the very term, meaning “rebirth,” emphasizes this sense of classical renewal. As texts were “rediscovered,” intellectuals embraced and emulated the humanism they found there in a wide variety of cultural endeavours, from architecture to painting to literature. At the core of rediscovery and reinvention was the printing press, also developed in the fifteenth century. Perhaps not surprisingly, the earliest editio princeps (first print edition) of classical tragedy is that of the Roman Seneca (1484), but Sophocles (1502) and Euripides (1503) were not far behind. Humanist scholars like Erasmus were once again able to study Greek tragedy and reintroduce it to the popular imagination of Europe, if in limited ways. Translations into the more accessible Latin followed, but the earliest tragedies to be translated were those with women in their title roles, creating the impression of tragedy as “a feminine genre with female protagonists.”49 Hence, Euripides’s Medea is one of the most popular and best-known tragedies for the next two centuries, along with his Alcestis and Iphigenia at Aulis, although Medea and its infanticidal witch was often less popular than Iphigenia and its heroine torn between her family and a handsome hero.50 Aristotle’s Poetics had been published in Latin translation as early as 1498, and it had an outsized impact on the interpretation of Greek tragedy. One example is the production of Edipo Tiranno at the Teatro Olimpico in 1585 in Vicenza, Italy (about 60 kilometres west of Venice). This was an important

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performance in a number of ways. The Teatro Olimpico was the last work of famed architect Andrea Palladio, based on ancient Roman theatres and built according to ancient Roman architectural principals as they were understood at the time (mainly from the writings of Roman architect and engineer Vitruvius). Edipo Tiranno was intended to be the inaugural production, but the theatre was little used after that (one production in 1618, and no more until the nineteenth century). Spectators arrived over nine hours ahead of a performance that ran from 1:30 to 5:00 a.m., so it is perhaps not hard to understand why this event did not inspire a new generation of fans.51 Nevertheless, despite differences (the actors were not masked, the Teatro Olimpico was smaller than ancient counterparts and roofed), numerous attempts were made to adhere to an “authentic” experience: a chorus of fifteen was used, spectators sat in non-stratified seating (no place for the nobility), musical cues were built around the rhythm of the language, and even the selection of Oedipus Tyrannus was due to Aristotle’s praise of the play in the Poetics. Oedipus was dressed in Turkish garb to emphasize Thebes as the tragic “other.” Although the Teatro Olimpico fell into disuse, this performance was an influential link between ancient tragedy and the then-developing medium of opera.52 Greek myth was popular in France as well, especially in the seventeenth century – Le Grand Siècle. Practitioners, especially Corneille and Racine, frequently returned to the well of classical antiquity and operated according to strict theatrical principles – plausibility, propriety, unity of time, action, and place – derived from their understanding of ancient theatrical conventions. They were also constrained by contemporary sensibilities, and a Christian moral universe in which pagan gods could not be seen as effective agents. When the gods are mentioned, they are largely symbolic, a trend already perceived in the tragedies of Euripides. Further, heroes had to have redeeming moral worth. To this end, the playwrights of this period were often mythographically innovative. Racine’s Hippolyte in Phèdre, for example, is no longer celibate, and slays the monster from the sea before succumbing to his wounds; his Iphigénie is no longer sacrificed in a gruesome pagan ritual but is replaced by a mythographic cypher, a daughter of Helen, whose atonement comes through death by suicide. This adherence to contemporary morality perhaps explains the absence of Bacchae, and the limited appearances of Medea and Oedipus in this period (Corneille’s and Racine’s first tragedies, Médée and La Thébaïde respectively, were both poorly received by critics).

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In the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, however, we see Euripides’s star begin to fade. With the rise of German classicism, Sophocles becomes the favoured playwright. Starting with the brothers August Wilhelm von Schlegel (1767–1845) and Friedrich von Schlegel (1772–1829), Euripides was perceived as too clever and too individual to achieve the sublime. They believed that only Sophocles could achieve tragedy’s true, transcendent goal. In The Birth of Tragedy (1872, reissued 1886), for example, Nietzsche claimed that, “As a result of Euripides, the man of ordinary life pushed his way out of the spectators’ space and up onto the acting area,” displacing the sublime Dionysus, the true, universal hero of Greek tragedy.

Significant Performance Receptions of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries53 The nineteenth century was one of change for receptions of antiquity, on a global scale. The discovery and excavation of sites like Mycenae (1841) and Hissarlik/Troy (1873), as well as others all over Egypt, the Levant, and Mesopotamia, made news across Europe. These archaeological undertakings are now understood as colonial and exploitative, privileging an Orientalist model of European cultural superiority (see our discussion of the classical tradition above). But they also fuelled a surge in popularity, both with general audiences and within academia, for all things “antiquity.” The study of Greek tragedy benefited from this trend. In 1896, Wilhelm Dörpfeld published Das griechische Theater, the first archaeological study of the Theatre of Dionysus in Athens.54 In the English-speaking world, the return of classical theatre was hampered by Victorian sensibilities and (in the uk) censorship. Theatre was associated with bawdy hedonism, and public performances were often limited to musicals and melodrama.55 Thus, when it did gain popularity, Greek tragedy found its way not to the public venues, but to the academy.56 An example can be found in the Cambridge Greek Play, which produces a tragedy or comedy in Greek roughly every three years. This tradition began with Sophocles’s Ajax in 1882.57 Euripides proved less common in the early years of the Cambridge Greek Play (though there were back-to-back performances of his work in 1890 and 1894), but they produced Bacchae in 1930 (and again in 1956 and 1989). In 1887, the group staged an Oedipus Tyrannus, which proved influential. Sophocles’s tragedy had been banned from public per-

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formance in London: its themes of incest were deemed troubling. Gilbert Murray, among others, used the popularity of the Cambridge performance to lobby against the censorship, and Murray’s English translation was performed in 1912 – the same year the Cambridge Greek Play produced its second Oedipus Tyrannus. Five years earlier, Murray’s translation of Medea had been directed by the influential Harley Granville-Barker. Murray was an early supporter of women’s suffrage, and his translation reflected those sympathies.58 With the Cambridge Greek Play, Medea did not see production until 1974 (and again in 2007), coinciding with, or perhaps slightly anticipating, the influence of second wave feminism upon productions of Greek tragedy.59 That Oedipus was an early endeavour in Cambridge and elsewhere (indeed, in the US, the Harvard Greek Play tradition began with an Oedipus in 1881) is hardly surprising. Oedipus continued to dominate in the public imagination, aided in no small part by Sigmund Freud’s use of the figure in his theories of psychology and sexual desire. Freud’s native Vienna saw several productions of Antigone – popular in nineteenth-century German-language theatre for its central conflict of family and state – and an Oedipus Tyrannus was staged throughout 1887.60 Freud made a visit to Paris in 1885, where he encountered Jean Mounet-Sully’s rendition of Oedipus, produced by the Comédie Française. Mounet-Sully performed the role for over thirty years, and his take on Oedipus as an “Everyman” – the lonely, modern hero – proved influential in Freud’s understanding of the character.61 In 1899’s Interpretation of Dreams, Freud wrote: “Like Oedipus, we live in ignorance of the wishes that offend morality, wishes which nature has forced upon us, and after the revelation of which we want to avert every glance from the scenes of our childhood.”62 Incidentally, Oedipus was far from Mounet-Sully’s only classical role. He had played Hippolyte in Phédre in 1873, for instance, and opposite him was Sarah Bernhardt in the title role, which she would play many times over her prolific career. More pertinent to our interests here is her performance of Catulle Mendès’s Médée in 1898. “This ‘modern’ Medea kills her children in a fit of blind passion after Jason has failed to keep his promised assignation with the ‘real woman’ in his life.”63 Bernhardt’s status as a Jewish woman no doubt contributed to antisemitic audience perceptions of Medea as crazed foreigner. This production was not significant in the arc of Bernhardt’s career (most biographies do not even mention it), and it is perhaps best remembered for the vivid lithograph produced by Alphonse Mucha (Bernhardt

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owned the theatre and commissioned the artwork). Here, an exotically dressed Medea, identified as Bernhardt, stands with eyes wide open over a veiled mouth, holding a knife over the corpses of her children.64 Oedipus’s popularity continued in the twentieth century with Igor Stravinsky’s Oedipus Rex (1927), with a libretto by Jean Cocteau translated into Latin by Abbé Jean Daniélou. With a narration intended to be read in the language of any particular audience, this work is technically an oratorio, but has seen multiple stagings as opera. One significant production is that of the Canadian Opera Company, which debuted in 1997 and went on successive tours in England and Scotland. The opera, quite short, was paired in this production with Stravinsky’s choral work The Symphony of Psalms (1930), which was sung as a prelude. A drop screen slowly accrued projections of name after name after name – victims of the ongoing aids epidemic. When that screen lifted to reveal a red-clad Oedipus seated upon a pile of corpses, dead from the Theban plague within the play, the imagery could not have been more powerful. One of the most significant performances of Greek tragedy in the twentieth century is arguably Tyrone Guthrie’s Oedipus Rex, staged in Stratford, Ontario in the 1950s. The original production was mounted in 1954, inside a tent – the nascent Stratford Festival had not yet constructed any permanent theatres – and was restaged in 1955, and in 1956 Guthrie directed a filmed version in an indoor studio.65 Using a translation by William Butler Yeats, Guthrie’s production depicts a solitary and lonely Oedipus. Large, ornate masks and heavy costuming including gloves and augmented fingers, contribute to an anti-realist aesthetic, placing this tragedy in a strange, otherly world, not quite Thebes, not quite Stratford. Oedipus, with his golden mask and spikey crown, is a visual cypher for Apollo himself. Michael Cacoyannis’s trilogy of films, Electra (1962), Trojan Women (1971), and Iphigenia (1977), produced during a time of political upheaval in Greece (Trojan Women was produced in exile while Greece was occupied by a military junta from 1967 to 1974), helped to re-establish Greek tragedy as a site of resistance. These films, two in Greek, while Trojan Women was filmed in English, gave greater prominence to Greek tragedy in the cinematic world, and also helped establish Euripides as the premier ancient playwright in the imagination of the later twentieth century. Cacoyannis followed these films with a translation of Bacchae, first performed in New York in 1980. Bacchae by this point had already been established as a critical counter-cultural text.

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One particularly influential production was Richard Schechner’s Dionysus in 69, in Manhattan from June 1968 to July 1969.66 This work tapped into SoHo’s new artistic community and found resonance with the “Summer of Love” aesthetic of the hippie generation.67 Schechner’s reinterpretation of Bacchae incorporated diverse and experimental elements of avant-garde theatre, with audience interaction, dynamic improvisation, and highly ritualized elements, including a “birth ritual” in which the naked body of Dionysus emerged from a writhing body of equally naked chorus members. This marked the first commercial production of Bacchae in the United States. Although many of its experiments failed (much of the choral interaction, for instance, had to be scaled back due to the rise in voyeuristic attendees, with some audience members attempting to make out with cast members; the role of Pentheus had to be rotated through the troupe, as the individual actor began to feel isolated and even persecuted through repeat performances), it remains highly influential, and is often seen as a watershed moment for ancient Greek theatre in North America, opening up a world of new interpretation. The global reach of Greek tragedy expanded greatly in this period as well. European colonialism imposed its cultural product on a great many regions, which in turn can be internalized or reimagined in the post-colonial period. While the American and Canadian examples I present above do not explicitly engage with colonialism, there is a growing interest in the subject.68 Elsewhere, this discourse is even more developed, and with greater complexity. There is a rich reception in Africa, for instance, which carefully considers the paradoxes of colonialism and the use of Greek culture: “The colonizers’ use of ancient Greece thus constructed an exclusionary, hostile version which would seem at the outset highly resistant to African appropriation. Underpinned by conquest and occupation on the African continent, this oppressive framework meant that any encounter between colonial Africa and ancient Greece would necessarily be fraught. African commentators, however, were also aware of another tradition, within which ancient Greece owed a cultural debt to Africa via ancient Egypt.”69 This reception is as varied and widespread as the cultures of Africa and the African diaspora themselves, but here I will point to two examples with similar backgrounds. In Ola Rotimi’s The Gods Are Not to Blame (1968, and then as a novel in 1971), the Oedipus story is mapped onto the complications of African decolonization. Rotimi’s script allegorizes “the incestuous proximity of

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colonizer and colonized”: just as Odewale becomes king by slaying his father, Adetusa, yet remains embedded in his cursed family when he marries his mother, Ojuola, so too did Nigeria remain entangled with its European colonizers throughout the civil war that followed decolonization (1967– 70).70 In 1973, Wole Soyinka wrote The Bacchae of Euripides: A Communion Rite, while in voluntary exile. Soyinka’s script inverts the final tragic moment of the Bacchae when the severed head of Pentheus drips not blood but wine, converting the ritual of sparagmos into one of communal healing.71 Both authors draw deeply from their roots in one of Africa’s largest ethnic groups, the Yoruba culture, whose borders do not align with the political entities created by the European partitioning of Africa.

Twenty-First-Century Performance and New Media In recent decades, extraordinary developments have allowed for new expressions of ancient texts. Greek tragedy in particular is being repurposed to address new ideological issues. New scholarship is constantly coming out. In her study of diversity in Greek tragedy, including productions by women, African-American, Latinx, lgbtq, and disabled artists mounted largely in the Obama era, Melinda Powers considers why these artists would use Greek tragedy – traditionally associated with colonial powers – as a vehicle for their ideas. Her answer is simple: “Why not? Contemporary artists … have been using Greek tragedy in ways that present powerful, oppositional voices to combat pernicious stereotypes that contribute to inequality within the social and legal systems of justice.”72 Greek tragedy will always find new ways to come forward. Even as I complete this chapter during the covid-19 pandemic, virtual performances of Greek tragedy have found new relevance.73 Prominent among these is The Oedipus Project by Brian Doerries’s Theater of War Productions, which featured actors reading scenes from Sophocles’s Oedipus. This troupe seeks to simultaneously restore forgotten meaning and provide new meaning to Greek tragedy by engaging modern audiences with significant trauma (originally combat veterans, but more widely first responders, and victims of police brutality and other forms of institutionalized violence).74 The Oedipus Project was “staged” through the online conferencing software Zoom, with actors reading their parts from home.75 Following the reading, a select panel offered commentary and audience members were able to

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offer their own comments and questions to them, as moderated by Doerries himself. The focus of this panel (which included professional paramedics and social advocacy activists) and the discussion that followed was largely on the impact of plague and pandemic on communities of support. This took interpretation of Oedipus into interesting new territories. One prominent point of discussion: Why doesn’t anyone in Oedipus’s family contract the plague? Because he is noble, rich, cursed by the gods, favoured by the gods? In light of the covid-19 pandemic, in which societal inequities across all major fault lines – race, class, gender expression – have become exposed, these are important new questions. notes 1 For a detailed discussion of the City Dionysia festival, see Marshall, this volume. 2 The number depends on how you count. Thirty-three plays survive. One, Cyclops, is a satyr play, not a tragedy. Another, Alcestis, occupied the satyr-play position in performance, and is thus ambiguous. The authorship of Prometheus Bound and Rhesus, attributed to Aeschylus and Euripides respectively, is questioned. 3 Aerope was a Cretan princess, bride of Atreus, and mother to Agamemnon and Menelaus. Only one word of this tragedy survives. See Wright, The Lost Plays, 83–4. 4 By “original script,” I mean a theoretically retrievable text that represents both authorial intent and first performance. Rehearsal and performance are dynamic processes, and changes must have occurred. 5 Highet, Classical Tradition, 1; Bolgar, Classical Heritage, is also frequently seen as a defining study. 6 Kallendorf, introduction to A Companion to the Classical Tradition, 1 (for both the quotation and the privileging of Petrarch). See also Symes, “Ancient Drama,” 120. 7 Van Zyl Smit, A Handbook to the Reception of Greek Drama, has several chapters on Arabic, Japanese, and African uses of theatre. The Arabic world in particular has a complex relationship with the transmission and reception of Greco-Roman antiquity. After all, the region was dominated by “Greco-Roman influence, or rather cultural exchange” for centuries before the rise of Arabic culture. Aristotle’s Poetics was translated into Arabic three times. See Etman, “Translation at the Intersection of Traditions,” 142. 8 Budelmann and Haubold, “Reception and Tradition,” explore this reputation and its complex relationship with the truth. 9 Martindale, Redeeming the Text, 3. 10 Published ten years later, Hardwick, Reception Studies, is equally important. In this short volume, Hardwick provides what will become the underpinnings of understanding the core terminology of reception studies. 11 Hardwick and Stray, “Introduction,” 1. 12 Ibid., 3, and later in much more depth in Hardwick and Harrison, Classics in the Modern World.

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13 This was true even in the relatively homogeneous original audience. On diversity in the ancient audience, see Revermann, “Competence of Theatre Audiences” (on competing levels of education), and Roselli, Theater of the People, especially chapters 4 (“Non-citizens in the Theatre”) and 5 (“Women in the Theatre”). Marshall, this volume, 00, takes a different tack. 14 See Michelakis, “Archiving Events,” on the role played by such supporting documentation. 15 Taplin, Pots & Plays, and Small, Parallel Worlds of Classical Art and Text, discuss the utility of visual evidence in understanding ancient performance. 16 On notions of “authenticity” in modern reperformance, see Gamel, “Revising ‘Authenticity,’” and “Can Democratic Stagings of Ancient Drama Be Authentic?” 17 Gantz, Early Greek Myth, 369–70. For further debate on the primacy of Euripides’s version, see Mastronarde, Euripides: Medea, 52–3. 18 Roselli, Theatre of the People, is the most extensive study of the difficult topic of the Athenian audience. Were women, children, and slaves able to attend the theatre? Roselli argues yes, and paints a picture of a boisterous, even rowdy audience with noticeable pockets of demographic variance. 19 Cf. this volume, Hurley and Kozak, 4; Marshall, 20; and Yoon, 98. 20 Marshall and van Willigenberg, “Judging Athenian Dramatic Competitions.” 21 See also Hurley and Kozak, this volume, 4. 22 We use the term “Old Comedy” to denote the genre of comedy performed between 486 and 386 bce. Old Comedy is self-referential and overtly engages contemporary Athenian culture. Aristophanes is the only practitioner for whom any complete work survives. 23 Frs. 598 and 679 ka. 24 Taplin, “Spreading the Word.” 25 Museo de Nazionale della Siritide, 35296; Cleveland Museum of Art, 1991.1; Museo Archaeologico Nazionale, 81954. Quality images and descriptions can be found in Taplin, Pots & Plays, 117–25. 26 See also Marshall, this volume, 16–17. For more discussion of the chariot, see also this volume, Yoon, 103, 104n18, and on its receptions, Kozak, “Medea,” 31, 34. 27 Wilson, “Tragic Rhetoric.” 28 One important inscription (ig II2 2319–23) preserves the didaskalia, or production records, of the City Dionysia for the years 341–39. In all three years, the Old Tragedy category was won with Euripidean tragedies. Unfortunately, the didaskalia do not record the other competitors. 29 Easterling, “From Repertoire to Canon,” 213. 30 Reynolds and Wilson, Scribes and Scholars, is the single best source for exploring the long history of transmission of ancient texts. 31 Plutarch, Lives of the Ten Orators, 841f. 32 See Sampson, this volume, for Oedipus as “paradigmatic.” 33 Barrett, Euripides: Hippolytos, 51–2. 34 Quintilian Institutio Oratoria 10.1.67, translated by Harold Edgeworth Butler. 35 Cribiore, Gymnastics of the Mind, 198.

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Boyle, An Introduction to Roman Tragedy, 29. Plutarch, Life of Crassus, 33.4. Cf. Barnes, “Christians and the Theater.” Hall, “Introduction,” 8. Jory, “The Pantomime Dancer and His Libretto,” 159–60. Rondholz, The Versatile Needle. Symes, “The Tragedy of the Middle Ages,” 343–60, catalogues and categorizes the comments of Christian intellectuals from c. 200–1200 ce, with a surprisingly variegated result. Symes, “Ancient Drama in the Medieval World.” Shakespeare is a good example here. Scholars have demonstrated that Shakespeare’s use of Greek myth derives from an early education in Latin sources, most especially Ovid’s Metamorphoses. See, for example, Taylor, Shakespeare’s Ovid. Cooper, “Introduction,” provides a nice analysis of why Shakespeare is usefully considered a medieval poet, rather than “Renaissance” or “Early Modern.” Symes, “Ancient Drama in the Medieval World,” 108–111. On the Christus Patiens, see also Kozak, this volume, “Bacchae,” 108. Scapegoat Carnivale’s Bacchae borrows these lines: see Bacchae note 62. Bryant Davies, “The Figure of Mary Mother of God in Christus Patiens,” not only summarizes the scholarship on this play, but provides a good analysis of the intertextual balancing act required in the Christian reception of this text. Purkiss, Three Tragedies, xxvii. Purkiss, “Medea in the English Renaissance,” 32–3. Dawe, Sophocles: The Classical Heritage, 1–12, includes a letter describing the performance. Macintosh, Sophocles: Oedipus Tyrannus, 70–3. An important resource in this section and the next is the Archive of Performance of Greek and Roman Drama, www.apgrd.ox.ac.uk. This site is not exhaustive, but is nonetheless the best repository for performances of all types of ancient drama in a full range of venues, from amateur college and university to major commercial endeavours. Dörpfeld’s conclusions, based on very limited physical evidence, have been challenged. A good summary can be found in Moretti, “The Theatre of the Sanctuary,” with important qualifications found in Csapo and Goette, “The Men Who Built the Theatres” and its appendix. On melodrama in American theatre, see Foley, Reimagining Greek Tragedy, 3–6 and 35–7. Ibid., (on early commercial efforts, see especially 28–35); Hartigan, Greek Tragedy on the American Stage is also very useful. The Cambridge Greek Play is well archived, with images from every single production, at https://www.cambridgegreekplay.com. For other early twentieth-century productions influenced by feminism, favouring Euripidean (versus Senecan) interpretations of the character, see Macintosh, “Introduction: The Performer in Performance,” 19.

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59 A good summary of early feminist work in Greek and Roman culture can be found in Peradotto and Sullivan, Women in the Ancient World, which brings together several early articles, including two on Greek tragedy, Zeitlin on Aeschylus’s Oresteia, and Segal on Bacchae. 60 The production was paired with Oedipus Colonus and perhaps Antigone. 61 Macintosh, Sophocles: Oedipus Tyrannus, 132–3. 62 Freud, Interpretation of Dreams, 224. 63 Macintosh, “Introduction: The Performer in Performance,” 18. 64 The image is easily found with a Google search, but it was also used as the cover art/frontispiece for Hall, Macintosh, and Taplin, Medea in Performance 1500–2000, an immensely useful volume in writing this chapter. 65 The (full colour!) video is available on YouTube, with a pre-performance monologue in which Dionysus is the god of “spring” and Apollo the god of “the sun.” Pearl, “William Shatner.” 66 See also Kozak, this volume, “Bacchae,” 109. 67 Zeitlin, “Dionysus in 69,” provides both an eye-witness account and a detailed analysis of the performance and its production run. That essay is the first in a collection dedicated to exploring Greek tragedy in the second half of the twentieth century: Hall, Dionysus since 69. 68 We might consider adaptations that explore America’s troubled racial history, such as 1983’s The Gospel at Colonus or the more recent Antigone in Ferguson (see below). In Canada, there is a nascent movement considering classics and Indigeneity: see Blouin et al., “Indigenizing Classics.” See also Kozak, this volume, “Medea,” 32, on anti-colonial versions. 69 Goff, “The Reception of Greek Drama in Africa,” 447. This chapter provides an excellent survey of African receptions of Greek drama, tragedy and comedy. 70 Goff and Simpson, Crossroads in the Black Aegean, 80. See also Simpson, “Curse of the Canon.” 71 For more on Soyinka’s version, see also Kozak, this volume, “Bacchae,” 109–10. 72 Powers, Diversifying Greek Tragedy, 16. 73 See Kozak, this volume, “Oedipus,” 198–9, for more on covid-19 productions. 74 See Doerries, The Theater of War for a thorough description of the troupe’s initial efforts and results. As of this writing, another ongoing project is Antigone in Ferguson, exploring Sophocles’s tragedy in light of America’s troubled race relations and the Black Lives Matter movement. 75 Crane, “I Am a Virus,” provides a review of a different performance from the one I discuss here.

 Appendix List of Productions Referenced Medea 1635, Paris, Pierre Corneille’s Médée (Théâtre du Marais) 1898, Paris, Catulle Mendès’s Médée (Théâtre de la Renaissance) 1907, London, Euripides’s Medea translated by Gilbert Murray (Royal Court Theatre) 1974, Montreal, Medea (Montreal Theatre Lab) 1974, Cambridge, Euripides’s Medea (Cambridge Greek Play) 1978, Tokyo, Yukio Ninagawa’s Ohjo Media (Toho Company) 1988, Dublin, Brendan Kennelly’s Medea (Royal Dublin Society) 1990, Chicago, Steve Carter’s Pecong (Ruth Page Dance Center) 1992, Montreal, Heiner Müller’s Medeamaterial (The Other Theatre) 2000, Sydney, Wesley Enoch’s Black Medea (Sydney Theatre Company) 2001, Dublin, Euripides’s Medea, translated by Kenneth McLeish (Abbey Theatre) 2007, Cambridge, Euripides’s Medea (Cambridge Greek Play) 2013, Chicago, Luis Alfaro’s Mojada, (Victory Gardens Theatre) 2014, London, Ben Power’s Medea (National Theatre) 2015, Montreal, Suzie Bastien’s The Medea Effect (Talisman Theatre) 2015, London, Rachel Cusk’s Medea (Almeida Theatre Company) 2020, Brooklyn, Simon Stone’s Medea (Brooklyn Academy of Music) Bacchae 1930, Cambridge, Euripides’s Bacchae (Cambridge Greek Play) 1956, Cambridge, Euripides’s Bacchae (Cambridge Greek Play) 1969, New York, Richard Schechner’s Bacchae in 69 (The Performance Group) 1973, London, Wole Soyinka’s The Bacchae by Euripides: A Communion Rite (Old Vic) 1989, Cambridge, Euripides’s Bacchae (Cambridge Greek Play) 2007, Edinburgh, Euripides’s Bacchae in a new version by David Greig from a literal translation by Ian Ruffell (National Theatre of Scotland) 2009, New York, Bacchae, translated by Nicholas Rudall (Public Theatre)

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2015, London, Anne Carson’s Bakkhai (Almedia Theatre Company) 2015, Oak Park, il, Euripides’s Bacchae, translated by Nicholas Rudall (Saltbox Theatre Collective) 2017, Stratford, on, Anne Carson’s Bakkhai (Stratford Festival) 2020, New York, Euripides’s Bacchae in a new version by Bryan Doerries (Classical Theatre of Harlem) 2020, Kissimmee, fl, Euripides’s Bacchae (Jeremy Seghers) Oedipus 1598, Vicenza, Italy, Angelo Ingegneri’s Edipo Tiranno (Teatro Olimpico) 1881, Cambridge, ma, Sophocles’s Oedipus Tyrannus (Harvard Greek Play) 1881, Paris, Sophocles’s Œdipe Roi translated by Jules Lacroix (Comédie Française) 1887, Cambridge, Sophocles’s Oedipus Tyrannus (Cambridge Greek Play) 1912, Cambridge, Sophocles’s Oedipus Tyrannus (Cambridge Greek Play) 1927, Paris, Igor Stravinsky’s Oedipus Rex (Théâtre de la Ville) 1950, Montreal, Jean Cocteau’s The Infernal Machine (Montreal Repertory Theatre) 1954, Stratford, on, Sophocles’s Oedipus Rex translated by William Butler Yeats (Stratford Festival) 1968, Ifẹ̀̀, Nigeria, Ola Rotimi’s The Gods Are Not to Blame (Olokun Acting Company) 2005, Montreal, Sophocles’s Oedipus (Gravy Bath) 2008, Montreal, Wajdi Mouawad’s Scorched (Centaur Theatre) 2011, Montreal, Yaël Farber’s Kadmos (National Theatre School) 2013, San Francisco, Luis Alfaro’s Oedipus El Rey (Magic Theatre) 2013, Montevideo, Sergio Blanco’s Tebasland (Thebes Land) (Teatro Solís) 2018, Amsterdam, Robert Icke’s Oedipus (Internationaal Theater Amsterdam) 2020, online, Bryan Doerries’s The Oedipus Project (Theatre of War Productions) 2021, online, Sophocles’s Oedipus the King (Hanoi Academy of Theatre and Cinema) 2021, Los Angeles, Igor Stravinsky’s Oedipus Rex (Los Angeles Opera) 2021, Athens-Epidaurus, Maja Zade’s ödipus (Schaubühne)

 Contributors

andreas apergis is a professional theatre director and an actor of stage and screen. His association with Scapegoat Carnivale Theatre introduced him to Ancient Greek texts. Andreas is a native Greek speaker and translating the texts from the original opened up a very personal portal into the world of ancient Athenian theatre. judith fletcher is professor of ancient studies and history at Wilfrid Laurier University. Her recent publications include Myths of the Underworld in Contemporary Culture: The Backward Gaze (Oxford University Press, 2019) and Classical Greek Tragedy (Bloomsbury, 2022). Her current research is a sshrc-funded project on Euripides and women’s ritual. erin hurley is professor of theatre studies and chair of the Department of English at McGill University. A specialist in Quebec theatre history, she has recently produced two series of staged-readings of English-language Quebec plays and been historical consultant to and performer in Laurence Dauphinais’s original piece, Cyclorama (Centre du théâtre d’aujourd’hui/ Centaur Theatre). george kovacs is associate professor of ancient Greek and Roman studies at Trent University. His teaching and publishing focus on the stagecraft of ancient Greek theatre and on the reception of antiquity in popular culture. Through the Classics Drama Group, he has directed numerous student productions of ancient theatre. lynn kozak is associate professor at McGill and has translated, directed, produced, and performed in numerous professional and student productions of ancient Greek and Latin epic and tragedy. Other research focuses on ancient Greek literature, classical receptions, and contemporary media studies, with particular interests in horror and television.

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hallie marshall is assistant professor in the Department of Theatre and Film at the University of British Columbia. With the uk-based company Barefaced Greek, she has made two short films of choral odes from Greek tragedies: the “Ode to Man” from Sophocles’s Antigone (2018) and the “Dawn Chorus” from Euripides’s Phaethon (2022). c. michael sampson is associate professor of Classics, University of Manitoba, and the author of “Deconstructing the Provenances of P.Sapph.Obbink,” Bulletin of the American Society of Papyrologists 57 (2020): 143–69. joseph shragge is a playwright, the co-artistic director of Scapegoat Carnivale, and an artistic associate of The Bakery Theatre. His work has been produced at Montreal theatres in both French and English and performed at festivals across North America. Recent plays include Bar Kapra the Squirrel Hunter and Ricki. He has won production awards for Yev (Scapegoat Carnivale/mai Space) co-written with Alison Darcy, Fuck You! You Fucking Perv!, in collaboration with Leslie Baker (The Bakery and Théâtre La Licorne, translated by Fanny Britt), and an adaptation of Roswitha of Gandersheim’s Sapientia, developed by director Mia van Leeuwen as object theatre. His scenes and short fiction have appeared in Matrix Magazine, The Capilano Review, and other publications. florence yoon is associate professor of Greek at the University of British Columbia. She is the author of Euripides: Children of Heracles (2020) in the Bloomsbury Companions to Greek and Roman Tragedy series.

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 Index

Aeschylus, 7, 11, 21, 185, 283, 289–91; Oresteia, 11, 16, 19–20; Persians, 11, 19; Seven Against Thebes, 156n56 Almeida Theatre, 33, 108, 185–6 anagnorisis (recognition). See Aristotle: on recognition and reversal Anouilh, Jean, 6, 301 Apergis, Andreas, 31, 33, 38, 113, 195 Aristophanes, 23, 288–9; Acharnians, 288; Frogs, 181, 289; Thesmophoriasuzae, 184, 288 Aristotle, 193, 280, 281n4, 281n8, 302n22; on mistakes, 188, 274; Poetics, 4, 11, 16, 290, 294; on recognition and reversal, 20, 188, 193, 200n3, 274–5 Athens and Thebes, 181–2 Bacchae: chorus in, 111–12, 187–8; omophagia (eating raw flesh) in, 110, 187; and rock’n’roll, 108–9, 112–13, 189n19; sparagmos (ripping apart) in, 186, 188, 300; and thiasos (Bacchic band), 183, 186 Cambridge Greek Play, 296–7 Cane Ridge Revival, 108–10 canonization, 3, 5, 287–92 Carson, Anne, 6, 108 Centaur Theatre, 3, 8, 33, 36, 194 chorēgoi (chorus-leaders), 11–14 Christianity, 18, 107–8, 112, 293–5 Christus Patiens, 108, 175n62, 294, 303n47, 303n48

City Dionysia, x, 4, 11–15, 19–20, 182, 290; competition and prizes at, 4–5, 14–15, 20, 98, 181, 288, 302n28 classical philology, 284 classical tradition, 284–6 Cocteau, Jean, 6, 298 colonialism, 3, 32, 296, 299–300, 304n68 costumes, ix, 22–5; in Bacchae, 24–5, 108, 110, 112, 183–5, 188; in Medea, 24, 32, 34–5 covid-19. See Oedipus: epidemic cross-dressing, 184–5 cult foundation, 110, 188 curricula, 5, 193 Darcy, Alison, 7–9, 31, 34–6 democracy, 21, 182–3; the democratic turn, 286 dithyrambs, 14, 18, 182 ekkyklēma, 16, 92n56 exile, 20, 32, 100–2, 188, 266n48, 298, 300 exodos, 92n55, 181, 185–6 French Neoclassicism, 7, 295 Freud, Sigmund, 193, 297–8 Golden Fleece, 43n5, 98 Gravy Bath, 7, 193 Greek-Turkish population exchange, 32–3, 39 happenings, 109, 113

320 hamartia (mistakes). See Aristotle: on mistakes hubris, 274–5

index peripeteia (reversal). See Aristotle: on recognition and reversal Plummer, Christopher, 6, 10n6 pompē (parade), 13–14, 17, 186

kōmos (revelry), 13, 15, 185 Lipson, Brian, 32, 195 maenads, 111–12, 122nn22–3, 181, 183–4, 187, 194, 212n19 masks, 4, 22–3, 25, 185, 298 mēchanē, 15, 16–17, 103. See also Medea: chariot in Medea: chariot in, 16–17, 31, 34, 103, 104n18, 290; chorus in, 24, 100, 289; myth variations of, 19, 287; Pericles’s citizenship law and, 32, 101; use of offstage cries in, 35, 99, 103 messenger speeches, 19, 103, 143n49, 187–8 Montreal Repertory Theatre (mrt), 5, 6 Mouawad, Wajdi, 7; Incendies, 7, 193 Nō, 5, 34 oaths, 49n14, 50n15, 61n26, 101–2, 254n40 Oedipus: and epidemic, 194, 198–200, 298, 300–1; and incarceration, 194–5; and the Sphinx, 277–8 Old Comedy, 14, 19, 21, 23, 288, 302n22 oracles, 193, 206n7, 274–6, 278–80 Ovid, 290–1 parodos, 48n11, 182, 187, 195–6 Peloponnesian War, the, 98, 211n12

Racine, Jean, 6, 295 reception theory, 285–7 rembetika, 32, 38–9 ring-composition, 98–9 role-sharing, 22–3, 99, 185–6 Rolland, France, 33, 111 sacrifice, 182, 186 satyr plays, 4, 19, 20–1, 98, 301n2 Schechner, Richard, 109, 299 Second Great Awakening, 107, 110–11, 113 Seneca, 291, 294 Shakespeare, 3, 10n6, 16 skēnē (stage building), 11, 16, 19, 185 Sophoclean irony, 194, 197–8, 275–9, 281n8 Soyinka, Wole, 109–10, 300 stichomythia, 110 supplication, 54n18, 70n36, 100–2; suppliants, 203n2 Talisman Theatre, 6, 8 Theatre of Dionysus, 15–18, 26, 296; audience in, 17, 186–8, 275–6, 281n10, 283, 288 vases, 23–4, 104n18, 122n22, 184–5, 287, 289–90